THIRTY-TWO
Leo entered the room via a shove between the shoulder blades. It was wholly unnecessary—he was walking just fine, thank you very much, despite his sore muscles from days in the saddle—but it certainly added to the whole “your life is in mortal peril” atmosphere they were attempting to cultivate.
Before him was a large suite, fitted with the kind of furniture and decor that was meant to be elegant and refined but read to him as nothing so much as quaint and outdated.
Still, it was the nicest space he’d been in for weeks, the rugs beneath his feet well made, if worn, and the furniture covered in rich fabrics. The bed was a massive four-poster, visible in the adjoining chamber, and the wood-paneled walls were recently painted and free from dust and soot. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth—the gilt detailing on the mantel too low in quality for his magic to register it—and seated in front of the flames in a cozy sitting room was surely the man he was here to meet. The other side of the bargain that had landed him here, miles from home, from safety, in the lawless wilds of the Haunted Territory.
The man was decked out in House of Iron colors, his armor gaudy with bloodred accents and spiked embellishments. The shade matched his personal soldiers—the Red Guard according to the locals Leo had overheard on their way in—who were ranged around the room, and he sat comfortably in a high-backed leather chair, his helmet propped on the nearest table.
This could only be the regent of the Iron Citadel.
For now. His ambitions extended beyond the Wall, and Leo was at the heart of them. But he was not there alone. There was the assassination at the fort. The extra horse. Not to mention this town in the middle of the Haunted Territory. This was one tangled plot, and Leo was determined to unravel it.
He had been at it for days, and while he didn’t have the whole picture, he thought he was getting close.
It was the captain who had shoved him into the room, and it was he who spoke now. “Stay there and stay quiet,” he muttered under his breath, indicating that Leo should remain standing next to the hearth. He yearned, suddenly, for the quiet contempt of Ivan or the sincere honesty of Jakob. But they had been told to remain outside. They weren’t privy to the darker details of their mission, which were about to come to the forefront.
At least they’d removed his bag. From the way the regent’s dark gaze raked over him, he suspected it was so the man could properly see his face.
“Lord-Smith Francis,” the captain said, going down to one knee on the faded carpet, gaze averted.
A small flicker of triumph lit in Leo’s breast. He’d suspected that the Lord-Smith Francis who would be “devastated” when he learned of Julian’s death and the regent of the Iron Citadel were one and the same. And if that was true, that meant…
“We came as quickly as we could,” Captain Royce continued. “The prince, as you requested.” He gestured to Leo, who had the urge to smile. Or spit. Or drop into a curtsy.
He did none of those things, however. He still had his dignity.
More or less.
The regent’s gaze slid over him, past him, and Leo knew this was where things would get interesting.
“The Breachfort fought back well enough,” the captain continued, swallowing audibly. “But they were too slow to muster a pursuit. Likely they knew a ransom would be forthcoming.”
Still, the regent didn’t speak.
“As for the other targets,” the captain continued, speaking faster now, “we had a slight hiccup.”
“A hiccup?”
The captain dared a glance up before looking at the ground again. “Everything went according to plan, until your—”
The regent cleared his throat, cutting off the words, his eyes flicking around the room. Too many ears, too many witnesses.
“Excuse me, my lord. The second target was taken care of, as per your instructions. However, the landscape and the defenders made it difficult to…”
“Spit it out, Captain.”
“The target went down with an arrow in the neck. Unfortunately, we were unable to recover the body. He fell into some sort of crevasse—a hundred feet deep, at least. And the third target went down with him.”
“Dead but with no proof,” the regent said, voice flat.
“We have proof, Lord-Smith,” Captain Royce said hurriedly. He waved at his co-conspirator, the only other member of the kidnapping team to accompany him to this room, who produced the dented ironsmith helmet.
The regent looked at it, brows raised, but did not take it from the man’s outstretched hand. One of his personal guard did instead.
Tension was heavy in the room. It was plain that the helmet was not sufficient evidence according to the regent, and furthermore, that the third target was meant to be kidnapped—a prisoner, tied and delivered alongside Leo.
The captain had failed twice over. In fact, he should be kissing Leo’s ass for being successfully captured in the first place so the man didn’t arrive completely empty-handed. Ungrateful, really.
“I see,” the regent said at last. He sighed. “Then it appears our business here is done.”
A subtle nod, and then the nearest Red Guard slid a knife across the captain’s throat.
Blood spurted across the carpet right before Leo’s eyes, while sounds of a further scuffle could be heard behind him, where another Red Guard had descended upon the captain’s other man. Leo managed to tear away his gaze from the spreading bloodstain only by closing his eyes, fear tightening his stomach.
The danger he was in truly hit home for the first time. Thus far, it had all seemed an exciting adventure, a puzzle to solve. Suddenly boredom didn’t seem so bad.
Silence descended, and the regent’s attention fell on Leo once more. “It seems my plans are coming undone,” he said, his tone musing. He was clearly a ruthless man—what he had just done had certainly proved that—but also, Leo suspected, a vain one. His choice of armor spoke volumes, as did his flashy guard. He didn’t just want power—he wanted to project it. To have others believe it.
Perhaps Leo could use that.
“I don’t see it that way,” he said, his voice strained. The smell of blood was thick in the air.
The regent’s brows shot up—of course he hadn’t been talking to Leo. He’d merely been talking at him, around him, as if he were little more than a piece of furniture that no longer fit inside his room.
Leo was valuable only as long as he was useful. He was useful only as long as he played a part in the regent’s plans. He scrambled for an idea.
“Please, Lord-Smith Francis, let me ride back to Port Valor and deliver your terms myself. We can present this entire affair not as a kidnapping but rather as a diplomatic negotiation.”
The regent’s mouth twisted at the corners, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Leo recognized the look. It was the face his father wore when he found Leo on the entertaining side of ridiculous. Like a dog performing a trick. Fun to watch, perhaps, but not to be taken seriously.
“A diplomatic negotiation, you say?” the regent said easily. “No, I suspect you’d paint a different picture entirely.”
“Not if you let me go.”
“That would rather defeat the purpose of having taken you in the first place,” the regent drawled.