Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
But not the golden feather or the silver clasp. Those, I’ve hidden. My last ties to the ones I love.
Casimiria returns, radiant in her formal attire though her powdered face is drawn. She smells of roses, yet sorrow clings to her like a shadow.
The door swings open and Quin strides in, his presence as commanding as ever. His velvet cloak is deep blue and catches the light; a faint shimmer from his crown of spiritually infused violet oak casts a glow over the room.
“Mother,” he says gently. “It’s time.”
“There is no other way?” Casimiria’s voice cracks.
Her gaze lingers on him, her pain mirrored in his stoic expression.
Stop this, I want to shout. Please, find another way.
Casimiria is escorted out, her movements slow and reluctant. Quin’s eyes track her path, but the weight of his stare shifts to me.
Calm. Controlled.
I laugh bitterly, doubling over as the tightness in my chest becomes unbearable. “Still putting on an act?”
His voice is quiet, devoid of the Quin I know. “It’s just naming my son heir.”
But it’s not just that. His uncle will kill him for it.
“Quin—”
Redcloaks file in, their presence suffocating.
The courtyard is a sea of bowing heads and murmured reverence. The luminarium presides over it all, too bright and beautiful for this day.
Quin takes his place, the epitome of royal composure. I follow the procession, my head bowed, my heart racing.
The ceremony is a blur. Music swells as Quin’s amplified voice fills the courtyard, his speech resonating with conviction.
Why aren’t you afraid?
I should be terrified for the kingdom, for the commoners who depend on him. I should fear the loss of a leader with a vision for change.
But in this moment, I care about none of that.
He’s Quin. My friend.
The rite begins. Quin crowns his son, whispers words I cannot hear, and announces the next crown prince of Lumin.
Cheers erupt, but they’re distant. Hollow.
Then the tea arrives.
Megaera hands me the tray, her gaze unyielding. I clutch it tightly, wishing to throw it, to smash it to the ground and scream.
But I can’t.
“Why?” I ask quietly.
Her voice is calm, detached. “Justice. The king will pay for what he’s done.”
“And Akilah? What justice is that?”
Her composure falters, just for a moment.
“Stop this, Megaera,” I plead. “Please.”
Her eyes harden again.
The tray feels heavier with each step. The dancers whirl, harp music lilting in the background. Quin’s gaze remains fixed on the performers, unbothered. Calm.
I clear my throat.
He waves a hand for me to pour. He doesn’t look at me.
I can’t do this. Please, Florentius, where are you?
My hands tremble, rattling the teapot against the cup.
Quin doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he keeps his face schooled. His fingers tap against the armrest, the only glimpse of unease.
“Do it,” he says, voice steady and commanding.
The music swells.
I pour. Each drop of tea falling into the cup seems to take forever.
One drop. Two. Three.
His fingers brush mine. The scent of roses. The sound of harp strings. The taste of blood in my mouth. My blood. His.
He speaks. “Stand in your place.”
I stagger back, my heart pounding so hard it’s deafening.
He lifts the cup, presses it to his lips. For a moment, he looks out over the crowd, and then aside, where he might see my wobbling feet.
The seconds stretch and it feels like I’ll throw up as I wish desperately for him to cast the cup away, smash it to smithereens before his uncle’s feet.
But he drinks.
No tentative taste, no tiny sip. He throws it all back at once and sets the cup down with a purposeful clatter.
For a moment, everything is fine. His gaze stays on the dancers, his posture composed.
Then it shatters.
His body jerks. His face twists, and his gasp is the only sound I hear.
I freeze, the world narrowing to Quin’s pained expression as chaos erupts around us.
Casimiria screams; Nicostratus’s gaze lands on me, filled with betrayal and disbelief, as he swoops in. And the high duke commands his doctor forward with a cold smirk.
Quin’s eyes find mine, locking me in place. The agony in them is worse than anything I’ve ever known, but there’s something else there too. His lips part, as if he might speak it, but no words come. His body convulses, and my cry is lost in the screams surrounding us.
Redcloaks haul me away. My arms ache from their grip, but I barely feel it. My knees buckle.
“Please,” I beg. “Tell me what’s happening. Is he . . . Is . . .”
No one answers.
Hours pass. I curl on the ground in a cold, damp cell, replaying every agonised look, every cry of pain.
Footsteps, breaking the silence. I scramble to my feet, clinging to the bars.
Nicostratus steps into view, his hood shadowing his face.
I reach for him, but he steps back, his grief palpable.
His voice is raw. “He’s the king,” he chokes out. “My brother . . .”