Page 92 of Three Dark Kings and the Gilded Serpent

Maxim throws me a questioning glance.

“Well, your name is Maxim, but your title is Ember King. Would it be insulting to give this serpent a designation that’s additional to his name?”

Maxim scratches his chin, dragging his hands through sweat and soot. “Maybe not. I’ll think on it.”

Silence falls between us, but the quiet allows me to hear the far-off explosions, the continuing fight at the border.

“When will it end?” I whisper.

He follows my focus to the right. “When the curse is broken.”

I shake my head, not so certain. “War is in hearts and minds. Breaking this curse won’t change old hatreds. Or new hatreds, for that matter.”

“At least we’ll have a chance.” Maxim’s voice is a snarl again as he peers at me for a long moment. “Do you not know the story of Tiboh, my great-grandfather?”

I shake my head. “You should assume my knowledge is limited.”

“Tiboh believed that the curse was an excuse. A story concocted to justify our ancestors’ thirst for power. Basically, he didn’t believe in the curse.” Maxim stares hard at me. “I ask you to consider that for a moment: an Ember Fae believed peace was possible. He was the first good king in a long line of tyrants.”

“What did he do?”

“He proposed peace,” Maxim says. “He convinced his people to follow him, he sent out emissaries, and he persuaded the Frost King and Iron King to meet with him under the banner of a truce.”

“They agreed?”

“They had lived longer than their predecessors and they were both weary of war.” Maxim pauses. “Did you know fae once lived for hundreds, if not thousands, of years?”

“I did hear that, but it feels impossible.”

“The curse shortened our lifetimes. We’re lucky to live to ninety now. Those kings were nearing a hundred. A hundred years of death. They wanted it to end.”

“What happened?” I ask. “Since clearly there is no happy ending.”

“They struck an accord. Every warrior laid down their weapons. The kings went home to their families.”

I’m afraid to ask. “But?”

“The next morning, the kings woke to grief. In the night, assassins had slaughtered their families, leaving only a single heir alive. The Iron King’s family was burned by frost. The Frost King’s family was burned by fire. And the Ember King’s family was torn apart by iron blades. Nobody heard the slaughter. The assassins themselves were found hunched over their victims, caught in a trance, unable to recall how they’d gotten there.

“Tiboh tried to call for the peace to hold, despite losing his loved ones, but the other two kings understood what Tiboh refused to see: the curse would always force us back into conflict. At least with war, there is an illusion of control over who lives and who dies.”

I press my hands to my stomach, wishing I could ease how unsettled this story makes me. “How did they know the attack happened because of the curse?”

“They didn’t,” Maxim acknowledges. “But it was clear that the three kings must remain enemies until this curse is broken.”

I want to challenge his certainty, even if I fear he’s right. “If that’s true, then how is Stellen fighting at your border?”

“Well, that’s easy.” Fire flares around Maxim’s broad chest. “Stellen Nas’Lethian is no longer a king.”

A sharp truth that only raises another question in my mind: what about Antony? Is he still King of Iron?

If he isn’t a king anymore, then what becomes of the forced enmity between them? Does peace between them bring hope?

Or does it mean destruction?

Can the answer lie in hearts and minds, or are we all pawns of fate?

Too many questions.