Lord of Rage. Jill Monroe

blunt the pain with her magic, force it through some door in her mind and slam it shut. But that power eluded her in this unfamiliar place. Here, wherever she was, she had to endure it. Push through the throbbing of her tired muscles and the sting from the cuts and abrasions running up and down her arms and legs.

      The voluminous folds of her once-ornate skirt, her protection from the harsh wilderness, was now gone, ripped and torn away as she’d traveled. Blood ran down her legs from the scratches, joining the dried layer already caked to her calves. Her knees were skinned, and still she drove herself to put one foot in front of another. She pushed forward as she’d been doing since she’d been ripped from her own realm and thrown … somewhere.

      She stepped on a rock, its sharp edge digging into the tender arch of her foot; the dainty slippers she’d been wearing when she’d woken up were long gone. She stumbled again, this time falling to the ground, and, as she landed, she lost the last of her strength. Breena would cry if she had even a tiny sliver of energy. She hadn’t eaten in days, the only water she’d had was when she’d sipped off plant leaves. No one looking at her now would ever think she’d once been a princess. One who could do magic.

      She pulled her hands together, closed her eyes and concentrated, willing her magic to appear. Produce a trickle of water or a berry to eat. But it did not. Just like it hadn’t appeared since she’d arrived with only two thoughts she couldn’t chase from her mind. Two seemingly opposing goals.

      To survive. To kill.

      Breena rubbed at her brows, trying to soothe the sharp ache knotting behind her eyes. Those goals seemed to come from someplace outside of her. Survival from someone warm, caring … Her mother? She hugged her arms around herself—yes, her mother would want her to live.

      To avenge. To kill. That thought was masculine. Powerful. Authoritative. Her father.

      And yet, she’d not do either. She’d neither live nor live to kill. Unless killing herself by pushing forward counted.

      She doubted it was what her father had in mind. Her fingers went to the timepiece that had somehow survived whatever kind of hellish force brought her to this wild place. An unknown vengeance burned deep inside her, and she understood, perhaps since waking up dazed and alone in this strange land, that her parents had done something to her. Why here? Were they de—Pain ripped behind her eyes, making her gasp. Her parents … The throbbing always came when her thoughts lingered too long on them. She didn’t even know if they were alive or dead. But each time her attention drifted their way, Breena could see a little more. Until the pain took over.

      Breena would die either way, so she might as well keep going.

      Bracing for the pain, she pulled herself up off the ground and stood. She took an unsteady step, followed by another.

      A bird flew overhead. She’d heard a story once about a lost boy following a bird and it leading him to a beautiful meadow filled with fruit and a pond of cool, delicious water. Of course, the boy got lost there, and never returned home. Breena was sure there was some lesson buried in the story, warning curious children about wandering off, but right now, she could only focus on the drinking and eating part.

      Shading her eyes, she decided following the bird was the best plan she had so far. She spotted another skull attached to a tree. This was the third she’d seen just like that.

      A bear skull.

      She had to be in Ursa. The clan with the affinity to the great bear. Fought like them, she’d heard her father comment, clearly impressed. The Ursan kingdom had been allied to her own since her great-grandfather’s time. He’d negotiated the conditions himself. If she could just find them, find their village, perhaps they could help her get back to Elden. No, the Ursans were all gone. If only those warriors could help her with both goals, live and kill. The thoughts she’d woken up with two days ago.

      Was it two? Felt like more. Like her home in Elden was a lifetime ago. Time was so hazy. It didn’t make sense. Like so many things since she’d woken up. Breena remembered something happening to her home, fear for her brothers. When she closed her eyes tight, images of her mother and father appeared. Performing last magic.

      But why did they send her here?

      Pain ripped across her chest, and Breena shook her head. She didn’t want those images in her mind. But something had happened to her. Traces of magic surrounded her. Someone else’s magic. Certainly not hers.

      Instead, she tried to replace the images of her parents with that of her warrior. As she slept beneath the protective cover of trees, Breena attempted to walk into his dream. His mind. But just like her missing magic, her warrior was lost to her now, too. She found no door.

      So she followed the bird, a hawk, as it made a lazy loop in the sky above her head.

      “Please be thirsty,” she whispered. And hungry.

      The bird made a squealing sound and dove. Breena forced energy into her feet. Her legs. Not her misplaced magic, but old-fashioned willpower. She sprinted as she chased the bird. Jumping over a fallen log, avoiding a thorny bush.

      She came into a small clearing, only to spy the bird claiming a perch rather than hunting for sustenance. Disappointment cut into her side like a stitch, and she rested her hands on her thighs, dragging in large gulps of air. No meadow, no pond … just a perch. She glanced up to glare at the hawk, and then realized it was perched upon the gable of a cottage. A well-kept cottage.

      The clearing around the wood cabin was neat and free of weeds and stones. A small plowed area—a garden, perhaps—lay to one side. That meant there had to be water and food inside.

      With a squeal she raced to the door, fearing it would be locked. But she’d break through the window if she had to. She knocked on the door, but no one came to invite her inside. Polite niceties of etiquette over, she turned the handle, and thankfully the knob twisted easily and she pushed the door open.

      Wholesome grain and cinnamon scented the air. There, on the stove, stood a large pot of oatmeal. Everything in her body seized. Food. Food. Reaching for the ladle she began to eat from the large utensil. Irritated with the awkwardness of it all, she tossed the spoon on the counter and dug in with her hands, feeding herself like an animal. Her mother would be appalled.

      But then it was her mother who’d wanted her to survive. To live.

      Her very empty stomach protested as the food hit, and she forced herself to slow down. Breena didn’t want to make herself sick. A pitcher stood on the table. She didn’t care what was inside; even if it were blackberry juice, she was going to drink it. She put the spout to her lips, and allowed the sweet taste of lemonade to fill her mouth and slide down her throat.

      Despite her efforts to slow down, nausea struck her and she began to shudder. She took a blind step to the left, falling down hard on a chair at an awkward angle. With a sharp crack, the legs gave way and the chair broke, taking her to the floor.

      Breena began to laugh. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes and fell down her cheeks. She’d found herself a cottage, and she was still stumbling to the ground. No one would believe her to be a princess with oatmeal drying on her hands and lemonade dripping down her chin.

      The wave of nausea passed only to be replaced by a bone-deep weariness. Breena had already eaten this family’s meal and broken their furniture, but she didn’t think she could attempt another thing except lay her head down and close her eyes. She spotted an open door leading to another room of the cottage. Her spirits lifted; perhaps a bed awaited. With one last surge of strength, she crawled across the wooden floor, delighted to see not one but three beds. None were as grand or ornate as the sleigh bed she had in her tower room in Elden. No heavy draperies hung from hooks above the headboard, nor was the bed covered by mounds and mounds of fluffy pillows in bright colors, but they were flat, clean and looked comfortable. Of course, anything would be comfortable after sleeping on the hard, cold ground for days … weeks? Her perception was off; she couldn’t grasp what was real.

      What she needed was a good night’s sleep. She should leave some kind of a note for the inhabitants,