Page 119 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

The guards stationed on Berian’s door this morning were fidgeting when we arrived—four of them standing before Camrick’s desk, dread written into every line of their bodies. I took my time settling into the chair across from them.

I let the silence do its work before I spoke, my hushed tone becoming a threat in itself. “Have I ever asked you to cover up a dalliance?”

They looked shocked at my bluntness, but each shook their head.

“Have I ever beaten a child, a servant, a woman, or even a subordinate and asked you to cover it up?”

All denial.

“Have I ever asked you to cover up anything for the royal family?”

The same.

“Then why,” I asked, slamming my fist on the heavy table hard enough for it to rattle the entire frame. All five men in the room jumped. “Why? The one time we asked that a god-sent healer be kept a secret, did word leave your mouths?”

My shadows whipped out and grabbed each man by the neck—not tight, but tight enough that the threat was more than clear.

Before Camrick could move to stop me, I raised a single, steady hand in the air.

I continued. “To work in the family wing requires discretion. At least one of you has failed in that regard.”

I could feel the pulses of each man through my conjurations. All were racing, but one was the most erratic. It stuttered against my magic like a bird battering itself against cage bars.

My gaze snapped to the third man from the left. Michen. Broad-shouldered. Steady on a pike line. Not known for nerves, but he was sweating now.

His forehead beaded with it, rivulets tracing paths down his temples and disappearing into the collar of his tunic. His chest rose in quick bellows, and his eyes refused to settle. The others were afraid, but he was unraveling.

I released the conjurations, dropping the other three men. Gasping with relief, they staggered backward, hands instinctively going to their throats.

I leaned toward Michen until only inches separated us, thickening the ropes of shadow. The pulse beneath my magic went wild when I ordered, very quietly, “Talk.”

A swallow. “I didn’t—”

The noose constricted with promise. “Your heart is betraying you.”

His eyes darted to the others then to Camrick then back to me. “I only mentioned her to my cousin,” he choked. “He serves in the lower Tir. I thought—it was just talk. Just that she was special.”

“You thought,” I repeated. “You thought a rumor about your king’s private healer was acceptable tavern chatter.”

“I didn’t know it would spread—”

“Not thinking,” I cut in, my voice sharpening to steel, “is precisely the problem.”

Silence rang in the chamber.

This was not stupidity. This was negligence at best. At worst, it was treason, because he’d given confidential information over to a hostile organization. The problem was that we couldn’t openly acknowledge their aggression so I couldn’t treat it as such.

“You endanger the Crown with idle curiosity,” I said, each word deliberate. “You swore an oath.”

For a fleeting, terrible second, I considered how easy it would be to end him. No one in this room could prevent it, and I’d walk away without consequences. I was Regent.

But then I thought of her face. She still looked at me like I was someone worth being angry at rather than someone worth being afraid of. The difference between those two things mattered to me in a way I never wanted to lose.

I’d seen enough of the dark side of the world to know that power would corrupt anyone who allowed it to dictate their actions. No blood, I promised myself as I exhaled through my nose.

“Remove him,” I said to Camrick without looking away from Michen. “Dungeon. Isolated cell.”

Michen’s face drained of what little color remained. “Your Highness… Please—”