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Tristan excused himself, encouraging Ryke to make himself comfortable, then headed inside the castle. He pushed open the doors to the great hall, stepping into a room abuzz with chatter.
His ministers and advisors were in position as Tristan strode to his throne.
“Tell me about the reports,” he said, his sharp eyes narrowing on the gray-haired men surrounding him.
One of them stepped forward. “King Midas has intensified his attacks. We believe he is taking advantage of the fact that our kingdom is vulnerable.”
Tristan clenched his jaw. “Vulnerable?”
Tension hung in the air as the advisors exchanged nervous looks. “Yes, Your Grace. Our kingdom is still in mourning.”
Tristan’s throat tightened as he surveyed the room. Everywhere he looked, memories of his father plagued him like a relentless ghost. An immense weight of sadness pressed on him, threatening to pierce his throbbing heart. He struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat. But then he inwardly shook himself, determined not to show weakness.
Another advisor stepped forward. “Your Highness, there have been too many casualties, countless deaths…we need to recruit strong men from neighboring villages.”
Tristan heaved a sigh as he thought on it. “Fine. We shall send out a message. But let it be voluntary. I will not force our allies to risk their lives for us.”
The men nodded in agreement, but when no one spoke, Tristan frowned, sensing that there was more.
“Is that all?” he asked.
The first advisor shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. With so many families who have lost loved ones during these attacks, we were hoping to know what will be done to help those who are grieving.”
Tristan rubbed the pad of his thumb across his left wrist as his mind returned to his father.
“What would the king have done?” he thought aloud.
Without hesitation, one of the advisors spoke up. “He would ensure that all fallen warriors would have a paid burial.”
Tristan hummed, then nodded. “Very well. Send messengers to the homes of all those families in the name of the king.”
“You must also set a date for your coronation, sir,” another advisor chimed in. This one was tall and thin. “It will boost the morale of the people to see you become king.”
Tristan’s hands balled into tight fists as guilt ripped through his entire being, threatening to splice him in two. He could not bear to take the crown, knowing that he had murdered his own father in cold blood.
Still, he gave a grim smile to the group of men staring at him. “I shall think on that.”
* * *
Later that night, Tristan headed to his chambers and stood on the balcony bathed in the milky glow of the moon. He consumed the special flower liquid given to him by Killian as payment for his protection of Ella and her family.
A wave of sleepiness washed over him, muting the agony of his guilt until he became entrenched in heaviness. His limbs were like lead as he dragged his body back to his bed and slumped on the plush blankets, letting his heavy eyelids close.
When he opened them again, he found himself lying on a bunk below deck of Ryke’s ship.
The king was conversing with both Ryke and Lexa, but neither of them noticed Tristan’s presence. Tristan watched his father, the king, with a heavy heart. His royal clothes hung off of him like an ominous shroud, while the lines on his face were deep and sharp—carved into his skin by years of ruling over his kingdom.
Then he watched as the events from that fateful night began to unfold in real time.
He saw himself, standing immobile in the doorway, listening to the heated conversation between the king and Ryke. The King’s nostrils flared as his eyes blazed with anger, but Ryke stood resolute with his jaw jutted out and shoulders squared.
Tristan watched the king pull out a velvet bag and take a fistful of pixie dust. But just before he tossed it over Ryke’s head, Tristan leaped in the way, taking the full hit.
Tristan climbed out from the bunk to look at his former self. It was eerie to watch his eyes grow cloudy and a vacant expression took over his face.
Then his stomach churned at the sound of his father’s voice. “Kill Ryke.”
Tristan watched with rapt attention as his former self lunged for Ryke without a moment’s hesitation. They struggled before Ryke broke away and fled the room. Lexa wailed and slashed the air with her nails before Tristan’s former self restrained her.
