Carver’s only response was to flip the blade in his hand, bringing it closer to the man’s face. “Are you going to answer my questions or not?” His voice was low. Dark. Nothing like Raza’s, but—
He wrenched away from that thought, refusing to follow it.
A flinch twisted the dying man’s face. His pain had to be excruciating. Carver prayed they were far enough away from the carriage that Amryn wouldn’t feel it. But if there was even a slight chance she could . . .
Carver tightened his hold on the dagger to disguise the tremor in his hand. “Last chance,” he growled.
The man’s internal struggle didn’t last long. “I’ll answer your questions,” he grunted, his eyes filled with pain.
Carver didn’t waste time; he knew the man didn’t have much left. “Are you with the Rising?”
The man’s eyes widened slightly. “No.”
The surprise in his reaction was enough proof for Carver. Especially since most of the rebels that had died at Carver’s hand tended to be fanatics who used their last breaths to spout the Rising’s motto and chant death to the empire. None of that fanaticism existed in the man before him.
That left few options. Carver started with the most likely. “You’re an assassin.”
“Mercenary,” the man gasped. As if that were any better. He still killed for coin.
“Who hired you?” Carver asked.
“Don’t know.” The man’s face was leaching of color with every beat of his heart. “Koori got the job. He recruited the rest of us. Never heard a name.”
Carver gritted his teeth. “What were your orders?”
The man’s breathing turned reedy. “To kill the Empire’s Chosen. All of them.” Agony tore across his face. He glanced at the blade in Carver’s hand. “Please . . .”
Carver leaned closer, ignoring the plea as he brandished the knife. “Were you told we’d be traveling to Zagrev?”
“N-No. Supposed to sneak into the temple, but . . . saw you here . . . perfect place to . . .” He was fading.
Carver bit back a growl. “Where did you come from? Xerra? Craethen? How long ago were you hired?”
The man gazed at him with glassy eyes. His trembling lips parted. “Please . . . Mercy . . .”
Something stirred in Carver’s chest. Memories he didn’t want but could never forget crowded in. Other eyes, glazed with unspeakable anguish. Other broken whispers, begging him for help.
Carver’s breathing thinned. His hand flexed around his dagger.
A fractured rasp. “Mercy . . .”
Carver buried the blade in the man’s heart.
One exhale, and the assassin’s body sagged against the mud. Lifeless.
Carver jerked his knife free and swiped the blade over the man’s cloak, cleaning away the blood.
A gag sounded behind him. A quick look over his shoulder revealed Samuel standing there, his eyes wide. “He . . . He begged you for mercy.”
Carver’s jaw tightened. “That’s what I gave him.”
The prince of Wendahl’s throat bobbed as he struggled to swallow.
“Prince Samuel! General Vincetti!” Ahmi, drenched in rain and streaked in mud, ran toward them.
Carver shoved to his feet, sheathing his dagger as he scanned Amryn’s maid. Thankfully, he found no sign of injury. Amryn would have been devastated if she’d come to harm.
Ahmi was breathing hard when she reached them. Her foot slid in the mud, and Carver grabbed her arm to steady her.
