“Perhaps your brother will return to his rightful seat here in Florendel when he learns of your death,” the Sapphire Knight pants. “Let me take the last shreds of honor you have left. You don’t belong here, Prince of Blood. It is time to embrace your death.”
He wants me to rage. To snarl and snap and make mistakes, as I once did. I already fed him and his allies too much of myanger, and it only made them stronger. They will never taste it again.
The Sapphire Knight charges and swings Keldarion’s sword with all his might, all his arrogance. This time, I don’t meet it. Instead, I sidestep, letting my mother’s sword slip from my fingers. It clatters to the stone floor. The Sapphire Knight stumbles, off-balance.
With one hand, I snatch the token of Winter from his neck. The other I close around his wrist, and with a swift movement, I wrench the Sword of the Protector from his grasp. Before he can react, I twist the blade around and drive it through his chest plate. The weapon cuts through the armor as if it were paper, and I know I’ve found his heart.
The Sapphire Knight freezes, chest heaving, staring at his stolen relic, turned upon him. A wheezing sound emits from beneath the helm.
“You’re right,” I murmur. “I don’t belong here. But neither do you.”
I pull the sword out. The knight falls to his knees, then to the floor in an echoing thud.
A sense of silence and calm flows into the Hall of Vernalion, a peacefulness I have not felt since my mother’s rule. I take the Sword of the Protector’s scabbard off the Sapphire Knight’s body and sheathe it. Then I retrieve my mother’s blade, mumbling an apology for casting it aside.
I don’t spare another look at the Sapphire Knight. My focus is on the throne. To stand before it is to stand before my ancestors, to bear the weight of their glory.
My eyes catch on the catlike slits in my mother’s helm, forged into the steel that makes up the throne. “I know it’s not enough,” I whisper to her, “but it’s a start.”
The clatter of armor sounds, and a figure appears in the doorway at the back of the room. Tilla stands, breathing heavily,blood splattered across her tawny cheeks. Her black hair is tied into a braid that cascades down her dark gray armor. She carries her helm under one arm and a mace in her other hand.
“Are you okay? I tried to get here as fast as I could,” she calls, voice breathless.
“The Sapphire Knight is no more,” I say, grateful to turn away from the throne. “Spring is free.”
She leans against the wall, a rare smile breaking across her face. “We did it. The rest of the keep is clear. Dayton and Farron are purging the last remnants of the Green Rule. They should be here soon. The city is ours!”
I return her smile, then look back at the throne.
She crosses to me, footsteps heavy, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It’s yours, Ezryn. It’s always been yours. Our people will follow you.”
My chest tightens. Perhaps she’s right. Maybe I could rally the people of Spring back to my side.
But this throne does not belong to me. Can’t belong to me. Not after I gave away Spring’s blessing.
I shake my head. “No, Tilla. I’m not what Spring needs right now. You should rule as steward. You’ve led Spring’s resistance. The people look to you.”
“Ez,” she breathes. “No.”
“Yes, Tilla. You must.”
Her lip trembles, but she sets her jaw and nods.
I pull her helm out from under her arm. “I will do everything I can to heal Spring,” I tell her, “including finding a way to deliver the blessing to a worthy high ruler. Until that day, keep our people safe.”
Carefully, I pull the helm down over the new steward’s face. Tilla takes a deep breath. “Yes, Prince Ezryn. I promise.”
Pulling her close, I kiss the top of the helm, then step away. There’s something I need to find before the other princes and I leave Florendel.
“Ez,” Tilla calls as I get to the doorway.
I turn around and raise a brow.
“I’ll be steward, but I’m just keeping the throne warm until the true high ruler shows up. So don’t take too long finding them, okay?”
I nudgethe door open and enter my father’s bedchamber. It’s cold, and there’s a layer of dust on the bedsheets. No one has been in here in months.
I recall sitting at his bedside, attempting to feed him soup as he tossed and turned in his fever. Was it true? Had he been poisoned, destined to shift into a horrible monster?
