Obrann’s fingers twitched, spinning his rings meticulously, one by one.
“My sword,” Ronan spoke again. “For your heir.” Phantom mist prowled the edges of the chamber, curling at the boots of courtiers, tasting their fear. “Or,” his stare narrowed, “shall I grant him a second death? I promise you my smoke doesn’t forgive. Nor does it return what it devours.”
Obrann’s deliberation etched into the lines of his face.
All he had to do was lie. Deny the blade’s existence. Play deaf to the bait. But Obrann, too tangled in his own web of deception, too enthralled by the game, took the wrong breath.
“Father—” Perseus wheezed through the smoke. “Plea—”
“Silence!” Obrann snapped.
Only Perseus flinched, his face now blanched. Not even the frames lining the walls trembled.
Obrann scrubbed a hand down his face, fury barely leashed, then barked toward his second. “Ira!”
The advisor practically launched himself forward, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed the floor. “Majesty?”
“Fetch the sword.”
The smoke around Perseus eased, just enough to let a thread of breath slip back in.
“Quickly,” Obrann snarled. “The dragon prince has overstayed his welcome.”
Ira stumbled from the room, white robes flaring behind him, desperate to be free of the rising fury.
Obrann slumped back into his throne, pinching the bridge of his nose as if all of this—his strangled son, the cowering court, the bodies cooling on the marble—was nothing more than a tedious inconvenience.
“Well?” he demanded, waving a dismissive hand toward Perseus. “Release my son.”
Ronan raised a brow, not even bothering to hide his disdain as he simply stared back at Obrann. A voiceless reminder.Not until I have what is mine.
So, the room waited.
Minutes dragged, until time itself seemed to choke in the smoke. Perseus twitched where he hung, numbness setting in slow, his curses tapering to broken gasps.
Still Ronan held him. Still Obrann feigned calm. Still the court dared not breathe.
Finally, the footsteps came as Ira burst through the doors, face blotched, robes askew. He skidded to a stop on one knee, chest heaving with each breath. “Your Majesty—” Words dragged up his throat, dying there. “It’s...” A swallow. “The sword—” A broken croak. “It’s missing.”
Obrann’s composure shattered at last.
Ronan’s wings unfurled behind him, shadows spilling from their tips. “Ah, that’s right.” A click of his tongue, relishing in it. “It’s already reclaimed.”
Obrann’s hands balled into fists, the veins writhing as though eager to burst. He whirled toward the nearest guard, seizing his wrist, magic sparking as it was ripped from the brute’s body. The man dropped, a drained husk, gasping once before going still.
Ronan let Perseus fall.
The prince’s body hit the floor with a sickening crack, limbs bending at a grotesque angle. He screamed as they snapped back into place, flesh knitting with agonized slowness.
Obrann spared him no glance. Not when the stolen magic throbbed beneath his skin, pulsing in feverish veins. Not when the chair he gripped shattered in his hands like brittle tinder.
Ronan’s wings beat once, twice. Air cracked outward, spiraling through the chamber, rattling goblets, toppling banners, scattering the last traces of ash.
Smirking, he said, “Along with a few other valuable items.”
Obrann fell still as his breath hitched.
Ronan dipped his head, a predator’s bow. “I’ll give them your best.”
