Page 103 of The Kingdom's Fate

I followed sound instead, the clash of steel ringing sharp somewhere deep within the halls. It pulled at me, a thread winding through all of the smoke, flames and stone passages guiding me forward when my mind threatened to fracture under the weight of everything I’d just done.

My hand tightened around my dagger as I ran, its presence a dull, exhausted ache now rather than a burning force. My body protested with every step, pain flaring through my ribs and shoulder, but adrenaline drove me on, drowning it out.

I tore through corridors and voices echoed faintly ahead, metal ringing against metal in violent rhythm.

Closer.

I skidded around a corner and nearly slammed into a fallen statue, its shattered remains scattered across the floor like bones. I leapt over them without slowing, breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps, my vision narrowing to the doors at the end of the hall.

They stood barely ajar, gold and massive, smoke billowing from within.

The sound of fighting was deafening now.

I didn’t hesitate.

I burst forward, shoving through the doors with everything I had left, heart in my throat as I entered the throne room.

The throne room was chaos.

Gold and marble gleamed beneath a haze of smoke and fire that flickered across carved pillars and shattered stone. But my eyes locked onto the figures at its center.

Atlas stood tall, and his presence seemed to bend the air around him, power rolling off his body in waves I could feel even from the doorway. His dark armor scorched and bloodied, his chest heaving as he faced the man sprawled at his feet.

Lazaros.

He was on his knees, one hand braced against the floor, the other empty, his sword lying several feet away where it must have skidded across the marble. Blood streaked his armor and his face, a dark line already carved along his neck where steel had made its mark. His breath came in harsh, ragged pulls, his eyes wide as they flicked up to his brother standing over him.

Atlas’s blade was raised.

Not wavering. Not hesitating.

At the ready to end this.

For a split second, my mind refused to accept what I was seeing. This was what I had feared the most. Atlas was winning the fight but would lose the battle, and his brother, should he deliver that deadly blow. Every moment since the attack from Riley had led to this point. Every moment spent asking myself if I would be too late. And this harrowing outcome was no longer in doubt.

The power in the room felt suffocating.

Atlas stepped forward, his grip tightening on the hilt, his expression carved from a place where the decision he had come to was final. Somewhere cold. Something I had never seen on his face before. This was not the man who held back. This was not restraint, mercy. This was execution.

“Atlas!” I screamed. My voice tore out of me, raw and desperate, echoing uselessly off the throne room walls.

He did not stop.

The blade came down.

A thin, horrifying line of red bloomed across Lazaros’s throat, blood welling bright against pale skin as the sword completed its arc. The sound of it, wet and slick, seemed to echo louder than any scream or clash of steel I had heard all day.

“No!” I sobbed, my legs giving way beneath me as the word broke apart in my throat.

As I realized the unforgivable truth…

I was too late.