Page 10 of Fated to the Wicked King

She had chosen the perfect spot on the floor. The king stood framed beneath the clock. Unaware. His position wide open. A blade thrown from that distance would reach him before his magic could react. And somehow, the king’s armed guards were all conveniently distracted.

Panting at the stabbing sensation in my chest, I struggled to remain standing.

The death of the tyrant king would be celebrated across the land. I knew that. It was whispered in the forests, in the markets, and in taverns. It crackled beneath polite conversation.

The entire land would cheer.

We would all be free.

I would be free.

The thought tasted hollow.

Because beneath the hopelessness, beneath the fear and the fracture in my mind, something else stirred. Undeniable. A memory of warmth. Of laughter shared in darkened rooms. Of steady arms holding me close, soothing, reassuring.

“Ah, crap,” I mumbled at my weakness.

My hidden corner was too far from anything, from anyone.

I had no weapons.

No magic.

I bit my lip.

I had boots.

I slipped one off without looking down, fingers moving with precise calm even as my heart tried to tear free of my ribs. I weighed it in my hand. Leather. Heels. Enough mass.

I measured the room in a blink, calculating distance, velocity, timing, trajectory, the angles, and the currents stirred by steam vents and spinning chandeliers.

I threw.

My boot spun through the air in a perfect, ridiculous parabola.

It clipped the king’s crown.

Not hard enough to wound—just enough to startle.

Eyes wide, he ducked on instinct, his power coiling as his shoulders dropped⁠—

—and the dagger screamed past the space where his heart had been a beat before, embedding itself in the backrest of the imposing velvet throne with a muffled thump.

The world exploded.

Gasps turned to screams. Guests scattered, gowns tangled, platters dropped with a clatter as servers ducked or halted, frozen mid-step. Guards surged forward, weapons drawn. The magic in the air flared, lighting the hall in violent golds and yellows.

The king straightened, fury blazing, his gaze snapping toward the trajectory of the boot. Stunned, his darkened eyes searched the crowd for the perpetrators.

I bolted for the nearest window, shoving past panicked bodies, my heart still throbbing like a second pulse. Cold night air slapped my face as I leapt onto the balcony and vaulted the railing without slowing. I landed hard, rolled, and disappeared into the maze of waiting stagecoaches and attendants in the courtyard.

Behind me, the masses reeled.

And somewhere in the Great Hall, a king who should have died tonight stood very much alive—because I had loved him once.

Four

THE BOOT THAT FITS