Page 61 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers
I let myself imagine, for a single breath, a world where a king who’s kinder than the stories could rule an isle with mages and magic once more, a world where we might all be stronger together instead of tearing each other apart.
I let myself lean in closer. “Should I believe them?”
Hunger flares in the depths of his midnight eyes. His lips part.
But before he can say a word, a shriek splits the air and the music dies.
No one moves.
No one evenbreathes.
The room shifts on its axis. Then a surge of bodies rushes back away from the scream, from the growls at the corner of the room, from the terror.
Something wet spatters onto the floor, and my stomach roils as I follow horrified gazes to the far corner where the musician coaxed melodies from the pipes—and where the High King now pins her to the ground in a pool of crimson blood, and…green.
A frantic rhythm beats in my chest at the sight of the green shawl on the musician’s lap. The High King roars, a stream of curses indecipherable beneath the woman’s cries. His chest heaves, and he rams the knife he was picking his nails with only moments ago into her neck.
Blood. So damn much of it, spurting from the musician’sneck. Crimson sticks to his bejeweled fingers, and the High King turns to face the crowd—his court—eyes roaming over the hundreds of bodies and nose twitching like… he’s deciding which of us is next.
My blood chills.
Talon stands frozen where they watched me dance with the prince. Their face is the color of the white roses ripped from the earth. As their brown eyes fly to mine, I think we share the same bloodcurdling thought—Are we next?
Prince Cashel’s hand lifts from my waist in a shudder of velvet and barely disguised disgust. His navy eyes sharpen to steel as they flash to his father and he cries,“Gardai!”
The rest of us are still.
Prince Cashel is the only one daring to move, the only one willing to risk what might happen next.
Not even the High Queen shifts from her throne—but her pale eyes narrow on her stepson in what can only be described as pure, unfiltered hatred.
A rush of black and crimson floods in from the gilded doors behind the thrones. Metal clangs in sheaths, boots pad on the marble floor. One unit, then two.
But they all stop in front of the High King, hands hesitating over their hilts.
Prince Cashel moves to stand between the two units of gardai, nodding down toward his father with a sharp jerk of his chin. I can see the way his navy eyes darken from this side of the dais, the stiff set of his jaw.
He’s not just the crown prince right now. He’s a future king—their future commander.
“Take him,” he orders in a voice as sharp as his sword.
The gardai still hesitate.
It’s only for a moment, but it’s long enough for a cold fear to seize me by the throat.
Prince Cashel’s jaw, his whole body, stiffens. And when his right hand goes for the broadsword at his side, I can’t help noticing that’s his only visible weapon. He wears no knives, no daggers, nothing else that could give him an edge in close combat. Nothing to let him adapt, or fight dirty, if that’s what it takes to survive.
His fingers hover over the hilt, eyes locking on the gardai.
The High King snarls at his son, a vicious sound, and everything in me rebels.
This iswrong. Not just the blood and the butchery but the fact that it’s happening at all. That none of us—not even the High King—can get the help that might save us.
Could magic have healed whatever’s broken inside him, before he became… this?
He’s always been cruel, but he’s a monster now. A monster no one here—except, maybe, his own son—is willing to stop.
We could be mere months from famine, if this coming harvest fails—months from an attempted annexation. This is not a king who will lead us through a crisis.
