Page 154 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

“I—” I shook my head. “Was I meant to be?”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. “I just thought that might be what the Prince Regent sent me to guard you for, Lady Mage.”

Nervous, I hesitated for the space of a breath. Owain had said he’d be there. I could handle myself for a few minutes alone. All I’d be doing at first was surveying Berian’s body for any changes before the Assembly arrived.

“Let’s go,” I said.

The tension in Richart’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as though relieved to have guessed correctly. He waited for me to walk then followed.

Like a cobweb brushing against my skin, a subtle yet distinct feeling tickled my senses near the king’s door. I slowed.

Richart slowed with me.

I pressed my lips together and tested the air around me again with my sense for magic. As we neared, the feeling intensified, resolving into the faint, persistent buzzing of a thousand bees, waiting with stingers out to pierce my skin.

The device.

My stomach dropped. I turned to the nearest guard and asked, “Has anyone entered His Majesty’s room since the Prince Regent entered his?”

“No, my lady. All has been quiet.”

Proof that my anxiety was manufacturing magic. The device had left its residue in my mind and in this room. Just knowing the monsters were downstairs had made me invent danger in a vacant room. The guards would’ve raised an alarm if something was wrong.

“Thank you,” I said, relief coming at last. “We’ll enter.”

The hinges made the softest whisper as the door swung inward. Behind us, I heard the guards settle back into their posts. Everything was quiet until we walked deeper into the apartment.

Owain was there. He was cloaked in the same rich, dark fabrics he seemed to favor, crouched over the king, his stance almost tender, one shoulder turned toward Berian, head bent.

Another spark of relief. The guards hadn’t mentioned Owain being there because he was expected. My mind had been playing tricks on me in my nervousness.

“Owain—”

But the word died as the buzzing surged into something that seemed to scream in the air and beneath my skin.

Wrong!

The man turned. Not Owain.

The man we’d seen after visiting Mirelle’s jewelry shop.

The scream rose and died in my throat in the same instant. If I cried out, and he panicked, he’d finish his work on defenseless Berian.

Save a king. Stop a war.

I needed to slow this down, not escalate it. And I needed help to arrive when it was safe for everyone.

Everything moved at once. Richart stepped in front of me so fast his shoulder struck my arm. The rasp of steel was the only warning before his blade cleared its sheath.

Instinct screamed at me to use my rending magic or try fire. But getting closer to that device felt like stepping toward a drawn blade.

The intruder sidestepped. Richart pivoted to mirror it.

I had only one sensible option available to me. My hand closed around a quartz statue from the display shelf. Too small. Too delicate. But it was stone enough.

Magic ripped through me, flooding the quartz so quickly the crystal whined in my grip. I pulled on memory—on instinct—the echo of what I’d done in Selmont when melancholy and isolation had been all I’d had.

The assassin moved, reaching for a weapon.