Page 150 of The Edge of Darkness

The audience collectively gasped, and Ramil’s previous amusement faded from his face.

“You chose the wrong side,” I said.

“No.” He shook his head slowly, before lifting his chin. “I’m afraid you have.”

For a brief moment, I felt Auren’s concern as she shifted on her feet, but movement up the stairs caught my attention.

Killian had somehow gotten past Silas and was taking the stairs.

Fuck. Probably should have mentioned to Silas that Killian was prone to shapeshifting and compulsion.

A spear of my shadowfire struck, catching Killian by the throat, hauling him through the air, and slamming him against the wall atop the steps.

Gasps and shrieks sounded.

Then I turned, only to find Aremis, sprinting, closing the distance between us, with a dagger in his hand, aimed for the center of my chest.

Zofia’s breaths were sharp against the Aether’s back as she followed its presence through the tunnels beneath Benmoor, leading a group of insurgents directly to the palace grounds.

Torchlight, damp dirt, echoes of footfalls. The images, smells, and sounds filled my head as my Aura wound through the underground maze, feeding me bits of information like a second set of eyes and ears.

My Aura couldn’t communicate with anyone physically, but it knew every square inch of Benmoor, above and below ground, and with its heightened ability to sense forms, hear the faintest of sounds, and detect magic from a distance, it was a crucial piece in getting Morah and Fallon’s loyal supporters and soldiers into the palace undetected.

Boots on stone, a casual, lazy sway to the being’s step, another set of feet not far behind . . . There were two males above, patrolling the grounds. Unaware of anyone moving beneath them.

Everyone crept quietly, daggers clutched to their chests, curved swords strapped to their waists, ready for confrontation. When the tunnel came to a dead end with a small door, the Aether stopped and listened before slipping through the wood to prowl through the space on the other side.

Zofia lingered a few steps behind, waiting.

The palace was quiet as the Aether swept through it. Long, sheer curtains swayed in the gentle breeze that carried with it the scent of saffron and jasmine. The fountains in the courtyards trickled peacefully. Flickering flames danced in the ornate bronze lanterns that hung from the ceilings, casting a warm glow as evening set in.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. No one suspected that a revolution was in progress, that those loyal to Fallon were currently sweeping through the streets, apprehending Ramil’s dignitaries from their homes or brothels or wherever Morah’s spies had tracked them to, while others moved right underneath their feet, preparing to breach the palace grounds.

Zofia’s father, Terrun, would oversee the personal takeover of Benmoor’s army, ensuring that those in command accepted the transition of power from tyrant father, to rightful son and heir, without incident. Ferhan, Ramil’s right hand and advisor, was to be handled by Zofia. The young revolutionary had been taught by Morah herself and was skilled in weapons of all kinds, especially in close-combat. Ferhan would be a simple takedown for her.

I commanded my Aura to open the door for Zofia, and it did. Her bright, hazel eyes stared right at the entity, and I saw it in my mind’s eye as if she were looking at me.

Go, I thought. And though she could not hear me, she seemed to understand that all was clear. As the Aura shifted out of the way, she slipped through the door, silent as a wraith, and dozens followed her.

Into the vast, open hallways, they spread out, moving like phantoms—swift and deathly quiet. Trained assassins. Their faces were covered, leaving only their eyes on display. They unsheathed blades without the faintest hiss of a sound. They slit throats and punctured lungs with deadly precision, guiding bodies to the ground so that the next guard was left unsuspecting.

Room by room, they cleared the building. Blood seeped over the intricately painted tiles where Ramil’s loyalists lay in their demise. Only a few were spared—the few Morah had known were not fond of her father and his regime.

And as for Ferhan . . .

The Aether shimmied up alongside Zofia, who was soundlessly twirling her throwing knives in her hands as she approached the throne room.

Bitter lilies, incense, hushed conversation.

The invisible entity followed the assassin into the all-too-familiar chamber, and I couldn’t help the shudder that shook my body upon seeing the place where I’d almost died. The very rug that Auren and I had collapsed on was still there, sitting under Ferhan’s polished boots as he lounged on Ramil’s throne.

The chair’s back was facing Zofia, and the male with whom Ferhan conversed with only had time to lift his eyes to note her presence, before one of her knives soared through the air and sank into his neck.

Blood sprayed, and Ferhan clutched the armrests of the chair, making to stand and defend himself, but Zofia’s voice echoed through the chamber.

“Do not move, or you die. Do not so much as summon your power, or you die.” She rounded the throne and stood before him. “Drop your shield.”

He glared back at her. “Now why would I do that?”