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He would miss mornings like this.
At the edge of the cliffs, with the black palace rising up to his left, Magnus scanned the Silver Sea, searching for signs of the Kraeshian armada. Resistance would lead only to more death and pain than his citizens already had in store. Magnus stood no chance against Amara’s forces, and the king knew it.
It would finally be time for him to answer for his crime of treason, and he would soon understand fully why his father was known as the King of Blood. Magnus didn’t expect any mercy.
And he swore to himself that he wouldn’t beg for it.
During his sleepless night, Magnus had given a great deal of thought to the messages he’d received from Kraeshia. Something about his current situation felt desperately wrong, had left him with a sour taste in his mouth that he couldn’t get rid of.
Both of the messages had been written by and sent from rebels—rebels who knew one another, had worked together in the past.
Felix Graebas had sent along a swatch of his own skin to prove he’d shifted loyalties from the Clan to the rebels. But why should Magnus believe that it really was his tattoo, his skin? And what kind of coincidence was it that Felix had sent his message just as his compatriot Jonas arrived at the palace?
And then there was the message from Jonas that arrived last night, warning of imminent danger, striking dark fear into Magnus’s heart.
A stark realization stole his breath.
Even now Cleo was working against him, with both Felix and Jonas.
Despite all her pretty words, all her pleas for him to believe her—pleas he’d started to believe—Cleo still thought of him as her enemy, an obstacle she needed to eliminate.
Of course. King Gaius would never be so stupid as to align with someone like Amara. The king knew what a deceptive creature she could be, that she was a sly manipulator, almost as skilled as Cleiona Bellos herself.
The sick feeling that had settled in his stomach lurched once more as he stumbled over a possibility he’d tossed aside the night before: that Cleo might be aligned with Amara.
They could have been working together from the very beginning, from the second Amara first set foot on Mytican soil.
Head spinning and in a daze, Magnus made his way to the Ouroboros. The familiar owner raised his bushy eyebrows high as Magnus pushed through the door.
“Food,” Magnus barked. “And a bottle of Paelsian wine. Now.”
“Yes, your highness,” he said, this time making no efforts to deny that he had alcohol on hand.
Magnus violently tucked into the eggs, fried kaana cakes, and fig preserves that the man brought him, and made a toast to Cleo with the bottle of wine. “Well played, princess,” he growled.
He drained the first bottle and then a second before he decided it was time to leave. On his way out, he stopped and clutched the barkeep’s shoulder. “When I’m officially king, wine will flow readily in Limeros again. Wine for everyone!”
Cowering, the barkeep gave him a small smile, and then Magnus left without waiting for a reply.
Though he walked a swerving line, Magnus managed to make it back to the palace without too much delay. It wasn’t until he had the nearest gate in sight that he realized he hadn’t taken any guards with him when he’d left the palace grounds.
“Don’t need them,” he grumbled. “Anyone who dares to cross the Prince of Blood will regret it.”
As he neared the palace gates, he spotted Lord Kurtis, conversing with a man in a black cloak. Kurtis glanced at him, and in response Magnus laughed and made a rude gesture, then carried on right past him.
Stupid arse. To think, Magnus’s childhood memories had caused him to consider Kurtis a true threat all this time.
From now on, he would cut the throat of anyone who might become a threat. With no exceptions.
It was now mid-morning, and the activity at the palace had greatly increased since Magnus’s early departure. Servants scurried about the halls, whispering to each other and eyeing the prince as he passed. He followed the bustle toward the palace square, where he saw dozens upon dozens of citizens beginning to gather, having entered through the wide-open gates.
Magnus caught the arm of a passing guard. “What’s all this about?”
“Your highness, don’t you know?”
“If I did I wouldn’t have to ask, would I?”
“No, of course not, apologies your highness. The royal address is”—the guard cleared his throat nervously—“about to begin?”
