It’s a woman.
Something heavy thuds, and it’s followed by shocked gasps and squeals. People jump backward, looks of horror overcoming their features.
As if in slow motion, the object rolls toward the dais and comes to a stop almost perfectly in front of Michael’s throne.
He shoots up from the seat, his gaze widening as he stares down at Lord Reginald’s severed head, his gaping eyes and lolling tongue blue; severed neck tendons dangling, having left a trail of blood behind it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Michael demands.
Edward jerks the woman to stand, wrenching her bony wrists behind her back with one hand, and gripping her hair in the other, forcing her to meet Michael’s gaze.
My heart rate speeds up, fingers steepling as I watch the scene unfold.
She smiles wickedly, her eyes glazed and crazy. “This is your warning, Michael Faasa III.”
“Warning from who?” Michael booms.
Her grin widens.
Michael’s fists clench, his jaw muscles working back and forth. My eyes move from him to his bride-to-be, expecting her to stare in terror, and selfishly wanting to revel in her fear; to soak it in like sunshine and let it fuel me through the night.
But she sits in silence instead, her head tilted, a curious sheen coasting across her eyes. She’s perfectly poised and seems unaffected.
Interesting.
“I am your king,” Michael snaps.
The woman bends at the waist, a high-pitched cackle pouring from her mouth and bleeding into the tense and silent air. Edward pulls her upright, tightening his grip on her skull.
She spits on the ground. “You are no king of mine.”
Xander appears out of the crowd, storming his way to stand in front of the maniacal woman. “Who did this to Lord Reginald? Was it you?”
She grins, her head tilting so far to the side, her neck looks as though it may snap in half. “I’d do anything to please His Majesty.”
Xander’s palm is quick as it whips through the air, the crack reverberating off the walls as the woman’s face is thrown to the side.
“That’s enough. Let her speak.” Michael’s hand flies up, his gaze falling on her. “You’ve already committed treason. Surely you know death awaits you. So finish your message, filth, and then rot in the dungeons.”
“He’s coming for you,” she singsongs, her body seeming to vibrate in place.
“Who?” Michael demands.
She stills. Her head lowers the tiniest amount, and her mouth breaks into a smile so wide, you can see every single rotten tooth.
“The rebel king.”
CHAPTER 5
Sara B.
The king’s private office is as beautiful as the rest of the rooms in the castle. Deep-purple velvet covers almost every inch of the dark mahogany furniture, and intricate paintwork lines the ceiling, money bleeding from the walls.
The room itself is spacious, almost as large as my personal quarters, but even with its size, it feels stifling.
A tall, thin royal guard stands to attention behind Michael’s desk, and Michael perches in front of it, leaning against the lip. His eyes move back and forth, tracking Xander as he paces a hole in the carpet.
The Queen Mother is nowhere to be found—I haven’t even met her—and Prince Tristan disappeared after the decapitated head rolled to our feet. Honestly, I was surprised to see him there at all, having been told he rarely makes appearances in court. But I’ve been here for two days and have seen him twice already.
My stomach tightens and I shift in my seat, thankful he isn’t here right now. He’s unsettling. He stares at me as though he can see into the darkest corners of my soul. Or maybe that’s just his darkness reaching out and trying to find the blackest parts of mine.
“Xander, you worry too much. Have a cigar and calm down,” Michael says, flipping open a cedar box on the corner of the desk.
He puts one into his own mouth before passing the other off to Xander, who takes it with a sharp look.
My cousin is worried. It’s clear in the crow’s feet that crinkle the corners of his eyes and in the frown lines that deepen with every passing second. His bony fingers run through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and when they aren’t busy pulling on the strands, they’re adjusting his circular glasses that slip down the bridge of his nose from his jerky movements.
“I’d like to speak with Uncle Raf,” I interject.
It’s all I’ve been able to think of since the scene in the great hall. I hadn’t expected there to be an uprising on the outskirts; a mystery man wanting to take the throne for himself, and I’m desperate to find out more. I’m fascinated by the blind loyalty that bled from the treasonous woman’s soul; her willingness to sacrifice so much for her leader, making curiosity bite at my insides.