Wait, what? Disposed of? Does that mean? Nonononono, that isn’t possible. They couldn’t have killed Aemon; he’s too strong to be disposed of.
Except, he was badly injured. He could have passed out in the tunnels. He wouldn’t have even seen them coming. He—
The king nods. “Excellent. Go see if your unit can assist rounding up the escaped slaves. Kill the men. Take the women and children back to the camp.”
“Yes, sire.” The male gives his king a stiff bow, then turns on his heel and heads out the door, waving for his men to follow. The aware guards separate from the rest and exit the room.
Oh, gods, Aemon.
The king turns his attention back to me. “I know you’re lying, girl.” He taps the side of his head.
Whelp, that answers thecan he read my mindquestion?
Two guards grab me from behind and lift me to my feet, while another steps in front of me. Their expressions are blank. How is he able to control all these people at once and without speaking?
The king rises to his feet and walks over to stand beside the guard directly in front of me. “Now, tell me the truth. Who is your mother?”
My head feels like it’s been split open, and I’m so damned dizzy I can barely hold it upright. It’s hard to think, much less comprehend what he’s saying and formulate a response. “I told you already,” I manage to say, each word like a gong pounding against my skull. “I’m not lying.”
The guard reels back and strikes. Pain explodes across one cheek, then the other. Colored spots dance in my vision. “Please,” I beg the king.
“Tell me who your mother is,” he says.
Fear grips me like a fist, squeezing my chest. My heart pounds violently against my ribcage, and my entire body trembles. There’s no way I’m going to win this fight. I’m a rabbit that’s been cornered by a wolf. “Please don’t hurt me,”my mind cries, but the words that leave my mouth are, “Fuck. You.”
The king’s body seems to deflate at that, and he shakes his head. “You brought this upon yourself.”
The guard who struck me steps back, while several more soldiers congregate around the king as though they need to protect him from the tiny woman being held by two-grown males. Ridiculous.
“Do you know how the lines of succession work here, in Ümbros?” Khalmos asks, calm as can be. “When the king’s child comes of age, they may challenge their king to a Bellak-mor.” Khalmos steps forward, closing the distance between us, and grabs me by the nape. Then he shoves his face into mine, so close our noses almost touch. “It’s a fight to the death,” he says, voice like a snake’s whisper. “My father was a fool to let me live long enough to challenge him. I will not make the same mistake.” He releases my neck and lightly pats the side of my battered face.
“What?” I ask, my mind stretched too thin to digest what he’s saying.
The king doesn’t respond. He backs up again, and the officers flanking him unsheathe knifes from their belts. I don’t know which is more terrifying, the blond with his razor-sharp dagger on the kings right or the guard with purple eyes who’s holding a knife the size of my forearm on his left.
The one on his left smiles.
“Wait,” I say, the word thin and awkward on my swollen lips. “Don’t do this,” I beg the king, the tears raining down my face turning him into a red smudge.
“Last chance,” the king says.
“Iona. My mother’s name is Iona, please.”
The blond soldier starts toward me as Khalmos smirks and says, “I know. That’s why you have to d—”
The king’s eyes go wide with shock, his mouth stretching open as though about to scream, but all that comes out are gasps and gurgles. Blood oozes from between his lips and down his chin, and the king crumples to the ground. Behind him, bloody knife in hand, the purple-eyed guard whirls on the blond, slitting his throat.
The hands holding my arms release me, but there’s no strength left in me to stand, and I fall. The rumpled soldier leaps, catching me. He cradles me to his chest while holding the bloody knife out defensively in front of us.
But no one attempts to fight him. The remaining guards blink and look around themselves, confusion painting their features. It’s like they’ve just been woken in the middle of a dream, and they aren’t sure what’s real and what isn’t.
“It’s alright, witchling. I’ve got you,” the purple-eyed guard says, lifting me into his arms. His pale skin begins to color, his features shift and morph, and in a matter of seconds, it’s Aemon smiling down at me.
50
The city I step into isn’t the same one I left behind. Storefronts are destroyed, the streets littered with broken furniture, overturned carts and everything from fruit to books to wigs trampled into a pulp. Plumes of smoke rise from the city center to collect along the cavern ceiling, leaving the air so acrid it burns my throat and makes my eyes water. The streets are overflowing with fae. They smash store windows, overturn vendor's carts and steal whatever they can carry. A fae soldier fires at a crowd of males, hitting two before the rest take him to the ground, his screams rising to the level of bloodcurdling before they cut off altogether. Cheers follow as the soldier’s arm and head are tossed aside like trash. A pair of children weave through the chaos, snatching jewelry and coin from the dead and dying littering the ground.
I hike Katya up and tighten my grip. The last thing I need are some assholes knocking her out of my arms. I’ve already killed enough people today. I rush through the crowd, pressing Katya’shead to my chest protectively. She passed out the minute she saw my face—whether that’s because of the knock she took to the head when the guards dropped her or something else, I have no idea. I’d only just pulled up the pants I’d taken off of the soldier when I heard her scream. Turns out buttoning up a shirt while shapeshifting and running is really fucking hard. By the time I found her, she was being hauled away by a dozen soldiers, and all I could do was slip into the group and wait for a moment to strike.
