He’s forced to cut off his sentence as a sword swipes out of nowhere, almost taking his head. He blinks away, defending us from Eero as the king swings his greatsword again.
Drystan grimaces, examining the mechanism. “This is going to hurt.”
Gritting my teeth, I nod. “I can take it.”
The metal heats, but it’s too slow. Iron is resistant to magic, and I can read the strain in Drystan’s face as he tries to force it to bend. The gold of the rest of the arm is melting faster than the cuff, dripping onto the floor.
Trying not to react is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but if I move, it will only be worse. I look over his head, trying to distract myself from the scent of my own burning flesh, and catch sight of Máel blinding the redcap that’s cornered her with a burst of starlight, before ripping the hat from his head. The under fae clutches his chest as Máel’s dagger swiftly slices the scarlet fabric to ribbons.
There’s no warning. He just keels over. Dead. His mouth caught in a final scream of defiance.
No.
“Hurry up!” Lore yells, blinking in front of me, then away, as a throwing knife sails through the spot where he was and shatters one of the huge windows on our left instead.
“I’m trying.” Drystan snarls, making me look down, but he shakes his head. “Don’t look, huntress.”
He hisses out a breath as he pulls the now-pliant metal of one cuff apart and reaches for the other.
A glint catches my eye. My lips part in warning, but the blade has already lined up with the ribbon around his neck. The fabric offers surprisingly little resistance as it’s sliced clean through.
I shriek as Ciara takes Drystan’s head in front of me. Forgetting momentarily that he’s a dullahan, my heart shatters as I watch her rip his head away by his long hair.
He can survive that, I remind myself, furiously, as the shadows swamp the place where the wound should be.
“I’m so sorry, Nicnevin,” she murmurs, eyes watering. “I have no choice.”
Without waiting, she darts away.
Drystan’s body freezes with shock, his glowing eyes narrowing amongst the shadows that have replaced his head. Then he reaches down and finishes the job, yanking free the final manacle.
“Run!” his head says, as his body grabs my arm and practically throws me out of the melting chair. “Now, Rhoswyn.”
He lets free a wave of fire, so hot that it melts the rest of the throne, turning it to a pile of molten gold. I have to dodge away or risk more burns. My guides reappear, swarming me in concern as they try to usher me away from the melee and towards the giant sun window.
I have to help.Clang. Two swords clash, so close that the noise rattles my teeth.
Where is Ciara? Drystan’s head is somewhere in amongst this pandemonium.
There—by the wall. She’s not fighting. If anything, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. I take a step towards her before I realise she doesn’t even have his head anymore.
I reach for Danu, trying my best to fight through the panic, but I can’t.
Looking down, I gulp as I take in the mess that is the skin of my arms. The shackle has left black streaks in my flesh. Iron poisoning.
“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.”
I’ve barely taken two steps by the time Eero’s words sink in. Turning on my heel, I stare in horror as he holds Lore up by his throat. The redcap is stabbing blindly—and still somehow smiling past a face-full of blood and broken teeth—but all of his efforts are for naught.
Every single blow glances off Eero. How? The summer king isn’t even wearing armour. Drystan’s whip curls around his throat, flames growing as it constricts.
Any other male would be dead, but Eero is completely unconcerned. He reaches out and, without even breaking a sweat, tugs the whip free, before pulling hard enough to unbalance the dullahan. Before Drystan can recover, three more soldiers leap on him, slapping iron cuffs around his wrists. He’s forced to the ground beside Bram, both of them struggling.
All of the redcaps Lore brought with him are dead. Slaughtered. Their corpses—and several soldiers—litter the ground. Some of their hats are still sucking up the blood, leaving clean patches of marble beneath the slain.
And Eero stands above it all, victorious.
With one, callous move, he twists his wrist and Lore’s head falls to the side. Neck broken.
