Thorne spun.
Lili didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.
She raised her axe.
And brought it down.
Chapter
Fifty
One Week After the Battle for the North Pass
The road to the palace was quieter than Dimitrios remembered. Unsurprising for a country in the aftermath of a battle. Perean had been holding its breath for far too long.
He sat taller in his saddle, though his shoulder ached and his ribs pulled with every breath. Worth every pain to see his lands at peace. He’d spent the week at his grandfather’s estate, convalescing beneath mountain air and olive branches, listening to the elders debate the future while servants whispered of the past.
Antonis Nicolea had given him room to rest, but no illusions about what came next. Dimitrios had finally done something worthy of his crown. Now, it was time to wear it.
The time had come to call for a vote. Now, while the provincial lords were still aching from battle.
His horse slowed as he and his entourage—Nikolas to his immediate right—reached a fork in the road. One led directly to the palace. The other, the East Harbor market.
Dimitrios paused there, looking toward the heart of Praevia. Long ago, he’d walked those streets as a normal man, speaking with normal peopleabout their average lives. And a week ago, they’d ridden into battle at his side, untrained and undaunted.
The bravest people he’d ever known.
Nikolas’s horse trotted in place beside him. “We should continue on to the palace.”
That’s what a king would do. Take the path of least resistance. Bypass the reality of everyday life. This intentional fork in the road allowed past royalty to draw their own conclusions about the prosperity of their people and lands without having to see it for themselves.
But he wanted to know how they’d fared after battle. Who lived? Did life change in the wake of so many losses?
Dimitrios kicked his horse toward his people.
On the outskirts, he passed vendors, weavers, children at work. At first, they stilled as he rode by. Then whispers trailed him on the wind. They were saying his name.
But near the central square fountain, the crowd grew. And his name rose into a chant.
He climbed down to the cobbled stones of his city and hugged weeping mothers. Shook strong, soot-stained hands. He laughed with the fishermen.
And he didn’t flinch when they called him King.
Didn’t correct them.
Not anymore.
Hours later, Dimitrios moved through the palace corridors with a thousand greetings still clinging to his bones. His hand ached from relentless handclasps, his face sore from too many solemn smiles.
He turned toward the royal wing just as a breathless page came running behind him.
“Your Majesty. Forgive me. Someone is waiting for you in the atrium and has requested you come at once.”
Milonia’s face flashed through his mind, but he quickly banished it. Wishful thinking would be his downfall if he let it continue.
“Who?” he asked.
“The Inquisitor. Lord Salidis.”
