The Baron thinks we’re alone. He thinks he’s won. He leans over me, intent on ripping open my shirt as he’s torn open his. His hairy chest is exposed and inches from my face.
Scars.
His torso is riddled with long, thin, faded scars—thicker on one end and lighter on the other. Self inflicted. Just like Drayven’s.
Truth hits me.
The uneasy, familiar feelings I had around the Baron make sense now. His cold, dead eyes. His obsession with me. The things he said outside—he’s the previous Huntsman.
The one who tried to kill Dravyen.Twice.
With a snarl, I snatch up the fallen tiara and smash it into his face. The brittle thorns shatter, embedding themselves in his flesh and my palms.
He howls in pain, staggering back, landing on his ass with his bulbous dick hanging out of his pants. My upper lip curls. I recognize that disgusting cock. He was the first volunteer for my lessons in the Pen.
My shriek of outrage is torn from a deep, primal place within my soul.
“YOU!”
Blood streams down his face. Mine drips from my wounded palms. I scramble to my feet, my legs shaky but holding firm as I stand over him. How much of this has been by the Trickster God’s design? How much by the Baron’s?
The Baron sputters, “You dare?—”
“I dare everything,” I hiss, thumping my chest. “My blood, my body, my destiny—mine to control. Not yours. Not Kasaros’s. MINE.”
He lunges for my ankle. I sidestep, my body moving with a grace I’d forgotten I possessed. Every lesson and trial I endured in the Pen rushes back to aid me. It reminds me that I’m strong. I am not alone. It reminds me of where I came from, who helped me, and who I promised I would lead.
He climbs to his feet and lunges for me, but I run. I stop before the throne and twist toward him, bloody palm out. He halts an inch before his face hits my hand, chest heaving with a guttural breath. He hasn’t even bothered to pluck the thorns from his skin or tuck away his flaccid dick.
“Pathetic,” I mumble.
“I earned this!” he barks, thumping his chest. “I will not wait any longer.”
“Then, by all means,” I say, holding my hand steady. “Walk forward.”
He won’t do it. He knows my blood is special.
The eerie silence in the temple is broken only by our ragged breathing. Demaya and Drayven continue to struggle free from the thorns in my periphery, but still, the Baron doesn’t seem to notice.
He narrows his eyes, assessing me with newfound wariness. I see the gears turning in his twisted mind, weighing his options. He still believes we’re alone. Thinks I’ll come to my senses… just like I always have around him.
“You forget your place,” he snarls, breath hot on my hand. “I am your master, your king. You will submit!”
I laugh, cold and mirthless. “No. I am the queen. And I bow to no one.”
He surges forward with a roar of rage, reaching for my wrist. But I step forward too. My slick palm connects with his face, and instantly, my blood sings. It courses through my veins, pulsing with ancient power. The Baron’s eyes widen as my blood seeps into his skin, spreading like a virulent poison.
He claws at his face. “What have you done?”
I watch in horrified fascination as his flesh begins to wither. His skin shrivels and cracks, turning ashen gray. He lets out an inhuman shriek as his body contorts, collapsing in on itself. The Baron’s eyes lock onto mine as the last of his life force drains away. There’s fear there and something else—a grudging respect, perhaps. His lips move, forming words I can’t quite catch.
When it’s over, all that remains is a miserable heap at the foot of the obsidian throne. Disgust wells up inside me, not just for him, but for the circumstances that led to this moment. With a swift kick, I scatter his remains across the cracked stone floor.
Seeing my blood, a part of me, be so destructive has left me feeling uneasy. Wrong.
My gaze is drawn to the throne, its dark surface gleaming with twisted promises. I shudder at the thought of nightmares that will surely torment me after seeing it. But rather than run from it or lash out and destroy it, I walk forward. I climb the dais. One step. Two. Three. Each feels heavy and significant—the air thrums with power—until I arrive, toe-to-throne.
I hesitate for a moment, then steel myself and slam my bloodied palms down on the armrests.
