“It is, Your Majesty,” Manny affirmed.
Your Majesty. There it was, twice now in the span of a minute. Killian had always felt connected to Maelor. Perhaps because they were the same age, or because people often likened them to one another, with their similar umber skin and short curls. Maybe it was because he appreciated the king’s stoic nature, much like his own. But now, as he sat across from the man, he’d never felt so disconnected.
Maelor, seeming to sense Killian’s discomfort, pivoted toward him. The look he gave him might have been mistaken for pity, but Maelor was not a pitying man. There was compassion there, along with pain.
“We believe we know where Lazarus plans to strike,” Killian said, summoning the same bravado he’d used as a lieutenant.
Maelor’s brows rose. “And where is that?”
Manny’s throat bobbed. “The Sammerhan Games.”
Maelor blew out a breath. “You’re confident in this?” the king asked.
Manny nodded. “We are, Your Majesty. He heavily implied his plan: he’ll lie low until the Games, luring everyone into a false sense of safety, and then he’ll attack there.”
“He wants to have an audience, Your Majesty,” Killian continued. “He wants to put on a show.”
“You can stop calling me ‘Your Majesty,’” Maelor said, waving his hand. “It’s hard enough to have a serious conversation without you throwing that in every sentence.” He leaned back in his chair, his head bobbing absently as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “You said he implied all this?”
“He did,” Killian answered. “When we fought him at Levoy.”
Maelor shook his head. “So many lives lost there.”
Something tightened in Killian’s stomach—guilt and grief.
“I’ll talk to the other rulers,” Maelor said. “We’ll cancel the games.”
“No,” Killian blurted out. That guilt and grief twisting in his stomach doubled. He’d expected this response from Maelor, and hated every bit of the conversation that was to come. “Don’t cancel it,” he urged his king. “This may be our only opportunity for a counterstrike.”
Maelor blinked and looked from Killian to Manny. Manny didn’t move, his straight posture and grave expression reflecting his support for Killian’s suggestion.
“If we don’t cancel the games, and he does attack, then civilians will die.”
“I know,” Killian said. He swallowed, and it tasted bitter, like betrayal or deceit. “But if we don’t stop him now, thousands more will continue to die.”
Maelor leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant as he assessed. “So you would willingly put civilians in danger?” he pressed.
“With some caveats, yes,” Manny replied. “No children at the games. Everyone who attends must be at least eight-and-ten.”
Maelor opened his mouth, but Manny went on.
“Tell the other rulers as little as possible. Spin whatever lies you must, but get them to agree to it.”
Killian had never heard Manny speak so brashly to anyone above his command. There was almost something pleading in his voice.
“We’ll station our men throughout the arena,” Killian continued before Maelor could object. “In plainclothes. They’ll pose as spectators but be there for additional protection.”
“Hundreds—thousands—might still die,” Maelor objected. “I’ll not put them at risk.”
Killian leaned forward and tapped his finger on the table. “Thisis our only shot at stopping him. We won’t get another chance.”
Call it a soldier's intuition, but Killian knew. These last few weeks had been an appetizer for Lazarus. The games would be his grand reveal, and after that, he would unleash chaos on the world.
“Then I’ll fill the arena with soldiers,” Maelor countered.
“You can’t,” Manny said with a solemn shake of his head. “It would be impossible to explain that to the public. If Lazarus gets wind that we’re strategically prepared, he’ll change tactics.”
“And then we’re back to square one,” Killian said. “Trying to guess his next move, and failing.”
