Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
ZORATH
Juk runs. I follow. The stone beneath our feet is ancient, the passage older than the Keep above it, dust rising with every stride.
Juk moves faster than I expected, his silk robes hiked above his knees, silver-capped tusks gleaming when he glances back to see how close death has come.
Not close enough. Not yet.
My wounds slow me. The stab through my shoulder sends lightning down my arm with every stride. The gash across my thigh has reopened, blood running hot inside my armor. The blow to my head has left the world tilted, shadows stretching wrong, my balance uncertain on the worn stone steps.
None of it matters.
Juk killed my mother. Juk killed my father. Juk spent my entire life building the conspiracy that stole everything I was supposed to be.
The wounds can wait. The serpent cannot.
The passage opens into the Obsidian Crypts—my father’s tomb somewhere in the dark ahead, the thousand-mirrored flames exactly as I remember them.
Juk has stopped running.
He stands in the chamber’s center, between the tombs of my grandfather and great-grandfather, silk robes torn, silver tusks bright against the shadows. The knife in his hand is slim, elegant, the kind of blade meant for assassination rather than combat.
“You should have taken my offer.” His voice carries easily in the echoing space. Calm. Measured. As if we’re negotiating over wine instead of standing ankle-deep in the dust of dead kings. “Exile isn’t so bad. Better than dying.”
I don’t stop walking. Don’t slow. Every step brings my hammer closer to his skull.
“You killed my mother.”
“Your mother was going to expose me.” He shifts, putting a sarcophagus between us. “She found irregularities in the treasury records. Threatened to tell the king. What was I supposed to do? Let her destroy everything I’d built?”
“You killed my father.”
“Your father was weak.” Something flickers in Juk’s yellow eyes—not regret, not guilt, just the cool remove of a man reviewing a business decision.
“A philosopher on a warrior’s throne. He would have ruined this kingdom with his mercy, his justice, his na?ve belief that orcs could be governed by anything except strength and fear. ”
I’m closer now. Ten feet. Eight. The hammer feels light in my grip, eager for the work ahead.
“You spent my entire life working to steal my birthright.”
“I spent your entire life protecting this kingdom.” Juk’s voice takes on an edge of something that might be sincerity. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I enjoyed the killing, the scheming, the decades of careful manipulation? I did what was necessary. Someone had to.”
“So you became the snake.”
“Someone had to,” he repeats. And for a moment, I almost believe he means it. Almost see the man who convinced himself that murder was duty, that conspiracy was service, that destroying two generations of Flamebounds was somehow an act of patriotism.
Then I remember my father’s face on the night he died. The blood spreading across his chambers.
“No.” My voice comes out flat, dead. “Someone had to stop you. That’s what I’m here to do.”
Juk moves first.
Not toward me—away, circling around the sarcophagus, putting stone and dead kings between us. He’s not trying to fight. He’s stalling, looking for an opening, hoping I’ll make a mistake he can exploit.
“Your archivist is dead by now.” The words are aimed at the softest part of me. “I had men positioned in the Hall. The moment she opened her mouth, she became a target.”
My heart stutters. Fable. I left her in the Throne Hall, left her standing among enemies while I chased vengeance into the dark—
She’s not dead. She can’t be dead.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” Juk’s smile is poison. “She served her purpose, princeling. Found the evidence, made the accusations, destroyed my coalition. Very useful. But useful things become dangerous when they’re no longer needed.”
The rage surges. I want to charge, want to bury my hammer in his skull, want to end this now, immediately, damn the consequences. But Fable’s voice whispers in my head, the echo of a conversation that feels like a lifetime ago.
Her voice. In my head. Steady as always.
If she’s dead, charging won’t bring her back. If she’s alive, falling for Juk’s tricks might get me killed before I can return to her.
I force the rage down. Lock it away behind walls of ice and purpose.
“You’re stalling.” I keep advancing, keep closing the distance. “Hoping someone will come. Hoping for a miracle. There are no miracles in the crypts, Juk. Only dead kings and the men who join them.”
“There are other ways out.” His eyes flick toward a passage on the far side of the chamber. “Routes even you don’t know about. Escape routes carved by paranoid kings who understood that the throne is never truly secure.”
“My father showed me those routes when I was a child.” I cut off his path to the passage, hammer raised. “Every one of them. Did you think you knew this Keep better than a Flamebound?”
