A labored yell rang through the hall, and all three of them ran ahead to find the bodies of two guards slumped against the wall, blood coating their armor. A shattered serving tray lay beside one of them, half-buried beneath a fallen tapestry. And besidethat,sitting on her knees, was Cedric’s attendant, Addison.
“No, no, no, no, no,” said Addison, the words blurring together, as though she wasn’t wholly conscious of the fact that she was saying them.
Kit’s gaze roamed to Addison’s arms, clutching a body that was far too pale and far too still.
“Kymber?” Kit choked out, her heart clenching as she took in the sight of Elyria’s attendant, blonde hair caked with blood, eyes open but sightless.
“A little help here!” Tristan appeared from a doorway halfway down the hall, half-carrying Gregor, who clutched at a bleeding wound in his side.
One second, Nox was next to Kit, their palm on her back, grounding her amidst the carnage. The next, they had shadowstepped to Tristan, hauling Gregor’s other arm over their shoulder.
Kit ran to meet them, winding a wisp of healing magic into Gregor’s open wound as soon as she got her hands on him. The man nodded gratefully, though any color that he might have regained was gone as soon as he caught sight of Addison and Kymber. He fell to his knees beside them.
“That won’t be enough to heal him,” Kit told Tristan. “Where is theinfirmary? Is there a saint there?”
“No idea what state the infirmary is in,” Tristan said, his expression grim. “But Tenny is a saint.”
“Is she safe?” Kit asked, panic rising in her chest.
The knight nodded, his jaw tight. “I have her in the east solar. Set up as a kind of safe room. It’s her and some others I found on the way. I left them with guards that I trust.”
Kit exhaled. “Good. That’s good.” She turned back to Gregor and Addison, her voice soft when she said, “I’m so sorry. But you can’t stay here. We need to get you somewhere safe.”
“But Kymber—” Addison wailed.
“C’mon Addie,” Gregor said, even as tears rolled down his dark cheeks. “She’s gone. We have to move.”
When Kit looked to Tristan again, his eyes were closed, his lips moving with a silent prayer for Kymber and the felled guards. Then, they snapped open. “I’ll take them. Meet you—where?”
“The throne room,” Kit said, and with a final nod, Tristan, Gregor, and Addison left.
“All right, let’s go. We’re almost there,” Sephone said.
Together, Kit, Nox, and Sephone sprinted farther into the castle. They turned into the grand hallway that led to the throne room and?—
“Hargrave!”
The guard was mid-duel with a cultist. Blood ran from a gash across his brow, and Kit cursed inwardly at having potentially distracted him.
It turned out, the only one she distracted was the cultist. The man’s eyes went wide as he took in the trio of Arcanians sprinting down the hall, giving Hargrave the perfect opportunity to skewer him with his sword just below the wolven medallion hanging over his chest.
The cultist died with a low moan.
“Where’s Thibault?” Sephone asked as they skidded to a stop in front of Hargrave.
“Fucking damned if I know,” he replied, looking around wildly. “Thought he was right behind me. Maybe he already went in?”
As if on cue, cries rang from behind the massive throne room doors. Sephone and Nox hauled open the double doors and Kit ran inside, only to halt mid-step at the sight of the chaos within.
Broken glass and torn banners littered the floor. Each and every window had been smashed in. In the center of the room, the throne was toppled, King Callum cowering behind it with Barcroff and three members of the king’s council huddled around him. Four king’s guards stood in a semicircle in front of them, a shield wall. Two additional guards lay on the floor, arms and legs askew at grotesque angles, blood spilling onto the white marble.
And in front of them . . .
Dentarius stood alone, his silver doublet splattered with blood, arms raised, wrists rotating in endless circles, wind swirling around him—a vortex that was keeping the four cultists he fought at bay. No, not four cultists. Three. Three and...
“Thibault!” Hargrave’s yell was barely audible over the roar of Dentarius’ wind, but Thibault’s head jerked up as he caught sight of his compatriot and immediately ran his blade into the side of the nearest cultist.
“About damn time, my friend,” said Thibault, flashing a grateful smile.
