Not a name I recognize, but the back of my neck prickles. “Stanimir?”
“A traveler. From the far east. Lowborn. He came to me six years ago and told me that if I did exactly as he said, I would no longer be overlooked.” A bright smile breaks out across Hadrian’s face. “He told me I would be king.”
I scoff, hoping to raise Hadrian’s ire with my derision, even if the prickling at the back of my neck becomes more intense at his claim. “You believed him? This lowborn from the east.”
Hadrian’s smile doesn’t fade, stretching, a cunning twinkle in his eye. “You’ve been my puppet for days, Antony, so yes, I believe him.”
Impossible to quell my snarl, although I fucking try to swallow it down. “You sent the anonymous note telling me where to find Thyra.”
He inclines his head. “I did.”
As he speaks, the iron granules burn across my chest, some of them crawling across my neck, others gathering around the leather strap covering my heart, leaving welts in thin lines, burning, fucking burning…
“You sent the assassins.”
“Stanimir has many loyal followers,” Hadrian replies. “All dedicated to his cause. All at my disposal.”
“What about the coins?”
Hadrian’s cunning smile becomes boyish. Too innocent.
How did I fucking overlook him for so long?
“Misdirection,” he says. “Implicate the other kings. That sort of thing.”
“You’ve been grinding iron to dust.”
“For years.”
Years.
“Then, why now?”
His forehead crinkles. “What do you mean?”
I peer at him from behind the jagged strands of my hair. “Assuming you’re doing everything that this man, Stanimir, tells you, why reveal your hand now?”
Hadrian takes a step toward me, and every hint of innocence fades from his eyes, his lips twisting and his fists closing.
I draw a sharp breath as the pools of iron dust scorching my chest respond to his gesture, forming fine lines. Razor-sharp. The granules come so close together that they’re blades cutting my skin.
“It’s always fascinated me how much pain you’re willing to take,” Hadrian muses. “Almost like you welcome it. A punishment, maybe, for all your sins.”
I grind between my teeth, “Why now?”
“Because it’s time for you to make a choice.”
As he steps toward me, the blades he created slice deep.
My hands tighten around my weapons while blood trickles down my chest, but I remind myself that pain doesn’t matter.
Hadrian’s right: I welcome pain.
It fucking keeps me alive.
“What choice?” I ask.
“Your throne or Thyra.”
