The King’s Man (The King’s Man #6) Read Online Anyta Sunday

Categories Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi, M-M Romance, Magic, Paranormal Tags Authors: Series: The King's Man Series by Anyta Sunday
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Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
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It is what got him executed.

My father stood there that day. He saw the blade fall. He saw the way the luminists made an example of him. And now I’m asking him to do the same thing—to defy them, to risk his life, not just to protect our family, but to fight for others.

My pulse thunders. My fingers shake so hard the ink blots the page. I have no right to ask this of him.

But I must.

I swallow hard and press my pen to the parchment once more. I promise him the true king will not hold him accountable. I tell him he will not be alone. I tell him—

The words catch in my throat. My hand hovers over the page.

He won’t do it. Not after what happened to Grandfather. Not after what he’s lost.

He wouldn’t even use a mere medius spell to save his grandchild from an agonising limp. How could he touch this forbidden healing?

And yet.

I have to ask. Have to plead.

The ink is still wet when I set the letter aside. My breath comes too fast. My skin prickles, my arms itching. I rub at them furiously, clawing not only at the hardening scales beneath my sleeves, but at the anxiety burning through my veins.

Olyn catches my wrist and shakes her head. I meet her gaze. Her expression is steady. A silent reminder that scratching will make this worse.

I exhale. Nod.

Then, with my heart hammering, I seal the letter and beg Nicostratus to deliver it, somehow, after he brings us back down the mountain.

Something feels wrong.

Mist smothers the fringe of the woods, thick and low, swallowing sound. We should see the river from here. We should see our boat. But the fog coils through the trees, dampening everything except the pounding in my chest.

Nicostratus moves beside me, a shadow shifting through the gloom. Olyn is a step behind. We stay close, skirting from trunk to trunk, careful. I lead, my shield casting a faint glow against the dark.

Then—crack.

Not from behind us. Not from the left or right. Ahead.

Nicostratus halts sharply, his hand locking around my arm as his other presses to his lips. Shh. Stay still. His muscles go rigid.

Something moves through the mist—many somethings. Boots scuff damp earth. A voice barks low, urgent. “Hurry up.”

A flicker of red. My gut clenches. Olyn stares at me wide-eyed, mouth forming the word we both dread.

Redcloaks.

Here, along the river leading south from the capital. The last time the royal soldiers passed through these woods, it was to barricade Kastoria—to let them rot in sickness and starvation.

A sickness that has only spread.

The mist thickens with the weight of old ghosts, and I barely get a breath before something snaps.

Too close. Above.

A black coil lashes out of the trees, snaring my waist. Before I can shout, it yanks me skyward. Olyn’s muffled shriek is swallowed by the mist as I’m lifted from the ground and plunked onto a branch.

A familiar voice greets me, smug as ever.

“We keep meeting like this.”

My breath rushes out in a laugh—stunned, startled, relieved all at once.

“Almighty Sovereign.”

“Just ‘Husband Dearest’ will do.”

His whip coils back into his grip. That playful smirk lingers, but his eyes are tight. Not a game this time.

Below, Nicostratus and Olyn materialise through the mist. Nicostratus reaches for me, but I shake my head. We’re not alone.

Bastion crosses his arms. Grim. Tense.

I swallow. “You know what the redcloaks are doing here.”

“You won’t like the answer.”

Bastion keeps his voice low. “The capital is in chaos. The last two days, the city has realised—this is everywhere. A plague.” His gaze darkens. “The people are desperate, sick, angry. They demand the vitalians provide a cure. Demand the regent take responsibility.”

“Something he should have done months ago,” I mutter, jaw tight. “What’s he doing about it?”

Bastion lets out a dry, humourless laugh. “The regent? He’s sent the silver-sash royal vitalians into the capital, but no further.” His smirk fades. “He keeps the gold ones to himself.”

Nicostratus swears under his breath. I stare into the mist, bile rising in my throat. Mikros and Makarios. He sent them to handle this alone?

Bastion’s tone sharpens. “They’re dodging rioters while scrambling for a way to help. But at least they’re grown men.”

A terrible, suffocating weight presses against my ribs. I clutch the branch harder, fingers digging into bark.

Bastion exhales. And speaks the words I fear.

“The regent should have gone himself. He should be standing in the worst-hit places, giving aid, facing his people. Instead—” A pause. A grim tilt of his head. “He sent the four-year-old king.”

A sharp inhale. Nicostratus’s face pinches in horror. “The redcloaks at the riverside. They’re guarding a royal vessel. Are you telling me—”

Bastion turns, narrows his eyes as if noticing Nicostratus for the first time. A slow, assessing tilt of his head. “Who are you?”

Nicostratus ignores him, voice tense. “Tell me who’s in that boat.”


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