47. Fucking Keagan
Chapter forty-seven
Fucking Keagan
Oberon
I know where I will find Keagan. It isn’t hard, not really. He is a predictable creature, despite how clever he likes to believe himself. Crafty. Smart. Absolutely ruthless.
What I didn’t anticipate was this.
But I should have.
I always should have.
My body materializes from shadow inside the forge near the castle, heat slamming into me while the flames roar in the hearth and soot coats every surface. I never understood why he favors this place.
He is a shit blacksmith. Perhaps it is the proximity to the training grounds, where he delights in humiliating soldiers, or perhaps it is the heat itself, the inferno that mirrors the rot in his soul, making the demon that lives inside him feel at home.
When he sees me, a slow, deliberate smile curves across his face.
I hide nothing. The calm, controlled mask I wear for the rest of the world is gone, obliterated by the fury burning through my veins. Rage fills me, sharpens me, hollows me out until there is room for only one thought—her.
I can’t suppress it even if I want to. And by all the gods, I do not want to.
“Hello, cousin,” he croons.
My shadows answer before I do. They slam him into the far stone wall of the forge, pinning him there with crushing force. Sparks burst into the air. The heat rises.
There is no surprise in his eyes. No resistance.
“What have you done?” I seethe, my voice low, feral, something other worldly.
Keagan only smiles wider. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, dear cousin.”
I bare my canines and growl, the sound tearing straight from my chest. “She is mine.”
Recognition flickers across his face, and his smile stretches into something knowing, something pleased. “Oh,” he says lightly. “You mean the little group of traitors I found wandering the woods?” He tilts his head as if considering me for a moment.
My shadows tighten. Stone cracks beneath them.
“She is mine,” I repeat, slower this time.
Deliberate. A vow. “I will make you feel every ounce of pain she felt,” I continue, stepping closer.
“When I end your miserable existence, you will leave this world knowing she still draws breath and that together, we will burn this fucking place to the ground.”
I draw my blade and press it to his abdomen, just enough to promise what comes next.
“Careful, cousin,” Keagan says softly, utterly unshaken. “Someone might think you had something to do with those traitors. We wouldn’t want such . . . rumors reaching your dear old father, now would we?”
He doesn’t flinch. Of course, he doesn’t. He feeds on this. On chaos. On my rage. And I am giving it to him freely.
I don’t care. He will pay for what he has done. And if the cost of keeping Lyra safe is the ruin of this kingdom, of this world, then so be it. I will burn it all.
I slide my blade slowly into his stomach, the soft flesh yielding to steel with sickening ease. Keagan’s body jerks, muscles locking as pain tears through him, but his face gives nothing away. Blood spills down the blade and drips onto the stone floor, dark and steady, as my gaze burns into him.
“The king,” I spit, every syllable steeped in my loathing for my father, “will not know if you are dead.”
Keagan’s lips curve. Even now. “Aren’t you even a little curious?” he asks lightly, mockery threading every word. “How I found her? How I discovered that pathetic structure you call a stronghold?”
My eyes flare. He has spies, I know that, but Wraithmoor is warded, hidden.
He sees the flicker of shock before I can bury it. I twist the blade still lodged in his flesh, forcing a sharp breath from him, and crush my reaction beneath iron control.
“How?” I growl through clenched teeth.
Keagan laughs, a wet, broken sound. “It really wasn’t that difficult,” he says. “After the girl escaped and the guards assigned to her began turning up . . .” He pauses, as if savoring the memory. “Well…pieces of them showed up, anyway. A little worse for wear. The rest?” He shrugs. “Who can say?”
Something inside me snaps.
I rip the blade free and drive it back into his torso, harder this time. Keagan coughs, blood sprays from his lips, staining his teeth crimson, yet still he smiles.
“I suppose,” he continues between labored breaths, “you probably know where the rest of them are. Don’t you, cousin?”
I lean closer, close enough for him to see exactly what lives behind my eyes.
“And the stronghold,” he adds, voice weakening but no less smug. “I know it exists. I just haven’t managed to find it yet.” His gaze locks onto mine, calculating even as he bleeds. “I’m sure you’ll help me with that.”
My fury surges, peaking as I drive the blade deeper. Keagan’s breath hitches, yet his smile only widens.
The commotion behind me tears my attention away. “What is the meaning of this?” The thunderous voice is unmistakable . . . my father, King Valerious.
I turn to face him, realization crashing over me. This is a trap, of course it is, one Keagan crafted with meticulous care. And still, I do not care, not anymore.
My magic flares as I rip my blade free. Shadows lash outward, releasing Keagan from the wall and turning to face the true threat.
The king, the collector and thief of powerful magic, does not flinch. He lifts his hands.
My power stutters, then vanishes entirely. The shadows dissolve, leaving me abruptly, terrifyingly exposed.
I still have my blade. And that will be enough.
I charge. For the briefest, imperceptible moment, shock flickers across my father’s face, gone so quickly an untrained eye would have missed it.
Then the soldiers come. They pour in from every direction.
I swing relentlessly, blade singing through the air as bodies fall at my feet.
Blood slicks the stone. Still, they come.
Without my shadows, I can’t hold them all.
But I will damn well die trying. Bruised.
Bloodied. Exhaustion fighting for space through the rage, I am overwhelmed, pinned, surrounded, and forced to my knees.
The King steps forward, towering over me. “Get him to his feet,” he bellows.
Guards obey, dragging me upright despite my desperate struggle.
“You will be useful to me, traitor,” he snarls, spittle striking my face.
“I will not help you anymore,” I growl back.
My father smiles. “Fetch me the mind mender,” he orders calmly. Then his gaze locks onto mine. “You will give me everything I need.”
“I will not let you hurt her,” I spit. “I will not help you in this life or any that follow. I would sooner die a thousand agonizing deaths.”
“We shall see about that, my son.”
The hilt of a sword strikes my face.
The world twists, fractures, and goes dark.