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Even his own son.
“You said you’d forgive me,” Aron said, his voice strained.
“I did say that, didn’t I? But how can I forgive anyone for something like this? You murdered my mother.” Magnus unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the boy.
Aron snatched the dagger off the table and held it out in front of him. “I will defend myself!”
“As you absolutely should.”
“The king will give me protection again you. Against anyone who means me harm. He has seen how valuable I am.”
“Is it something in the blood of all Auranians that they’re so quick to believe my father’s lies?”
Tears now spilled from Aron’s eyes, the sight of which sickened Magnus. “Pull yourself together, you pathetic fool. This is no way for a kingsliege to behave.”
“Forgive me, your highness. I am so, so sorry for what I did.”
The fire within Magnus at the knowledge that this vapid peacock had been the murderer of his mother, that he’d had helped the king frame another and kept the truth of any of it from Magnus, receded slightly. Killing Aron in wine-fueled vengeance would give him as little satisfaction as squashing a cockroach.
“We will take this matter up with my father when we return to the palace.”
His father had much to answer for. He lowered his sword to his side and turned away toward the flap of the tent.
In the reflection of a silver goblet, he saw Aron lunge at his back, the dagger still clutched in his raised hand.
Magnus turned. He deflected the blade with his left forearm and with his right hand thrust his sword through Aron’s chest.
The boy hung there, impaled, his eyes wide, and he stared at Magnus as if surprised. Such an expression on one who had fully meant to kill him only angered Magnus further. He twisted the blade and Aron let out a tormented cry, the sound of a dying animal, before the life finally left his eyes. With a sharp yank, Magnus pulled out the blade and the lord dropped bonelessly to the ground.
Magnus stood there for a few silent moments, staring down at his mother’s killer while Aron’s blood began to pool by his left boot. His glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling of the tent.
Just as Magnus had expected, there was no true victory in this death. Only emptiness.
But he now knew the truth. He’d never felt such hate before in his entire life. Hate for a man he’d always looked up to, even if he didn’t agree with every one of his decisions; a man who wasn’t weak, who did what he needed to do, who achieved power and glory with violence, intimidation, intelligence, and brute strength.
Once Magnus had aspired to be exactly like his father.
No more.
Chapter 32
JONAS
PAELSIA
The rebels made camp a mile from the line of tents by the Blood Road, not daring to light a fire. They watched and waited, staying huddled as a group for warmth, until the sun began to breach the gigantic mountains. Even the golden hawk that seemed to follow Jonas everywhere perched in the forest of brittle, leafless trees, waiting along with them.
“What is she?” he whispered to himself, looking up at her. “What does she want with us? With me?”
The hawk gave no answers. Instead, she flew away moments before they were ready to put their plan into action.
Jonas gave the order to move, and as silently as shadows, the forty-seven rebels spread out and entered the camp in their search for Magnus and Xanthus. Since there was no way for so many to stick together during the attack, the plan was to meet at a designated spot three hour’s journey from here at nightfall.
They had their targets. They knew their task. Nothing would distract them. And anyone who got in their way would die.
If all went perfectly, no one would even know they’d been there.
Then again, Jonas never expected this to go perfectly. He was prepared for obstacles. And so were his rebels.
