My father. Dead.
My brothers. Gone.
The men who had raised me, who had shaped my world—murdered.
How? And why? Gods, why?
The litany repeated, over and over, never inching closer to becoming a reality I could accept.
And—Dalric. Stripped and brutalized, his corpse trussed up like a trophy. My friend, whose only crime had been his loyalty.
I should be rotting in his place.
The attackers thought they’d killed me.
Fear gripped me.
Seth had only mentioned my brothers and father. What happened to Malin? My sister’s horror must be unimaginable. My brother’s wives and their children—had they been threatened? None of my nephews were of age, but they were still in line for the throne.
I needed to leave immediately and go back to Ederyn, but I was trapped in the Dreadwood with the family of the man who’d killed my mother.
Tara stopped behind the stall, her face dark. “Clean yourself up, Seren.” She handed her sister a handkerchief. “And you”—she turned to me—”no one will believe you want to be Viori if you don’t wipe that look of hatred off your face.”
“For gods’ sake, Tara, show some sympathy,” Seren snapped, her tear-streaked face hardening. “How would you feel if the Viori leadership was suddenly gone? If Father or Madoc were displayed like his prince?”
Why is she crying?
She hated Lirien. And my family.
Tara gave her a look of horrified shock. “Do you even hear what you’re saying?” She pointed back toward the crowd. “That prince out there? You know what his nickname was? ‘The Scourge of the Viori.’ Know why? Because he torched an entire Viori encampment three years ago after hunting down a group of Viori boys who were playing near the border.”
I stiffened, my blood burning with fury. “As I recall, it wasn’t quite as innocent as you’re claiming. Those boys, as you call them, kidnapped a young Doban child and tortured him for their own amusement.”
“So, the response is to start a fire that ruined dozens of lives? That’s not justice.” Tara narrowed her eyes. “And it has no bearing on you right now anyway. You already have a target on your back. Every ounce of your efforts should be spent showing everyone you hate Lirien, too. That you want to be one of us.”
“I don’t want to join the fucking Viori,” I snapped. “If I could, I’d kill every last one of you barbarians.”
Barely able to breathe, I stalked past them into the tall grass until my knees buckled, and I stumbled onto my shins. The irons rattled as I covered my face.
I couldn’t think about Malin. That was too close to torment.
How can they all be dead?
How was it possible I’d never hear their voices ever again?
Erik, Gunnar, Bjorn, Evander, Torsten, Hector.
All. Gone.
I’d been cut off from them during my two-year exile.
And now …
Gods.
And then there was the other grim realization. I was the true heir.
I had no desire for a throne. I didn’t want to be king. I’d spent a lifetime watching power corrode, politics rot people from the inside out—no one remained unscathed. Even my brothers compromised their ideals in favor of weak stances that “kept the peace.”
