“So, either death by king or death by desert?” My gaze falls to the platform I stand on, pristine, untouched, as if my friend did not die by a halfling’s hand a season ago. Only now I realize it was the wrong halfling who is to blame. It is the king.
“The Desert Walk does not necessarily mean you die.”
“Whom does the king see when he looks at you?”
The executioner pauses, tilting his head. “I don’t know. You would have to ask him.”
The palace thunders again.
“What’s the plan?” the executioner asks.
I grip the throne tighter, letting the energy pulse up and into my arm. It is strong and solid and lovely. Then I maneuver in front and take a seat. My body trembles, but I sink further into the magic as it emboldens my genius.
“I’m going to wait,” I say. “What of you?”
“I will watch, and if I can, I will help.”
The grand doors slam open, flying off their hinges. I grip the arms of the throne, one hand sore and bruised. The natural magic thrums behind me, a low, constant current. A silhouette stands at the threshold, light spilling around him. Maxian prowls into the space, dragging behind him something long and thin.
The Golden Whip.
I tense, clutching the throne. Even Death, from his column to the right side of the dais, sucks in a breath.
Maxian stops short, halfway down the aisle. “What thefuckare you doing?”
“Sitting,” I say. “I’m on my break.”
“Get. Up.”
It’s not just fury pulsing across his face—but fear. He knows I can feel the power beneath me. He fears what that could do to my magic.Why?Even as a halfling, he holds more power than most.
Maxian cracks the whip, its tail slamming into a column. A chunk of stone breaks off, smashes against the floor.
“Avery,” he grits out, stalking closer.
“Yes?”
He pauses at the base of the altar, adjusting his grip on the handle. If he whips me now, he could destroy the throne, cut off the power boosts he gains in front of the public so that he may perform his tricks and testaments.
No, he will not do that. He is not willing to risk the façade just yet, afraid that the thing beneath it is weak and hollow. If he wants to whip me, he will have to remove me from the throne first.
“Get off,” he growls.
“No, thank you, my king.”
He takes a step forward.
The throneshifts.
Maxian stumbles back, mouth agape.
The throne unfurls.
Roots slither out from under the chair and wind around my ankles, my arms, securing me to the spot. My pulse flutters as panic threatens, but I force myself to keep calm.
Thank you,I tell it.
The only reply is a tightening of the plants around me.
