Chapter 17 Awake Before the Blade
Sleep does not loosen its grip gently.
It tears away.
I wake to the sound of steel ripping through the air.
There is no time for thought—only instinct screaming move as my eyes snap open and the shadow above me completes its downward arc.
I roll.
The blade crashes into the bed where my throat had been a heartbeat earlier—silk tears. Feathers explode into the air in a blinding white cloud, drifting like snow in a storm of violence.
The mattress groans under the force of the strike.
I am already reaching.
My hand plunges beneath the bed, fingers closing around worn leather and familiar steel. I rip the sword free as I come up onto one knee, the blade half-drawn before my mind fully catches up to my body.
Two figures stand in my chamber.
Masked. Dressed in black from throat to boot. No insignia. No hesitation.
Professionals.
The first assassin recovers from the missed strike faster than most men breathe. He pivots, blade flashing back toward me in a clean, efficient line meant to open my chest.
I meet him steel to steel.
The impact rings through the room, sharp and violent, sending sparks skittering across the marble floor. My arm jolts up to the shoulder, pain flaring—but it only sharpens my focus.
The second assassin moves immediately, circling wide, silent as a shadow. He's patient. Calculating.
Good.
That means he'll underestimate how much I enjoy this.
I kick the mattress toward the first assassin, sending it skidding across the floor and forcing him to step back. Feathers cling to his boots, to his blade, to the air between us.
I lunge.
Our swords clash again, the sound deafening in the confined space. I drive him back, forcing him into the wall beside the dressing table. Wood splinters as his shoulder slams into it.
The second assassin strikes.
I sense him more than see him, a shift in the air, a whisper of intent. I twist just as his blade slices past my ribs, close enough that I feel the cold kiss of steel through fabric.
I pivot, slash low, then high, forcing him to retreat a step.
They're working together now, one pressing, one flanking. Efficient. Deadly.
They expected a sleeping queen.
They found a soldier who learned to fight before she learned to smile.
The first assassin lunges again, a thrust aimed for my stomach. I deflect, stepping inside his guard, and drive the pommel of my sword into his wrist.
Bone cracks.
He hisses sharply, blade clattering to the floor.
I don't give him time to recover.
I shove him backward with all my weight. He slams into the dressing table, wood exploding under the impact, drawers spilling their contents across the floor. He collapses in a heap, groaning.
The second assassin is already there.
We collide, hard steel scraping, bodies slamming into the balcony doors. The glass rattles in its frame. He's stronger than the first, compact muscle under his armor, and he uses it well.
He drives me back step by step, blade flashing in tight arcs meant to overwhelm rather than wound.
I block.
Parry.
Duck.
My breathing settles into the rhythm burned into my bones—inhale on the block, exhale on the strike.
His blade kisses my shoulder.
Pain flares—hot and sharp—but shallow.
I grin.
It is not a sane expression.
It is feral.
I twist suddenly, stepping inside his reach, and slam my knee up into his ribs. He grunts, stumbling back, but he recovers quickly, grabbing my arm with brutal strength.
Then he throws me.
The world lurches.
We crash through the balcony doors in a storm of glass and night air. Shards explode outward as my body clears the railing.
For a heartbeat, there is only falling.
Wind roars in my ears. The courtyard spins below me in torchlit fragments.
Then instinct takes over.
I twist midair, tucking and rolling as my bare feet hit stone. Pain detonates up my leg, sharp enough to steal my breath, but I keep moving, rolling, scrambling, forcing my body upright before shock can claim it.
The assassins leap down after me.
The courtyard floods with sound.
Shouts.
Footsteps.
The clatter of armor as guards rush in from every direction.
Too late.
The first assassin charges, desperate now, movements roughened by injury and urgency.
I meet him head-on.
Our blades clash again and again, sparks flying as I drive him backward across the courtyard. Torches cast wild shadows across stone walls, making the fight look larger than life.
He's breathing hard.
Sloppy.
I am calm.
I twist my wrist, disarming him with a vicious torque, then slam my fist into his masked face. The impact snaps his head back.
He crumples before he hits the ground.
Unconscious.
The second assassin is smarter.
He doesn't rush.
He circles, eyes flicking between the approaching guards and me, calculating his odds.
I don't give him time to finish.
I rush him.
We collide in a tangle of limbs and steel, slipping on shattered glass and blood-slick stone. His elbow crashes into my ribs, knocking the air from my lungs. Stars burst behind my eyes.
I snarl and answer with my own elbow to his throat.
He staggers.
I take him down.
Hard.
We hit the ground together. I end up on top, knee driving into his chest, pinning him as my blade presses to his throat.
His breathing is ragged. Panicked.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the rise and fall of his chest beneath my knee.
I hesitate—
Then strike with the flat of the blade.
He goes limp.
Silence slams into the courtyard.
I rise slowly, chest heaving, sword heavy in my hand. Pain blooms everywhere now—my shoulder, my ribs, my leg—but it is distant, dulled by adrenaline and rage.
Torches blaze all around me.
Guards finally reach my side, weapons drawn, eyes wide with shock. Nobles spill onto balconies above, servants frozen mid-step, mouths open in horror.
Someone shouts for a healer.
Someone calls my name.
I don't answer.
I look down at the unconscious men at my feet.
Assassins.
In my palace.
In my bed.
My hands shake not with fear, but with fury so bright it threatens to burn through my skin.
I lift my gaze slowly to the onlookers, letting them see me exactly as I am, hair loose, nightclothes torn, blood smeared across my skin, sword still dripping.
Rough hands haul the assassins upright, dragging them from where they fell and forcing them to their knees in the center of the courtyard.
