CHAPTER THIRTY
Maximus
The Passing of the Crown was merely ceremonial—there was no need to be nervous.
The town square was filled with villagers wrapped in scarves and coats, their hands holding mugs of mead.
Suddenly, Maximus spotted a swirl of curly hair.
Daphne. Immediate relief swept through him.
Part of him was afraid she wouldn’t come.
The Passing of the Crown was exactly the kind of event that Daphne would skip.
Maximus could hardly blame her; he rather wished he could skip it himself.
“Son,” his father said as they approached the stage. “Stand behind me.”
Maximus didn’t need to be told where to stand.
But he obeyed anyway, positioning himself on the step below his father, a row of guards behind them.
Maximus recognized that this was a momentous occasion for Augustus.
By passing the crown to his son, he was symbolically ensuring his lineage remained in power.
It was a testament to his ability to raise the future king.
He was eye level with his father’s shoulders, which were thrown back proudly.
Somehow, that same sense of pride was absent in Maximus.
He scanned the crowd for Daphne again. She was standing in the same spot as before, only now she was talking to someone, a woman with a baby in her arms. Maximus wondered whether that was Ella, her friend who thought he was a prat. He stood a little straighter, running a hand through his hair.
“Come,” his father said.
They ascended the stage together. The moment they did so the crowd cheered. Maximus stared only at Daphne, who was watching with her lips pursed. Why wasn’t she cheering?
They stopped at the edge of the stage.
“Thank you all for being here today,” Augustus began. “You honor us.”
Another cheer swept through the crowd.
“As you know, my son seeks a wife,” his father continued. “Once he is married, he will take on the responsibility of becoming king. It is a position of great privilege.” He turned to Maximus. “I know he will do what it takes.”
Another raucous cheer. The villagers were in good spirits; the mead was flowing. Maximus did not share their joy. He could think of nothing but what his father had shown him in the dungeon—how the snakes were kept in cells beneath their feet.
Augustus looked him straight in the eye as he said, “Kneel, my son.”
But Maximus couldn’t seem to move. To kneel would be to accept the crown.
To kneel would be to accept a legacy he was not sure he wanted any part in.
What would Daphne think of him if she knew about the bloodletting?
He doubted she would ever look at him again.
Daphne was compassionate and caring and kind—she would be horrified to learn what was happening in the dungeon.
Maximus himself was still grappling with the knowledge, and he possessed a far worse opinion of basilisks than Daphne did.
Still, Maximus could not move.
He thought about how Daphne had treated the spider—a creature with less power than herself.
She had urged him to consider the value of a life.
Somehow, in the short time he had known her, she had become his moral compass.
See how you like holding another creature’s life in your hands.
He hadn’t liked it then, and he did not like it now.
Maximus knew the bloodletting changed everything.
It disrupted the laws of nature, turning predator into prey, victim into abuser.
It was an incredible responsibility to continue such a practice.
The very fact that Maximus did not want Daphne to find out about it made it something he had no interest doing.
So how could he accept the crown when it meant accepting the bloodletting?
Maximus stared at his father, who stared right back at him.
“Kneel,” Augustus hissed.
Slowly, against the pull of his heart, he knelt.
Just as slowly, his father lowered the crown onto his head.
Maximus was motionless as the cold metal slid over his hair, stopping once it reached the tips of his ears.
He stared up at his father, at the face that was so similar to his, wondering if it would be him standing there one day, imploring his own son to continue the bloodletting.
The thought made him shudder. Behind him, the crowd was cheering.
At least, they were making noise of some sort.
Maximus frowned. It sounded more like screaming.
There was movement on the stage; the guards were running toward them. Maximus stood, watching as they ran right past him, leaping from the stage and into the crowd.
“What are they—?” he began but did not get to finish because his father grabbed his arm.
“Come with me, Son.”
“No. I must make sure that—”
Another scream. A jolt went down Maximus’s spine as he recognized the voice.
He whipped around to see Daphne at the edge of the crowd, her arms extended protectively around a tall figure.
