Rydian
Three days stretched into what felt like three hundred as I sat in the bone-chilled dungeons of Grey Oak Keep. Water trickled somewhere nearby, though I didn’t bother to look for it. Not when it would likely be moldy or worse. The air smelled of unwashed bodies and rat dung. Every so often, chains clinked; the only sign I wasn’t down here alone. No one spoke to me except a guard on day two, who told me, “The king will see you when he’s ready, and not before,” which was not a response so much as a door closing on what power I once might have wielded in this court.
Power that had been relinquished when I’d run Koraz through with my own sword. When I’d stood by as Aurelia unleashed furyfire on the Autumn king—my father.
I hoped the bastard rotted in Hel. Koraz with him. Thanks to the magic-infested wound Koraz left at my hip, I wasn’t convinced I wouldn’t be joining them.
At least, Aurelia was safe.
I could only hope the others would remain at her side, showing her the way the gods had laid out for us all.
On the morning of the third day, boots stopped outsidemy cell. Keys scraped. Light cleaved the dark as the door swung inward, and a captain I half-remembered said, without looking at my face, “Up.”
They took me not to the gallows but to a guest wing where a bathing chamber containing a basin full of steaming water greeted me. A servant kept his eyes on the tiles and handed me a razor. I washed three days of grime from my skin and let the heat loosen the ache from my shoulders.
When I emerged, clothes waited: a clean tunic, trousers that still smelled of lye, boots that fit.
“Why the charity?” I asked the captain when he returned.
The captain looked at me then, and I saw the regret flash. “You deserved better than a cell for all you’ve done for the Autumn people.”
“Thank you,” I told him.
He cleared his throat, blinked—and the kindness was gone. “The king has summoned you,” he said gruffly. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The corridors of Grey Oak were too quiet for a palace that had just crowned a new king. Torchlight skimmed the stone like oil. Servants moved in hushes, their eyes averted, as if sound alone might crack the veneer holding the halls together. The scent of damp earth threaded with smoke drifted in from the courtyard beyond—rain had come and gone, carrying away the ash from where Duron’s body had been burned to dust on that fateful night.
I didn’t slow. My steps found the old paths without thought—past the east gallery where Duron’s hunting trophies leered from their mounts; through the colonnade the sunlight never fully reached; down the wide hall that had been so intimidating when I was a boy walking these halls.
A guard outside the royal antechamber shifted his spear tobar my way. Fletcher, of course. He’d always been one of Callan’s favorites. “The king is?—”
“Waiting,” I said, and pushed the haft aside with two fingers.
The door clicked shut behind me.
The hush inside the chamber was different—thicker, clotted with something that didn’t break apart when I crossed the threshold. Something that nearly pulled me forward, whether I willed it or not.
Callan stood at the table beneath the south window, crown set beside a spread of maps. Rain left pearls on the panes; the storm had left the glass streaked, and the light came through in broken bands that cut his face into pieces—light, shadow, light.
On the table between us, placed carefully over the maps he studied, lay a jeweled crown. I recognized it vaguely from Duron’s collection, but even he rarely wore such an ostentatious piece. It was far more ornate than necessary, especially in private company, which meant it was a message. To remind me of who each of us had become in this kingdom. To remind me of who held power—and who didn’t.
“You won’t be charged with treason,” he said, voice scraped flat.
A dozen answers rose and fell in me. I chose none of them. “No?”
“Several members of the court,” he went on, “have given statements that you were… attempting to apprehend Aurelia at the scene.” A muscle ticked along his jaw. “They claim she assassinated my father with her demon-gifted magic, then escaped with aid from the Withered—and the Midnight Court fae she is clearly working with.”
The words landed carefully between us.
I let a beat pass. “You and I both know that’s a ludicrous claim.”
His chin came up, his jaw hardening. “It’s the truth, and the people have a right to know it.”
“Do they have a right to knowI’mhalf-midnight?”
“Of course not.” He didn’t flinch. “How would that look,” he asked softly, “if my midnight-fae brother helped my fiancée kill my father?” He breathed out, and a crack showed beneath the new edges. “They would wonder what was between them to cause the bastard prince to do such a thing.” Rage flashed, sinking beneath the surface of his calm façade. “That is a story I prefer not to tell—especially as I begin my rule as king.”
