Perean had no king. No council. Only a room full of corpses and a throne waiting to be taken.
Stavros arced abruptly toward the railing with a grunt—a knife was lodged in his back.
The male servant behind him pushed?—
Stavros caught Dimitrios’s eye for the briefest of moments, a whole host of unsaid words shouting from the void, there, then gone in a flash as he toppled over the balustrade, head over foot.
Dimitrios gripped the hilt of his sword and turned to face the inevitable attack. The servant kicked him square in the chest, forcing the air from his lungs and slamming his back into the marble railing. A sharp pain seared through his spine, but he freed his sword in time to block the arcing swing for his throat, the blade coated with Stavros’s blood.
A sword erupted through the assassin’s stomach, and blood dribbled from the man’s gaping mouth. His bloody knife toppled to the floor only seconds before his body.
The man of the Royal Guard flicked his sword, sending a line of sprayed blood across the marble floor. The man was older than many of theguardsmen he saw around the palace. A decade older than himself, at least. Gray and balding. Thick brows that arched high over his hazel eyes.
“Thank you,” Dimitrios said, his throat dry.
The soldier nodded, then glanced down into the main hall. Dimitrios had never seen the room so empty of courtiers, but it looked as if half the Royal Guard had arrived. All the assassins were dead or crawling from their impending death.
The soldier returned his attention to Dimitrios. “We should get you to your chambers while we clear the palace, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty.
He should correct the man—he was no king. Not yet. But, in lieu of a ruler, who else? Everyone of any power in this god-forsaken country was dead.
“Your Majesty?” the soldier repeated.
Dimitrios forced words to unlock from behind his clenched teeth. “Might I have the name of the man who saved my life?”
The soldier hesitated, then lowered to a knee, head bent. “My name is Lazaros Bareas, and I am yours to command.”
Chapter
Eight
Kai Silver Wolf slipped into the healing chamber and was immediately enveloped by the soothing scents of fresh water and woodsmoke. The earthy incense burned over occupied beds and filled the air while Quiet Rock females drifted between patients.
Kai's upbringing was a stark contrast to this room. She was raised for war—blade in hand, enemy at her feet. Then, years ago, she woke here to Fala’s face following a blow to the head and found there was more to the world than violence. Despite her unwavering commitment to her warrior's path, she couldn’t ignore the allure of peace. It was one Fala brought home with her every night.
“Fala is in the healing pool,” a Quiet Rock female said upon seeing her.
The elder had a sad, knowing look in her eyes. Earlier in the day, several Shadow Water younglings had dared each other to leap over a scalding steam vent. One was caught in an eruption and was immediately brought to the healing chamber, where she died under Fala’s care.
“Thank you,” Kai said.
Kai followed the familiar winding pathways through the mountain, the air growing warmer and muggier as she drew nearer to the natural springs. She stepped in and out of pockets of firelight from the torches angled off the stone walls. Several healers left the pool area, each drenched and swathed in wide lengths of drying cloths.
As she neared the carved stone archway, instead of firelight, bioluminescent fungi grew along the walls and illuminated the path. Inside the chamber, a pool shimmered in a soft blue-green light, fed by the mountain’s natural streams. Smooth, flat stones surrounded the water, sharing space with the healing herbs and plants growing around its edges.
Despite the number of women inside, there was only the sound of trickling water and the quiet shuffle of footsteps. Near the stone altars adorned with sacred symbols came the occasional soft hum of a healing chant. Beyond that, in the furthest reaches of the cavern, were small alcoves and niches, each furnished with soft, moss-covered bedding—private spaces for meditation, rest, and recovery.
Kai paused beside a discarded bracelet on the ground made from simple beads.
Fala sat against the pool’s edge, far from everyone else, her eyes closed and body submerged to her chin. The waters were meant to comfort as much as they were to heal. Fala needed that tonight more than ever; Kai understood that. But when had Fala stopped looking to Kai first to alleviate her pain?
Quietly, Kai stripped to her skin and lowered into the water beside her wife, sighing as the warm water embraced her tired muscles and leached the remaining bits of cold from her body.
“I heard what happened and came right down,” Kai said. “Are you all right?”
Fala shook her head, then belatedly opened her red-rimmed eyes. The khol smudging her lids tracked and blurred down her high cheekbones. “No.” She shifted into Kai’s open arms and rested her head on her shoulder.
