If I die, do not let my body go,I tell the Tree.
If the king is determined to rip me apart, to kill me, then I shall go down in the worst place possible. Let him try to explain why there is a faerie corpse on his throne. Let me stay here, decaying, rotting, staining his power. And if he chooses to keep the chair in the end, then he must brush aside my bones to sit on it and be reminded of who the throne chose. Just as how he lay awake at night in his bed, remembering who his lover preferred.
“Stay with us,” Death says beside me then. “My king, you dislocated—”
“I don’t care,” he snaps.
“Sir, this is wrong—”
“Shut your mouth, and do not interfere.”
The plane grumbles. The executioner stiffens. Then, in choppy movements, he steps down from the dais, his body under Reign magic.
Maxian grabs the dagger again. I take a breath. I am on myown—and I will have to take more of this, much more, before my body gives out.
He stabs the roots around my other thigh. My body jerks as the Tree yowls again, the sound piercing and sharp and deep. The king grits his teeth and saws, blood dripping from his ears, from mine.
Something flickers over his shoulder, at the other end of the hall. Something shiny, silver—
The dagger flies from his grasp.
The king staggers back in shock, the Tree’s tears abating. My forehead is slick with sweat. I am cold.
The dagger scrapes down the aisle, stopping halfway. At the end of the hall, in a blood-red gown, stands Kassandra. Her expression is frigid, and she lifts her chin, striding toward us.
“What is all this shrieking about?” She takes in the executioner, standing stiff at the bottom of the dais; Maxian, hands wet with blood, crouching before the throne; and then, lastly, me. Her eyes narrow slightly, and this is all that she gives away.
“Out, Kassandra,” Maxian snaps.
“I think not.”
He stands, the plane rumbling. “I saidout.”
“That too,” she shouts over the quaking. “How can I get anything done when you keep breaking everything? I’ve gone through three quills today.”
The king stalks down the steps. I squirm in my seat, but the pain in my leg sparks. Blackness tugs at the corner of my vision, and I try to breathe through it.
Maxian reaches for the dagger. It slides toward Kassandra.
He reaches again—and again, it slides to her feet.
“Stop that,” he snarls. “You gifted it to me.”
Kassandra flicks out her wrist. The dagger flies up from the floor, hilt landing in her palm.
“It was my hand that made it,” she says. “It’s my hand it’ll always call home.”
The king throws out his arm and the Golden Whip zings to him. They stare at each other, the plane crackling with potent tension.
Finally, Kassandra sighs. “Not your best idea, Max.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Aren’t we friends?”
“I am theking. You will obey me.”
“And I am now heir to my House. If you whip me, then Reign will have declared war on Illusion. The council is already foaming at the mouth after what happened to Dominik.”
