The Crown sings.
Time doesn’t slow. That’s not what happens. What happens is I see everything.
Every attacker. Every angle. Every possibility collapsing into a single perfect line of action.
The Sword moves.
I don’t remember crossing the distance to Tiana. I don’t remember cutting down the warrior holding her. I don’t remember the next six kills.
I remember the sound. Blade through armor, through flesh, through bone. Twelve times.
That should terrify me.
It doesn’t.
That terrifies me.
And then silence. It descends on the forest like an audible inhale. No birds. No crickets. Nothing. Just the dead silence of twelve bodies. All Fae. The mercenaries who tried to overwhelm me. Twelve lives ended in the time it takes to draw a breath, and I can’t recall a single face.
All headless.
The humans run screaming. Scrambling for the trees, abandoning their command post, leaving their Fae allies to die.
Cowards, something in me snarls.They direct the slaughter but won’t face the consequences.
I raise my hand. The Sword’s light gathers?—
“Finnian.” Tiana’s voice cuts through the rage. “Let them go.”
“They’re part of this. They’re directing?—”
“And they’ll report back to whoever’s paying them. They’ll tell them the Summer Sword is no longer under Amarantha’s control.” She limps toward me, one hand pressed to her ribs. “Let them carry that message. Let them spread fear.”
The logic is sound. I get that.
But not the Sword.
I want to watch them fall. Want to feel their fear as they realize there’s nowhere to run. Want the satisfaction of finishing what I started.
When did I become someone who wants that?
I lower my hand because Tiana told me to.
Not because I wanted to stop.
The Sword’s light fades. The Crown’s song quiets to a whisper, sinking back beneath my flesh.
My hands are shaking. Not from exertion.
Whispen materializes at my shoulder, his glow an unsettled swirl of violet and gold.
“The scholar has teeth,” he murmurs. “Sharp teeth, bright teeth, teeth that bite and tear.” A pause. “Does he know how to stop biting? That’s the question. That’s always been the question.”
I don’t have an answer.
Twelve people are dead because I moved through them like they were made of paper. And the part of me that should be horrified is quiet. Satisfied and somehow hungry for more.
“That,” I manage, voice hoarse, “was...”
