CHAPTER TWENTY
The emperor sleeps on his side, facing away from me—a tiny mercy. I would thank the gods, but I’m relatively sure Umbros is going to curse me for this.
The hilt of my dagger is slippery in my slick palm. So slippery, I’m forced to switch hands and wipe both the dagger and my hand on my gown. I’m trembling so hard, my teeth almost chatter with it.
Run. My body screams at me. Don’t be a fool! Leave before you die!
I force myself to think of Kassia, killed in the emperor’s arena.
I picture the centaur, slaughtered in front of me.
Antigrus, asking me for the only kind of mercy I could offer.
The emperor’s enemies cut down for entertainment.
Leira’s pleading expression as she bowed her head to the emperor, right before Titus ran her through.
And my brothers, waiting for me to find them again.
My heart slows. My vision sharpens. My hand steadies.
Striking fast, I bury my hand in the emperor’s hair, lifting his head to expose a pale throat, gleaming in the dim light.
It’s ironic, really. A man so protected from power can still die in his own bed.
With one slash, I slice my blade across his throat. I angle my own head back as far as I can, but blood sprays over my chest.
The emperor gurgles and chokes, slumping back onto his pillow. Blood pools beneath him, dark as ink in the dim light.
But it’s not enough. A vampire as old and powerful as the emperor can easily heal a slit throat. The sharp, coppery scent of fresh blood assaults my senses, and I suppress a gag, aiming my blade between his ribs, slightly left of the center of his chest.
Distantly, I analyze the cold, practical way I stab between the fourth and fifth ribs, the knife sliding neatly between bone.
Silver directly to the heart. Even the oldest vampire can’t heal that. And yet, I’m still tempted to remove his head, just in case.
With what? Your knife? The maids will arrive while you’re still attempting to saw through bone.
Trembling, I place my fingers at his pulse.
Gone.
I slump to my knees next to the bed, my lungs seizing. A low droning fills my ears as I shiver, suddenly chilled to the bone.
It’s done. It’s over now.
Forcing myself to get to my feet, I stagger back toward the closet.
I’m covered in blood, and my hands shake as I search for something to hide my gown.
I can’t risk using a lamp—a servant might see the light under the door and attempt to enter—so it takes me longer than I’d like to find a long cloak.
Something about the material itches at the back of my mind, but I don’t have time to examine the thought. I need to be ready for Rorrik’s signal.
I slink toward the window, opening the curtain the barest inch. The sun burns into my eyes and I wince, squinting. Closing the curtain, I slump against the wall, wrapping my arms around my legs.
The world turns dim. Blood roars in my ears. I suddenly feel like I’m floating above my body, watching as I huddle into a ball and rock back and forth with a low whimper.
Slowly, something else begins to push through the dread and fear. Something that feels a lot like elation.
I’ve done it. I’ve completed Bran’s deal. Not only did I survive the Sundering, but I killed the emperor. Which means I can travel to my brothers.
Evren is healed. Together, all three of us can begin a new life. A life in the north, where the constant chill won’t burrow into our bones.
I feel lighter than I have in months. Perhaps … perhaps I can try to convince Leon to come with me. I’ll tell him he doesn’t need to stay with me, but Kassia always wanted him to go north too. Maybe it could be a fresh start for him as well.
I’ve won more than enough money during my challenges. Not only will we have enough to find a nice cottage somewhere near the sea, but I can hire a private tutor.
I can learn about more than the best place to stab someone to ensure they die quickly. I can learn about history and magic and literature.
I could buy some shelves and create a small library.
Maybe … maybe Rorrik won’t become emperor. Maybe the sigilmarked and Vampire Council will contest his right to rule.
I’m practically vibrating with excitement. But I can’t celebrate fully yet. I’m still waiting for Rorrik’s distraction. If he doesn’t come through, I’m worse than dead.
The hours drag on sluggishly. Hope and excitement slowly turn to terror and despair. In my worst moments, I picture my brothers, alone and at Bran’s mercy.
The guards will find me here. As soon as a maid attempts to wake the emperor and begins screaming. Someone will cast out their power, and I’ll be ripped from this hiding spot and arrested.
The dread curdling in my gut feels all too familiar.
Three years ago, I guarded a man known for refusing to pay his gambling debts. Loyd Gatlin was a liar, a thief, and a con man, and I took the job for three reasons: it was winter, Evren’s lungs get worse in the cold, and we couldn’t afford to fill the aether stones for heat.