Maximus squinted, trying to see who it was.
The woman with the baby was gone; it wasn’t her friend Ella.
This woman had dark hair and proud, regal shoulders.
She moved with uncanny elegance, almost like a—
Slow realization seeped into his chest. Daphne was standing next to a basilisk.
There was no time to think—no time to second-guess himself. Maximus flung his father’s arm away and jumped off the stage, sprinting through the crowd. All he could see was Daphne, her eyes widening as the guards descended on her.
“Stop at once!” Maximus cried. “I order you to—”
But the words died in his throat. Something was emerging from a side street—something huge.
“Daphne!” he screamed. “GET DOWN!”
One moment she was standing and the next she was on the ground.
Maximus flung himself on top of her just as an enormous serpent hurled itself into the wall of guards.
Helmets clattered; swords flashed. Maximus tucked Daphne’s body into his, pulling her roughly across the cobblestones until they were on the steps of a nearby building, barely out of the fray.
“Are you hurt?” He panted, taking her face in his hands. “Did that thing—”
“Agnes,” Daphne gasped.
“What?”
“I can’t let them get her. She’s—”
They both flinched as the horrible sound of fangs scraping against metal echoed behind them.
“Call the guards off, Maximus,” Daphne cried. “Please. They will listen to you.”
“I’m not calling them off. There’s a fucking basilisk here.”
“That’s just her brother. If you call them off, he will leave.”
“What?”
“Maximus”—she grabbed his face so that they were both holding each other’s gaze—“she just wanted to see the villagers up close. She meant no harm. Your guards made the first move, and her brother is just protecting her.”
She stared up into his eyes, her skin pale beneath her freckles. He had never seen her so incensed. Why did she care so much about the snakes?
“Maximus,” she said firmly. “Call. Them. Off.”
“Only if you get out of here,” he said finally. “Do you hear me, Daphne? Leave.”
“I can’t. I have to—”
“Go home,” he said firmly. “And I will call them off.”
Daphne pursed her lips. Then she gave him a tiny, reluctant nod. He nodded back before pulling her to her feet.
“Go,” he commanded, “and don’t look back.”
Maximus waited until she had disappeared down the street before turning toward the battle, drawing himself up to his full height, and bellowing, “STOP THIS AT ONCE!”
The guards froze, as did the basilisks. In that single moment, Maximus understood the sheer stupidity of this plan.
The woman serpent was still in her human form.
Her brother, however, was not. His enormous, scaled head was turning in his direction.
Maximus knew he was mere moments away from turning to stone.
He did the only thing he could think to do—the one thing that might lead both snakes away.
Maximus pointed at the woman and said, “Run.”
Mercifully, she did. The moment the woman turned and ran, her brother turned too.
Maximus squeezed his eyes shut out of pure instinct, not daring to open them until he was sure the basilisks had retreated.
When he finally opened them, the town square was emptying.
All around him, villagers were running into their homes, their hands over their faces to shield their eyes.
Maximus knew it was only sheer luck that had saved them all.
“Maximus.” His father’s voice cut through the square. “We are leaving. Now.”
Maximus did not bother protesting. He could do no more here, and by the look on his father’s face, disobeying was no longer an option. He followed Augustus to the carriage, staring determinedly out the window as it pulled away from the village.
“Explain yourself,” his father said. His voice was deceptively calm.
“Blood was being shed,” Maximus said through gritted teeth. “So I intervened. Any good king would have done the same.”
“Basilisk blood deserves to be shed.”
They held rather differing opinions on that at that moment.
“There were villagers in the line of fire,” he threw back. “Our people, Father. Or have you forgotten?”
“It is you who has forgotten your place. I should take that crown from your head.”
Instinctually, Maximus touched the crown. Somehow, despite everything that had just happened, it was still on his head. It was heavy.
“You passed it to me,” he snapped. “That was your choice. You cannot control what I do now that I wear it.”
Maximus knew he was out of line. Yet he also knew that his father responded to power. If he allowed Augustus to take the crown back, he was not worthy of it in the first place.