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Arun’s silk trousers pulled tight at the knees as he crouched above me. “But I do wonder,” he said softly, “if King Erik’s physicians will find anything worth saving by the time I finish with you.”

A wide, wicked smile stretched his lips.

Then it froze.

His mouth hardened, twitching at the corners. He looked up, far past me, and his eyes went wide.

“I’m sorry, old friend.” Stian’s voice came out calm and crisp from behind. “But I cannot let you harm her.”

Arun’s eyes filled with a horrified understanding. He opened his mouth.

And blood spluttered between his lips.

It sprayed hot on my blouse, and I gasped, confused, not having seen what weapon had been used against him.

Because there had been no weapon. Arun had been struck with a specter. And the force of that specter had been so powerful that his body suddenly plummeted onto my chest. Unmoving.

Just as the air blasted out of me, his weight was heaved away. I lurched upright and scrambled for Keil. Stian had already darted to Keil’s other side, his knees settling in the pool of blood.

“You can save him?” I asked. The panic was overwhelming me now, humming through every limb.

Stian’s frown deepened. “I will try.” He tore through Keil’s shirt to reveal the gurgling wound, then shoved the bundled fabric toward me. “Apply pressure.”

I did as he commanded, refusing to acknowledge that the hot blood beneath my fingers belonged to Keil.

Stian rummaged through his leather satchel. “I need assistance,” he called, but was met with silence.

Because as I finally looked around the room, I saw that the battle had ended with Arun’s death. The remaining guards were frozen, unsure of their position, their commander. Even those who still eyed me with hostility did not approach.

I searched instead for my friends, and my stomach sank. Osana was splayed at the foot of the dais, trying to force herself upright. Goren lay on the other side of the room, bruised and bleeding, his right foot bent at a gruesome angle. But their eyes were alert, afraid, as they watched Stian fighting to put Keil back together.

“You.” Stian zeroed in on a figure at the doorway, whom I hadn’t noticed veiled in shadows. “Get over here.”

But Zeke didn’t move. He was pale, breathing heavily, and I knew it was catching up with him. Everything he’d done. Everything he’d caused.

It was why he had come back.

“You can still fix this,” I said, desperate.

Zeke met my eyes with something like sorrow.

And then he scrambled toward us, his palms open for Stian’s instruments. His gaze drifted automatically to Mara’s corpse.

“There are too many bodies in the room,” Stian called. “Get rid of them.”

Again, silence. Then one of the guards stepped forward, his voice stern. “The minister—”

“The minister is dead.” Stian whipped toward him, icy and seething. “You will answer to me.”

The guard halted, and I went rigid, caught by an odd, familiar sense of dread. And as I placed the sensation . . . my blood chilled.

“You’re losing pressure,” Stian said roughly, and I jolted. His gaze had hardened on mine with something like understanding, and I looked away, pressing down on Keil’s wound.

As the guards towed the bodies of Mara and Arun into the hall, Stian angled a scalpel against Keil’s torso.

I startled. “What are you doing?”

“His lung is collapsing.” Stian’s blade sliced between Keil’s ribs. “I need to let the air out of his chest cavity.”