The torches lining the walls sputtered. A sharp flick of light. Then another. Then…nothing.
Kai faced them fully, her insides suddenly cold. “Did you see that?”
Somewhere behind her, metal struck stone—a slip in form, not a strike. A cough followed, sharp and wrong against the usual sounds of practice.
“See what?” Otekah asked.
Kai didn’t have an answer. Only a…feeling.
She stepped away from the partition, crossed to the closest torch, and the flame fluttered sideways. A draft? But there shouldn’tbea draft.
The next flicker of flame twisted faster, sharper. Then died.
The hair along Kai’s arms stood on end.
She followed the breeze to a high vent—ten feet up—and froze. A hiss curled out. Too even for wind.
She stepped closer. The sound sharpened. Not a draft. Not natural.
From the arena beside her, a pair of warriors began to cough.
Fear had a sound.
It was fists pounding the palace gates.
Voices swelling like a storm, demanding answers from their “crownless king.”
It was the hush that swept through crowds as Dimitrios’s name passed from market stalls to temple steps.
It was the scrape of boots as men backed away from his banners, afraid of the rumors—whispers that he’d let the pirates in, that the gods had abandoned him, that Soterra’s calm was the promise of an easy conquest. It was in the prayers offered with desperate hope, not to the gods, but to Alexandra Vidalatos.
The one who would save them.
The kingdom was turning on itself, and it crashed against Dimitrios in waves as he stepped outside the palace to face it. A regiment of King’s Guard stretched the length of the marble stairs, shields flashing sunlight. Along the outer walls, guardsmen formed layered rows, spears and shields at the ready.
The people outside the walls had been tens at dawn, and hundreds by midday. By evening, it would likely be thousands. They were riding in from all over the country.
Nikolas lingered in the shadows of the marble colonnade, arms crossed, and the silver pin of his station—a sword and stallion—glinting at his shoulder. He’d been unreadable for days. Jaw set like stone. Eyes giving nothing.
Pateras had made several adjustments to his ranks in recent weeks, one of which was to promote Nikolas from Regiment Commander of the cavalry to Colonel of the Palace Guard, placing him in charge of all palace security and the royal guardsmen. A significant rise in rank, though Nikolas cared little for titles, and the adjustment made his place at Dimitrios’s side legitimate.
Dimitrios scanned the faces outside the walls and iron gates, where rough hands clung to the bars. He couldn’t discern what the mob was yelling exactly, but he’d been briefed on why they were here, battling the high sun and heat. They meant to remove him by force. They meant to clear the path for their rightful sovereign. Alexandra’s declaration had spread swiftly into the city at large—he could thank the loose lips of the lords for that.
“They will pick Alexandra,” his grandfather had warned long ago.“She’s spent years winning them over. You’re nothing but an outsider.”
Nikolas appeared at his side to scan the crowd. “I await your orders.”
Dimitrios examined Nikolas’s stiff posture. “Where’s the friend who speaks only in clever nonsense and annoys me to no end?”
“He hasn’t been welcome in a woman’s bed in what feels like a month of Sundays, nor access to a bartop without threat of a brawl.”
“You’re sober and stiff, is that what you’re telling me?”
Nikolas’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, and a smirk broke through. “All right, if you really must know what your ‘friend’ would suggest… This problem could be easily solved with an assassin or two—you happen to have a few friends in the Guild who might be up for the challenge. Titos and Alexandra can’t be that hard to reach.”
“That’s not exactly how the Guild works.”
“Then, as your Colonel of the Palace Guard, should I order a blanket death on all civilians before they overtake the outer walls?”