The serpent’s mask cracks for the first time. The realization lands behind his eyes—that there is no way out, no clever trick, no political maneuvering that will save him from what’s coming.
“Then let’s negotiate.” He spreads his hands, the knife still glinting between his fingers. “I have information. Names of nobles still loyal to me, hidden caches of gold, secrets that could strengthen your reign. I can be useful, Zorath. More useful alive than dead.”
“You killed my mother.”
“I can tell you where the bodies are buried. Literally. The people I’ve eliminated over the years—witnesses, inconvenient servants, guards who saw too much. Their families deserve to know.”
“You killed my father.”
“I can give you Kraveth. He’s the last real threat to your throne—two hundred warriors in the northern territories, loyal to my family for generations. Without my information, you’ll spend years digging him out. With it, you can break him in weeks.”
I stop. Five feet away. Close enough to see the sweat beading on Juk’s brow, the rapid pulse in his throat, the fear he’s fighting to hide behind the mask of negotiation.
“You spent twenty years planning the destruction of my family. Twenty years lying, manipulating, murdering. And now you want to bargain?”
“I want to live.” No more pretense. No more political maneuvering. Just raw, desperate survival instinct. “I’ll give you everything. Names, gold, secrets. I’ll kneel before your throne and confess to the entire court. Whatever you want. Just let me live.”
I think about it. For one heartbeat, I actually consider it.
Juk’s information could be valuable. Kraveth is a genuine threat. The hidden gold could fund reconstruction after the damage the coup has caused. The names of dead witnesses could bring closure to grieving families.
And then I look past Juk, to the sarcophagus that rests at the chamber’s far end. My father’s tomb. Sealed too quickly, with funeral rites that were suspiciously abbreviated, the body committed to stone before anyone could examine it too closely.
My father died believing I would be a good king.
A good king doesn’t let murderers buy their way out of justice.
“No.”
Juk attacks.
I expected tricks—expected poison, hidden blades, some last desperate gambit from a schemer who’s survived six kings through cunning alone. I get all three.
The powder comes first. A handful of something grey and granular, thrown at my face, aimed at my eyes. I catch it on my forearm, feel it burn through the leather of my armor, smell the acrid chemical stink of blinding agent.
The hidden blade comes second. Not the knife in his hand—another one, spring-loaded from his sleeve, shooting toward my throat with mechanical precision. I twist, take the blade in my shoulder instead of my neck. More pain. More blood. The wound in my shoulder tears wider.
The lunge comes third. Juk drives forward with his knife, aiming for my gut, gambling everything on one final strike. He’s faster than I expected. Stronger. The desperation has burned away the politician, leaving something older and more dangerous beneath.
But I’m faster. And I’m not desperate—I’m certain.
I deflect the lunge with my hammer’s haft, step inside his reach, and bring my weapon down on his knee.
Obsidian meets bone with a crack that echoes through the crypts. Juk’s leg buckles, joint shattering, and he goes down screaming. The knife falls from his fingers, clattering across obsidian floor. The second hidden blade—still embedded in my shoulder—pulses with fresh agony as I move.
I ignore the pain. Step forward. Plant my boot on Juk’s chest, pinning him to the floor of the chamber where my ancestors sleep.
“You’re no better than me.” Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth. His ruined leg twists at an angle that makes my stomach turn. “Ruling through fear. Making examples of your enemies. You’ll become exactly what I was—a monster wearing a crown, pretending violence is justice.”
“No.” I crouch, bringing my face close to his. Let him see the man who’s about to end his life. “I had a good teacher. A human archivist who believes in truth. She showed me another way.”
“The woman.” Juk’s laugh is wet, broken. “You think she loves you? She’s using you, boy. The way I used Borak. The way every schemer uses every useful fool they find. She saw a prince she could manipulate, a weapon she could point at her enemies. When you’re no longer useful—”
“She stood in the Throne Hall and named every noble complicit in your conspiracy.” I cut him off, my voice steady despite the rage burning in my chest. “She could have stayed safe. Could have let Gravik deliver the evidence, kept herself out of danger. Instead, she walked into a room full of enemies and destroyed twenty years of your planning with nothing but truth and courage.”
“Pretty words. Pretty lies. You’ll learn. When the crown grows heavy and the choices grow harder, you’ll learn that everyone uses everyone. That’s all power is—using people before they use you.”