At first, it was a job like any other. I would follow Loyd around during the day, several feet behind him, attempting to blend in. But each time someone called in one of his debts, I watched him become more and more desperate.
Loyd spent even more hours gambling. He began drinking with cards in his hand—always a mistake. He lost what few friends he had when it became obvious that he was unable to stop.
Eventually, I followed him into Runes and Ruin. The underground market once went by a different name, but like the Thorn, the new name better represented the goods on offer.
And so I watched as he whispered to merchants, gazing avidly at elemental bursts, aether pulses, and void bombs.
I quit that same day.
Three weeks later, Loyd was cornered by his enemies in another market as I shopped. I watched from just a few hundred feet away as he dropped an aether grenade. The explosion killed himself and eight others.
This situation feels eerily similar to the feeling of doom that crept over me when I watched Loyd stare avidly at aether bombs. It’s a prickling down my spine. A knowledge that I’ve done something I can never take back.
Pulling the hood of the cloak over my head, I shiver. When I tuck my hands into the wide pockets, my fingers brush something cool and I pull it out, squinting in the dim light.
The bracelet spills over my palm, a delicate chain of interwoven gold links. I lift it closer, examining the raised emblem and the small, intricate mark carved into gold. The design is subtle, but something about it tugs at my memory. I’ve seen this mark before, but I can’t seem to place it.
It itches at the edges of my mind, a thick sense of unease settling over me, and I shove the bracelet into the pocket of my gown to examine later.
Shouts cut through the silence. For a moment, I’m sure I’m imagining them.
More shouts.
And then the bells begin to ring.
Even from here, I can hear the thud of boots on wood as guards sprint outside the emperor’s room, calling to one another.
I’m across the room within seconds. It takes everything in me to crack the door open, to trust that the guards are gone.
But I do it.
The hall is empty. I don’t hesitate. I sprint, the door at the end looming. Slamming it open, I clutch the banister, taking the stairs down one floor, and then another.
I follow Rorrik’s directions through the back of the palace. Twice, I’m forced to hit the ground, barely avoiding discovery, until I finally burst through one of the servants’ doors, the cool air caressing my face.
The gates loom in the distance, tall and inviting.
Ducking my head, I take off, following the set path.
I’m sprinting faster than I ever have, my feet barely touching down with each step.
Someone calls out, but I’m already halfway across the gardens, whipping around a corner toward the gates.
My breath saws out of my lungs, the cool air lighting a fire down my throat as I pant desperately.
A shadow moves. I hit the ground, rolling toward the darkness behind a group of shrubs. In the distance, one of the guards saunters toward the gate, returning to his post. I tremble in the undergrowth like a rabbit.
Voices to my left. The guard turns, and I duck my head.
Boots on gravel, but the sound is fading.
I won’t die here. Please don’t let me die here.
Pulling myself to my feet, I take off like a bolt from a crossbow, head down, shoulders hunched. Behind me someone lets out a shout. At any moment, one of those bolts could slam into my unprotected back.
Launching to the right, I zigzag toward the gate. Someone calls out again, and a statue explodes, just feet from me. I jump, trip, and fall to my knees, narrowly escaping the next burst of power aimed at my back.
I choke on a sob. But I’m out of the gates. I risk a single glance behind me. At least ten guards are sprinting my way, sigils glowing.
I brace for impending agony.
Strong hands scoop me up and I thrash, kicking and slamming my head back into a hard chest.
“Stop,” a voice commands, and I freeze.
“Leon?”
He doesn’t answer. The world spins, and I’m suddenly sitting on a horse. With a kick from Leon, it takes off at a gallop.
Leon rides like he was born on a horse, and he gallops down side streets and alleys, keeping the ludus in the distance even as we circle around behind it.
“The guards?”
“Gone. Whoever you’re working with created some kind of a distraction.”
“Who owns this horse?”
“A friend who owed me a favor. Quiet. Let me concentrate.”
I didn’t know Leon had friends outside of the Thorn. Honestly, after the way he has shut himself in his house for the past six years, I’m surprised he has any friends left at all.
When he’s sure we’ve lost anyone who might be following, he leaves the horse at a public stable near the ludus, but not before stroking her neck and murmuring sweet words in her ear.