Then came the bodies.
The first was a soldier. A dark pool soaked into the rug beneath his armor; his head twisted at a brutal angle. Someone had shoved him aside, discarded as if he were nothing more than an obstacle in our path.
The skin at my nape prickled as I stared. That was the cost of treason. Name, family, future—none of it mattered anymore. He threw it all away the second he fought for the wrong cause.
A wasted life.
Kallias urged me forward, his focus fixed ahead, jaw set. He spared the fallen no glance.
But at the next corner, his stride faltered.
Two men in blood-soaked tunics stood frozen, a body suspended between them. One bore a smear of crimson across his cheek. They dipped their heads, bowing as best they could, then stepped aside to let us pass.
The body they carried belonged to the cook; the kind man who provided his king with his cider and kahve.
My stomach clenched, bile rising at the sight of his intestines dangling. Torn open. His abdomen was a gaping wound; his once-white apron stained dark.
Kallias walked past.
There were so many bodies. Servants. Soldiers. I even spotted a woman in an embroidered blue dress slumped in a pool of dried blood.
The Golden Palace was rank with death. Not a scent, but a silence. The vibrant bustle of a living kingdom had vanished,leaving halls hushed with respect—or disgust—for the fallen. A tomb.
I mirrored Kallias, setting my face like flint and stopped glancing down the passageways. These weren’t only the mutilated corpses of traitors—they were our people, deserving of mourning—but not now. There would be time to cry, grieve, and heal later.
Our small party turned down a hall, entering a familiar space. Fallione lifted the lantern from the wall, leading us down the stairs to the siege rooms beneath the palace.
Once, I’d been whisked down here for a private meeting. After the assassination attempt, Kallias brought me here because it was safest.
Beneath Reem, the halls narrowed, branching off into darkness—a whole hidden world stretched below.
I once assumed dungeons waited here. But Radaan was not some kingdom of horrors. She did not conceal wickedness in the dark. Food, provisions, armor, and blades were tucked into her depths. She was like a wise ant, storing life in her tunnels—always prepared to care for her people.
A reflection of her king.
Our boots padded along the cold stone. Fallione guided us through twists and turns until we reached a nondescript door. Nothing set it apart, yet when he knocked six times in a broken rhythm, it swung open.
Tears pricked my eyes, and Kallias’ arm flexed beneath my grip.
The Thresher at the door bowed, then stepped aside and sheathed his sword, revealing what lay beyond.
Two boys, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, stood before a tangle of huddled children with swords clutched in their grips. Fear melted into relief as their eyes met ours. Behind them, the littleones pressed together. Older girls wrapped their arms around toddlers, protecting them.
They should’ve been with their parents, safe in their homes—not crammed into a cold stone room.
When we approached, Kallias laid his hands on the boys’ shoulders, meeting their eyes. “Jax’mon and Paner’lee, you have my thanks.”
My feet carried me past the men to the girls and children. Eleven in total; the youngest barely reached my knee, thumb wedged inside his small mouth.
Expressions paled with uncertainty, tracking my every move. I was a stranger. My dress, my mannerisms, my slight Draconis accent set me apart. Crouching, I met one girl’s gaze: honey-brown eyes, dark hair like freshly turned soil. Her throat bobbed in a rough swallow, arms clutching three babes closer.
“You’re safe now,” I whispered, forcing a gentle smile. “Your king has returned.”
“Is he still up there?” another tiny girl asked, inching closer to her protector.
I frowned. “Tallon?”
She nodded, burying her face in the older girl’s dress.