One of them groans as his weight shifts; the other sags bonelessly, blood matting the black fabric at his chest. The guards bind their wrists tight behind their backs, knots cinched until fingers go numb, until there is no question left about who controls the night.
Torches burn brighter now.
They ring the courtyard in a trembling halo of fire, flames snapping in the breeze, shadows leaping along the walls and across the faces of those watching.
Servants crowd the archways. Nobles lean over balconies, silk sleeves clutched to their mouths.
Guards pack the perimeter, armor clinking softly as they settle into formation.
And at the center of it all—
Me.
I pace.
Feet crunching over glass and blood-slick stone, the sound sharp and ugly beneath the hush that has fallen.
My sword hangs at my side, heavy, wet, reflecting torchlight in red-gold streaks.
My breathing is loud in my ears, chest rising and falling hard, the aftermath of battle still thrumming through my veins like a drumbeat.
I stop in front of the kneeling men.
My voice explodes outward, raw and furious.
"Who," I shout, "thought it was a good idea to try and kill me?"
The words echo off stone, off marble, off every watching face.
Silence answers.
No one moves. No one breathes too loudly. Even the assassins keep their heads bowed now, as if they can disappear into the ground if they try hard enough.
I turn slowly, my gaze cutting through the crowd until it lands on the captain of the guard.
He stands rigid a few paces away, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes wide and pale beneath the torchlight. Sweat beads along his brow despite the cool night air.
"How," I ask, my voice dropping into something colder, sharper, "did two imbeciles make it into my chambers under your watch?"
The word lands like a hammer.
His mouth opens.
Closes.
He swallows hard.
"Your Majesty," he stammers, "I I don't understand it myself. There was a shift change. The inner corridor was clear. No alarms were raised—"
"A shift change?" I snap, incredulous, fury flaring bright enough to taste. "Is that what you call it when assassins walk through my palace and nearly carve me open in my bed?"
He stiffens, face draining of color. "I take full responsibility—"
"Please," I cut in.
I resume pacing, the movement tight and restless, the need to do something clawing at my ribs. My boots splash through dark patches on the stone, blood already cooling.
"We are still determining how the perimeter was breached," the captain continues desperately. "No guards reported movement. No sentries were alerted."
I stop and laugh.
It is a complex, humorless sound that cracks through the courtyard, making several people flinch.
"So," I say, turning back toward the kneeling men, "either my guards are incompetent—"
My gaze flicks back to the captain.
"—or they are complicit."
A ripple of unease rolls through the onlookers like a living thing.
A young guard, barely more than a boy, eyes wide beneath his helmet, finds the courage to speak—his voice trembles.
"Your Majesty... should we take the prisoners for interrogation?"
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn my head.
I look at him.
Then I look at the assassin closest to me, the one breathing through broken ribs, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth, eyes burning with something between hatred and defiance.
I walk toward him.
When I stop in front of the kneeling assassin, i crouch down, bringing us eye to eye.
Torchlight dances across his mask, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the tremor in his jaw.
"Who sent you?" I ask quietly.
The question is soft. Almost gentle.
His answer is not.
He spits.
Blood splatters across my cheek, warm and wet.
For a heartbeat, the world stops.
I feel the heat of it. Smell the iron. Taste it as it slips toward my lips.
Then I smile.
Slowly, deliberately, I wipe the blood from my face with my thumb and smear it back across his jaw, pressing just hard enough to make him flinch.
"Oh," I murmur, voice low and almost amused, "that was the wrong answer."
I rise in the same motion that my sword comes up.
Steel plunges.
The blade slides between his ribs with a sickening ease, the sound wet and final. His body jerks violently, a strangled gasp tearing free before the breath leaves him for good.
Gasps ripple through the courtyard.
Someone screams.
Someone else turns away, retching.
I yank the sword free and step over the collapsing body without looking back.
The second assassin is shaking now.
The captain of the guard surges forward, panic breaking through his discipline. "Your Majesty—stop! That is not how the kingdom does it! Everyone gets a trial—"
I whirl on him, fury incandescent.
"A trial?" I roar. "For a man who broke into my chambers and tried to kill me?"
The courtyard recoils.
I turn back to the remaining assassin, who is sobbing now, terror written into every rigid line of his body.
I crouch again.
This time, my voice is quiet.
Dangerously so.
"Who sent you?" I ask.
He shakes his head violently. "I I don't know, Your Majesty. I swear—please—"
I tilt my head, studying him like a puzzle.
"Did you try to kill me?" I ask.
He blinks, confused by the simplicity of the question. "Y—yes, Your Majesty."
"Are you pleading guilty?"
"Yes," he sobs. "Yes—please—"
I straighten and turn to face the watching crowd, my voice carrying clean and clear across the stone.
"Does anyone vouch for this man?"
Silence answers.
No noble steps forward. No guard speaks. No servant dares lift their voice.
I nod once.
"Well," I say calmly, turning back to the assassin, "that was your pathetic trial."
The sword flashes.
His body collapses forward, lifeless, before it hits the stone.
Blood spreads outward in dark, creeping lines, filling the cracks in the courtyard like ink soaking into parchment.
I stand there for a moment, chest heaving, sword dripping, the weight of what I've done settling into the night.
Then I turn back to the captain of the guard.
"I don't care what you do with the bodies," I say coldly. "Burn them. Bury them. Feed them to the dogs. Just get them out of my sight."
I start walking away, my feet leaving red footprints behind me.
Halfway across the courtyard, I stop.
I turn slowly.
The captain stiffens like a man facing his execution.
"This," I say evenly, "is your first and only mistake."
His throat works as he swallows.
"The next time you fail to protect me," I continue, letting each word sink deep, "I will not stop at you."
I meet his eyes and hold them.
"I will destroy your bloodline."