“Ah, Briske, get the damn window!” Bormani snapped.
Just one more dead king.One more dead king and he would fucking finally be free.
Yassen swallowed his pride and glanced quickly between the king and the window. Suddenly, it fell into place.Yes, it can work.Yassen strode to the window, escape route in mind, finger curled around the trigger.
A log snapped and sparks fluttered in the air.
Three things happened at once then.
First, the king paused, as if finally noticing Yassen’s pulse gun. “Heavens above, Briske, what do you have that for?” he said as Yassen raised the weapon.
Second, an alarm blared. Loud and piercing through the house.
Third—and this Yassen would remember in the days to come—the fire. That damned, forsaken fire.
A single log snapped and rolled from the hearth, flames lashing out and catching Yassen’s leg. He yelled as he pulled the trigger. The pulse zipped through the air, missing Bormani’s head and ripping through the headboard.
The king shouted as Yassen tottered back, beating at the flames with his hands. His pants were wet, so the fire was sluggish, turning to steam. Relief filled his heart—just as his heel met the log and he tumbled. Flames leapt onto his dry jacket, laughing. They spread quickly, viciously.
Yassen screamed.
Guards barreled through the door. Bormani sprang from his bed and ran. The confused guards rushed to protect their king as Yassen pulled himself over the window ledge and rolled over.
He slammed onto the tiles of the roof below, the impact knocking the breath out of him. He tried to stop himself, but he was moving too fast. He fell off the slanted roof, crashing into the garden bushes. Thorns and branches whipped his face. The flames hissed angrily as they died. Yassen was aware of a searing sensation in his right arm, but adrenaline and the sheer desperation of survival kept it at bay as he staggered to his feet.
Sirens blared through the compound. Guards streamed out of the servants’ quarters in the distance.
Yassen ran.
He sprinted to the stone staircase as pulse fire shredded the air. He made it to the wall when he felt a pulse zip above him, barely missing his shoulder. Yassen stumbled back. A guard, hiding behind one of the supply huts on the top of the wall, shot again. Yassen backed down the staircase as the pulse blasted the spot where he’d just been.
One last job. After this, you’re done.
Oh, what Yassen Knight wouldn’t do to be free.
Voices behind him, getting closer. He darted forward, knife in hand, and spun on his toes, flinging his arm as the guard popped up from behind the hut again. The knife cut through the man’s throat. The guard made a wet, gurgling sound.
Yassen ran to him, grabbing his knife and the guard’s pulse gun. Inside the supply hut, he found more guns, along with blankets, a half-eaten bowl of soup, holopods, and—yes—a rope.
He grabbed the rope and began to knot it, but his hands were trembling, his fingers too slick as they slipped over the knots.
The searing sensation in his arm grew worse. Yassen winced, teetering. White spots danced in his vision. He grabbed the rampart to steady himself as footsteps thundered up the staircase.
Come on, he said to himself.Almost done.
Finally, he knotted the rope to the rampart of the wall. It made a slithering sound as it fell over the edge, the line stopping ten feet short of the ground.
Yassen put the handle of the knife in his mouth to stop himself from screaming. With his left hand, he grabbed the rope and hauled himself over. He kicked off the wall, bouncing down, down, down, the rope sliding through his hand, burning his palm. He moaned into the knife handle. When he reached the rope’s end, Yassen stopped.
The drop below him was not too far, but the ledge was narrow. Beneath, the grey waves beat against the cliff.
“He’s over here!”
Yassen looked up. The guards were leaning over the wall edge. One guard trained his gun and shot. The pulse burned the stones just above Yassen.
Yassen stared down at the churning sea, despair filling his heart.
One last job. And then you’ll be free.
