Chapter 54
Fifty-Four
Spinel
Tension mounts as the soldiers lead us into the castle.
Soren presses tightly against my thigh, his nose sniffing the air and ears twitching every few steps. None of the soldiers have gotten close to me since he joined us, a small light in the dark after all that’s happened since we got here.
They brought us through the same dark passageway I was led through my first time here. There’s no torch to light our way, but the path is straight enough that we trudge ahead in dark silence.
When we get to the end, the gates are raised high already. Adrian walks ahead of me, head bent to the leading soldier as he gestures to the open gate.
We pass through, an unsettled feeling sinking low in my stomach as we enter yet another dark tunnel leading to the castle doors.
Unlike the gate, the doors are closed.
But there are no guards.
No familiar faces of the soldiers from the army camp or blood-red tunics covered in chainmail.
My hand slowly drifts to my dagger, palm resting on its hilt as two of the men push through the entrance to let us in. Not that this dagger would protect me against dark magic, but it steadies the slight tremble in my fingers.
We walk through the hallways, an aching sense of familiarity coursing through me with each turn.
But just like the front of the castle, the inside is different. We don’t pass maids bustling about or fluffing blankets in open chambers. In fact, we don’t pass anyone.
It’s as empty as the market, though here it looks frozen in time. Stuck as it was when I left, only without all the people.
The farther we walk, the more Adrian begins to fidget. It isn’t until we reach the second floor that he finally says something.
“My uncle is on the second floor?” he asks slowly.
“The throne room,” replies the soldier who had been leading the way.
We walk by a thin console table, a clear vase in the center with a bouquet of flowers in it.
As we pass, I notice that the petals are curled on the ends, slowly decaying.
Then a wave of nauseating sweetness hits me, mingling with the stench of rot.
As if perfume had been sprayed over them to cover up the acrid scent of death.
“He’s in the throne room?” Adrian demands, his words sharp.
To anyone else, he sounds like he is in charge—like not only the king, but a king who wasn’t happy with the answer he had been given. But I can hear the surprise in his voice—the uncertainty.
Something about Moros wanting us to come to the throne room is making Adrian uneasy.
Maybe it’s how he’s been treated by the soldiers since returning.
Or perhaps it’s that they’re making the king walk to meet someone in his own throne room—a place where the king sits upon his throne as people gather before him.
It sends a message—a line drawn in the sand—of how hollow the invisible crown is that rests above Adrian’s head.
Graylen and I share a look, and goddess, do I wish we could talk through our connection right now. The look in his eyes tells me he’s thinking the same thing I am.
A light tremble starts in my fingers, and I ball my hands into fists. Nerves fire through my body, but I take a deep breath to ground myself.
I didn’t much care for Wyman when I thought he was nothing more than a power-hungry duke. Now that I know he’s so much more than that, that he’s responsible for thousands of deaths in the war and created the curse that separates the two kingdoms, coming face to face with him feels different.
If we don’t convince him I’m not a threat, he could throw Graylen and me in cells.
He would keep this collar on me to block my magic, maybe even find one for Graylen.
Our hope for finding Nightfall would be ruined before we got the chance to search the castle, and we might not ever make it back home.
I squeeze my fists tighter as the tremble increases and a chill sweeps through my body. I won’t let him or Vidaris win. We will find Nightfall and get it back to Penyth.
The guard scratches the back of his neck, then adjusts his sword at his hip, puffing his chest out slightly as he clears his throat to say, “Regent Wyman—”
“Duke Wyman,” Adrian growls. “Is there a need for a regent when your king is here?”
My brows slowly raise. I never saw Adrian fully step into this role, and I didn’t imagine it was much different from when he was the prince—unserious and uncaring. But this version of him…cares.
It gives me a small boost of confidence that we’re doing the right thing by having him help us, even if it was our only choice.
The guard must be surprised, too, because his gaze whips to Adrian, bouncing down to the floor, then back up at him.
“No, Your Majesty,” he stammers. “It’s only that Regent—” Adrian cuts his eyes at the guard, who clears his throat and starts again. “It’s only that Duke Wyman gave the order for you to be brought to the throne room for your safety.”
For our safety?
I share another look with Graylen. “Are you implying we aren’t safe here?” I ask.
Adrian straightens, and the guard’s gaze swings to me, his eyes widening as his mouth opens and closes.
“No—” The guard swallows. “It’s just that things have been different since King Adrian left.”
Well, that much is obvious. With the market in shambles and the castle eerily empty, it’s an entirely different kingdom. It was far from perfect before I left, but now…it’s desolate. And it makes me wonder what happened to all of the innocent people who used to be here.
We stop in front of two double-wide doors. Little does the guard know that Wyman is inviting darkness and decay into this very kingdom. That Wyman is the very man I came here to destroy.
Adrian rolls his shoulders and reaches for the door handles. He pauses for a split second to glance at me over his shoulder.
My stomach twists; I have no idea what he’s thinking. If he’s fully on our side or if he’s going to crack and give us up. Moros is still his uncle, and I’m still the person who left him behind. Graylen is still the man who betrayed him.
Even after our conversation in the tavern in Lyland, I don’t know if it was enough to convince him we aren’t his enemy. More than that, I don’t know at what point he stopped being my enemy.
Without any indication of where he stands, Adrian pushes open the double doors, flinging them wide.
The guard shuffles past him into the throne room, while Graylen and I come up to flank either side of him, and Soren trails behind us. Adrian stiffens at the same moment my gaze lands on the throne opposite us.
I never saw the throne room when I was here, so it has no bittersweet memories attached to it; I have no before to compare it to. But there’s one thing I’m certain is wrong.
My face drains of blood as a low growl rumbles through Soren’s throat. He crouches low at my feet.
Seated upon Adrian’s throne is Duke Wyman. Moros. Not standing at the foot, not waiting for us at the U-shaped cherry oak tables to our left. He’s sitting where the king sits.
The only sound is the guard’s armor clinking as his head shifts from Moros to Adrian—as if he can’t decide who he answers to. He opts for standing in the middle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Moros’s gaze finds me immediately, a wry smile on his face.
He’s just as I last saw him, salt-peppered hair with faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, finely stitched tunic, and soft abdomen. The image he’s crafted would be near perfect if it weren’t for one distinct change.
The scar across his eye—the one that showed in my trials but not when I was in the castle—mars his face. I glance at Graylen to see if he notices it, but his gaze is neutral per usual. Adrian just stands between us, silent and rigid, not showing any surprise about the scar either.
Maybe they can’t see it—maybe only I can.
The piece of Nightfall tucked safely in my vest burns as if it can feel the mark it made on him. Like it’s begging to consume his darkness the way it drained pieces of my magic.
No shadows billow off of him; no monsters crawl at his feet; no threatening darkness surrounds him. No Opal, either.
It’s just him in Adrian’s throne, staring down at us.