“What was he like?” someone asks.
“Manic,” I say. My voice does not shake. “Beside himself.”
They listen, but it is not enough. I can feel it in the room—the unease, the need to understand.
“Before,” another voice says. “What was he likebeforehe gave the order?”
A murmur of agreement. Chairs scrape softly, their eyes fix on me.
“The North was harsh,” I draw a slow breath. “The winter was long, endless gray skies. Cold that seeped into the bones.” I pause, choosing each word with care. “Charles does not fare well in isolation or without light.”
Someone scoffs. “Weather does not turn a king into a butcher.”
Before I can answer, Aileen’s voice cuts in, sharp and clear. “Let her speak.”
Silence follows.
“This was not the first time,” I continue. “The last time he returned from the North, he was…unrecognizable. He couldn’t sleep, and he was quick to anger. Suspicious of everyone around him.”
I glance down at my hands.
“He knows people are working against him,” I say. “He hears the whispers. He knows someone is leaking his movements to outsiders.”
I feel it then—Ashford’s attention snapping fully into place, like a blade sliding free of its sheath. He had been casually leaning against a pillar before, but now he is upright, his shoulders tight as a bow.
“He spoke of it often,” I add. “Of betrayal. Of being surrounded by enemies who smile to his face.”
A gasp ripples through the room.
“I confronted him,” I say. “About the attack on Tassilo.”
That does it.
Voices rise. Shock. Outrage. Disbelief.
“You did what?” someone demands.
I lift my chin. “I wanted answers.”
My fingers curl around my ring. Heat pulses against my skin.
“He didn’t rage,” I say slowly. “Not at first. He…unraveled. Spiraled.” I search for the right word. “He became unmoored.”
The room holds its breath.
“He spoke of proving himself,” I continue. “To the nobles, to his enemies, and of course to God.” My throat tightens. “He said the kingdom needed a warning. A cleansing.”
Someone whispers, “devil’s mercy.”
“He kept repeating that he was chosen,” I say. “Sent to purge the land of heathens, he said that mercy was weakness. Thatslaughter was obedience.”
The words taste like ash.
“He said he would kill them all,” I finish. “And in doing so, show the world who the rightful King is.”
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute.
“And Aynhard?” Sir Philipp asks quietly.
