Her eyes meet mine, her hands calm.As I’ll ever be.
Alia has been to the royal chambers. I can tell by the lack of hesitation in her steps as we slink through the shadows of each corridor, winding our way to a part of the castle where I have not been.
I don’t ask her why. How. When.
Whatever the reason, it didn’t result in the love she needs. There’s no point in making things worse with questions.
The knife hangs heavier in her dress than anticipated; even with her fluid, lithe steps, it creates a hitch in the fabric. It’s hidden, but it is undeniably there.
We turn a corner, and there’s a guard stationed outside the outer chamber door. The man is awake, a newly shined pistol catching the weak light of a single sconce.
We don’t need a mouthed order or hand sign between us. I know exactly what needs to be done and do it before she can inquire.
“Ómegin. Rata,”I whisper.
Warmed up, my magic feels closer, and the guardimmediately falls asleep where he stands, his body thudding softly into the wall behind him.
We don’t hesitate, rushing past him, careful to close the door gently behind us. Although the spell works to induce sleep, one’s slumber can still be disturbed.
As in our own home, the king’s chambers are massive and consist of rooms upon rooms—a private library, study, meeting room, parlor. At the end of it all is the bedchamber, doors swung wide. The moon hangs heavily in the sky, its silvery light falling in from a large private balcony that takes up one side of the room, overlooking the same slip of water seen from the marble balcony. The energy of the sea charges the room, salt heavy in the air, and I almost feel that we’re about to enter the witch’s lair—steel-toned and haunted by near-ghosts.
Alia can feel it too. She takes a single step over the threshold and freezes, her gaze locked on the bed.
Niklas lies on his back, in a bed piled with furs of great animals that roam the topside earth far from Havnestad. Sofie is next to him, her hair splayed out across the pillow in shards of tawny, unspooling pin curls messy against glorious silk.
They aren’t touching.
Not that I’m surprised. It’s hard to put on a good show in the unconscious mind.
I nudge Alia forward.
The ring. The knife. The blood.
She won’t move, so I do, tiptoeing to the vanity, where the king’s crown rests on a pillow, and his other shiny objects sparkle in the moonlight. The red ring is there, awaiting his finger in the morning light. I slip the ring on my thumb.
Deed done, I turn back to my sister. She hasn’t moved. The knife is in her hand, but she’s still at the foot of the bed, her eyes pinned to the rise and fall of his chest.
The moon is lower now, and I know we’re that much closer to dawn. We’ve got maybe four hours, but the way she is now, she might stand here all night.
Her eyes flash to mine, the blue a stormy sea in the silken light.
I can’t. I won’t. This is wrong.
All of it plays across her face as she drops the knife and it clatters onto the bare marble. The parchment-thin tip chips off, marring the only thing that can keep our futures intact.
I scramble for the knife, and though broken, its cool magic seems unaffected. The noise, though—it’s enough that the king stirs in his bed. I look from his fluttering eyes to my sister and dare a whisper. “It’s how it must be.”
I’m here to save my sister. This is what I must do.
I get behind her and wrap her in my arms, forcing her hands around the knife hilt. She’s struggling—elbows flying into my ribs, jerking away. Using every ounce of strength, I get us both to the edge of the bed. The kingtwists ever so slightly, and the sheet drops, exposing his chest.
It’s now or never.
I raise the knife above our heads. And whisper one final reminder into her ear. “It’s what you must do.”
Then I plunge the knife toward his heart. Alia’s hands follow with mine... and then they’re not. My hands are left alone on the knife hilt as they break the skin, the blade straight through his heart.
The boy’s eyes fly open, jolted by the sudden pain.
