“Thank you again for your help, Cadwyn,” I say.

  She motions outside. “There is a well inside the gates, before you reach the upper walls. You can water your horse before continuing. Clean your face as well.”

  I nod and pull the horse away from the house. No one stops us as we enter through the tall stone gateway leading into the upper village. There are more houses here, large ones with white-washing over the mud exterior, wood beams supporting second floors. Voices and merchants clamor around me in a market similar to one in Pentywyn. A palisade separates the upper village from the inner courtyard around the hill fort. I lead the horse over to the fountain and scrub my face while he drinks. Then I wipe down the worst of the dirt stains and grass clinging to my tunic.

  I will find the House of Anarawd and seek employment from him. And then I will plead my case to the king.

  I need to get back to my village and help Brenin.

  ***

  From the fountain in the middle of the outer courtyard, I can see the top of the hillfort just over the palisade, and from here it looks bigger and grander than any lord’s manor I’ve seen before.

  I wander through the village market with vendors offering fruits and clothing.

  A bell rings out above us, coming from the direction of the inner courtyard, and the merchants turn as one. The shoppers pull away from the carts, clustering together and murmuring before moving in mass toward the open gate of the palisades. I fall into step with the crowd.

  “What is it?” I ask the man nearest me. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s an execution,” the man says, his large chin wobbling when he speaks. “The news was spread through the market this morning. King Wthyr has sentenced someone to death.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugs and meanders away from me.

  I keep a tight hold on the horse’s reins. If I lose him in this crowd, I might never see him again, and he’s all I’ve got to bargain with. We pass over a bridge and push between the narrow opening in the palisade wall, people pressing on all sides of us. The guards, dressed in metal helmets that cover their noses with thick brown cloaks pinned to their green tunics, don’t even glance at us.

  The palisade opens up to the inner courtyard at the top of the hill, and the crowd disperses once we squeeze through the gate. For the first time, I see the fort. The long and flat great hall in front is constructed of wood with stone keystones to give it more durability. Behind it a two-story wattle and daub building rises, though it’s only half as long as the great hall it’s attached to.

  A pyre of wood sits in the middle of the courtyard, as if preparing for a bonfire, a stake skewered through the middle of it.

  Execution by fire.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  My eyes land on three figures standing on a platform behind the pyre. Soldiers surround them but remain apart enough that the three are visible as solitary figures on the hill. One is female, her dark tresses long and braided and hanging over her right shoulder, clad in a gray shift with a sleeveless, light blue tunic layered over it. Despite the warm sunshine, she wears a hood, casting her features into shadow. A slender circlet of gold rests on her head over the hood.

  She must be the princess. I study her for a long moment. She looks a year or two older than me.

  My gaze slides sideways to the person beside her, and I stiffen.

  The circlet on his golden hair gives him away as the prince, but it’s his eyes that capture me. Even from this distance, I can make out the raging storm in their sea-blue depths. A crease wrinkles his forehead, his chiseled jaw tight as he stares down at the pyre assembled in the courtyard.

  I know him. He’s the same man I saw in the forest, the first time I used magic to hide myself.

  But I didn’t know he is a prince.

  My chest tightens, and I clench my fist as anger floods me. It’s like looking at Prince Madoc all over again. A boy who came to the villages and despoiled the maidens and beat their brothers if they complained. Royalty think the world is made for them.

  The du vibrate nearby, darkening my peripheral vision, and they hate him too.

  I tear my eyes away from the prince with effort, yet something pulls my gaze back to him.

  My breathing returns, quicker than before, and my heart pounds out a solemn beat. My head throbs, pulsing painfully, and I feel a sudden burning on my palm, an echoing ache on my thigh, and a pulsing heat at my hip. I grind my teeth, glaring at his face. What would it look like if I raked my fingernails across it?

  “People of Caerleon.”

  The third man, the king, starts talking, but just as he does, the prince’s eyes snap to my face.

  I give a startled gasp as the prince’s gaze bores into mine. Does he recognize me as the maiden in the woods? I shirk back, heart racing, hiding myself from view behind a large man.

  No, he can’t recognize me. I’m a young boy now.

  But then, of all the people in the crowd, how did his gaze find mine? Were my thoughts so loud?

  Or does he have magic also?

  The king is still speaking. But my heart hammers so hard in my ears I don’t hear him. I risk a peek around the large man, and my eyes fall on the prince again.

  “Guards!”

  The voice rings out over the king’s words, and I don’t know how, but the prince knows what I am.

  I grab the horse and try to push back through the crowd, but it is thick, and I can’t get through.

  I’ll have to leave the horse and run.

  I let go of the reins and shove into a woman’s shoulder in my haste to get out.

  She doesn’t let me past but instead moves to block my escape. She glowers at me.

  “What’s wrong with you? No stomach for this?”

  “I—” I risk a glance behind me.

  I expect to see the bystanders parting to let soldiers pass, spears raised in their search for me.

  But no one is coming.

  Then I see the guards. Marching toward King Wthyr with a woman between them, her feet twisting and stumbling over the ground as they yank her along.

  When I look at the prince, he’s focused again on his father.

  I let out a careful breath and slow my raging heart. Someone called for the guards, but it wasn’t to apprehend me. It was to bring the woman.

  My blood races, and I’m jittery, but I stay still, focusing on the king. He also wears a gold circlet, though it’s shaped into leaves around his head. A scar mars one side of his face from the cheekbone to his lip, and he wears a long gray robe over one shoulder and around the long-sleeved white tunic adorning his body. His broad shoulders and bulky arms reveal years of combat training, not to mention the sword hilt girdled to his belt.

  The guards stop beside a man in a brown robe with a circular haircut. Wthyr steps up to them and grabs the woman. Her hands are tied, her head bowed, long hair draping over her face. He shakes her, and she lifts her gaze. Tired, numb eyes look past the spectators, past the hill fort.

  She’s my mother’s age. What has she done?

  “This woman was caught practicing magic and has been sentenced to death under our law.”