The courier met Zander’s eyes. “Then keep him breathing. That’s all Cyran asks.”
I glanced back at the king’s still figure, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “What happens when Theron finds out?”
Remy answered that one, his voice tense. “Then we better make damn sure he doesn’t.”
I stepped forward, eyes narrowing as I took in the courier’s torn sleeve and the drying blood along the edge of his tunic.
“Why are you hurt?”
He exhaled sharply, like the weight of the last hour had finally caught up to him. “I just fought off an assassin,” he said, wiping a smear of blood from his jaw. “Someone’s trying to break through that ward of yours and finish the job. They’re done waiting for the poison to do it for them.”
Zander grunted beside me, his fists clenched. “Of course. Everyone knows the king’s on the brink of death. If he dies now, they won’t ask questions. It’ll look… expected.”
The courier nodded grimly, confirming the thought we all hated to say aloud. I studied him closer, his stance, the coiled tension in his shoulders, the calculated way his eyes tracked every shadowed corner of the chamber.
His build was too familiar.
“You’re an assassin, aren’t you?” I asked quietly.
He tilted his head, an unrepentant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am.”
I didn’t flinch. “And you’re protecting the king?”
“I go where the coin is,” he said simply. “But you don’t need to worry about that. We both know no one from the Order would dare touch you. Not anymore.”
I didn’t deny it. I couldn’t.
Zander stepped closer, voice cold. “If they’re that close to breaking the ward, we’ll need to reinforce it. Or double the guard.”
The courier glanced back toward the king. “You’ll need both. Because whoever they send next won’t miss.”
Remy stepped forward with his arms crossed. “Go see a healer before you bleed out on the king’s floors.”
The courier scoffed softly, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the pain he was trying to ignore. “I’ll live.”
“Not if you keep leaking everywhere,” I muttered.
He gave a crooked grin before slipping out the door, his boots silent even on the polished stone. I watched him go, unease curling in my gut like a shadow that refused to lift.
“A bodyguard from Cyran?” I asked once the door shut behind him. “I can’t believe he didn’t send Solei.”
“He wouldn’t,” Remy said, already turning back toward the king’s bedside. “Too personal. Too noticeable. But an assassin trained to blend in?” He looked at me. “Smart. No one would suspect the Order would protect the King.”
“Not unless they wanted to control him,” Zander said darkly, voice low and thoughtful.
Remy shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe Cyran just doesn’t want Theron getting the crown.”
I sank into the nearest chair. “I don’t know what’s more unnerving… that Cyran’s playing hero, or that he thinksIneed protecting.”
Remy’s mouth twitched, as if he might argue, but then the sound of heavy boots echoed beyond the corridor.
The air shifted.
Zander tensed beside me.
The door opened with slow, deliberate purpose.
Theron entered, clad in obsidian black with a sash of crimson sweeping over one shoulder like a blade. His expression was carved from ice, his eyes locked on the king’s still form before sliding to me.
