“When he makes a mistake. When he gets comfortable. When he thinks he's won.” Viktor's eyes locked on mine. “And then we finish it.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to demand we hunt him now, tonight, before he could disappear into whatever hole he'd prepared.
But Viktor was right. We were exhausted. Bleeding. Running on adrenaline and rage.
And Marcel was smart. Patient. He'd planned this.
“Fine,” I said. “We regroup. We heal. And then we hunt.”
Adrian nodded. “Agreed. You two head back to the palace. The King needs to see you're alive. Needs the files. We'll keep digging. Find where Marcel's running.”
Viktor was already moving, gathering gear. “Come on. Before someone realizes we're all in one place.”
We left in shifts. Different routes. Standard procedure even when everything had gone to hell.
Viktor drove me back to the palace. Through rain that had finally started to ease. Through a city that looked cleaner in the dark.
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
“We should've seen it,” he said finally. “Should've known he'd anticipate the intercept.”
“He's been playing this game for thirty years. We've been playing for three days.” I touched his arm. Felt muscle like steel under fabric. “We'll get him.”
“I wanted to give you his head tonight.”
The brutality of the admission should've shocked me. Didn't.
“I know. But tomorrow works too.”
“Does it?”
“Has to.” I looked at him. At this man who'd tear the world apart for me. “Because if we keep running on rage alone, we'll make mistakes. And mistakes get us killed.”
“When did you become the voice of reason?”
“When you became the one ready to burn everything down.” I squeezed his arm. “We balance each other. Remember?”
His hand left the wheel. Found mine. Held on like I was the only thing keeping him anchored.
26
EMBERS OF THE CROWN
SEBASTIAN
Morning came soft through mist, turning the mausoleum grounds into something that looked like memory.
I walked alone. Cloak heavy with damp. White rose in my hand, thorns biting my palm through the cloth. The pain felt right. Necessary. Small penance for taking eighteen years to find the truth.
Marble statues lined the path. Dead kings. Dead queens. All the ancestors who'd worn the crown before it crushed them. Their stone faces watched me pass, judging or indifferent, impossible to tell which.
The gardens sprawled around my mother's tomb like she'd planted them herself. White roses everywhere. The kind that bloomed even in winter. The kind that refused to die no matter how hard the world tried to kill them.
Like her. Like me.
Rain had eased to mist that clung to everything. Turned the world soft-edged and gentle. Made it easier to pretend she was just sleeping instead of eighteen years dead.
Her tomb stood apart from the others. Simple. Clean. Just hername and the dates that bookended a life too short. No grand proclamations. No lists of titles or achievements. Just:
