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In order to sit, she had had to move her hands to the front, finally revealing what she’d had clasped behind her back.
It had been a knife.
In the low light of the overhanging chandelier, it barely gleamed, but Salas could see its length. He knew its intent.
Swallowing, he measured the threat of the new situation, and couldn’t help but to inch further back.
“My greatest goal,” she said softly, almost musing to herself. “Is to rid the world of every single one of you.” She laughed a little, quietly beneath her breath. “Though that would be quite impossible, wouldn’t it? One can only dream. I had plans for you, though. I could make at least one suffer, I thought. The one that seemed to cause the most destruction. Cursing kingdoms. Seducing emperors. Live life at the feet of others. I could make you my pet, I thought. But then I realized you would perhaps like that role too much, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment that is needed to atone for the sins of your kin.” She shook her head. “No. There is only one solution for dealing with you.” She looked at the knife in her hand, turning it over, examining the tool. It was a pretty dagger. With the width of the blade adjacent to the guard as thick as five fingers, it was lengthy and heavy-looking, with a pearled pommel at the end of the grip marking it clearly Susconian-crafted. She seemed to enjoy the craftsmanship as well, for a moment, but then she turned her eyes on him, and the appreciation was gone.
She rose up from the throne, eyes dead as she fixed him a soulless look.
He swallowed, trying to not let his eyes flicker to the dagger. “And what of you?” he asked, stalling. “You cannot say you are so different. Princess Newtalia has no mother because you never became one. You wanted to bed the king for your own gain!” It was not in his own best interest to accuse her now, yet once he had opened his mouth, he couldn’t stop.
“Why would I want a beast as a daughter?” she spat. “It’s nearly as horrific as a fae.” She took another step towards him. “The beasts can’t come to claim their bird. I’ve enchanted them away. You’re all mine now.”
Salas, alarmed, stumbled backwards further, tripping on the steps, though found his limit when the shackle at his ankle pulled taught.
Victoria’s eyes dropped to it as well for a moment. Then, surprisingly, she raised her free hand. She whispered an incantation, which sent a bolting ball of heat from her palm to the chain, shattering the metal that was made delicate under the wrath of her magical energy.
He was freed.
“Well?” Victoria asked with a smile that seemed disturbingly off. “Now you can dance for me, fae.Dance.”
Salas turned and ran.
But he wasn’t fast enough. The first time she swiped, it got his back. Pain flared diagonally between his shoulder blades as it came down, licking his skin and splitting open the flesh. He felt it all, as the blood ran down the crease of his back.
Her intent was to kill him, he was finally coming to realize, though perhaps, of course, this had been her goal from the moment she first laid eyes on him. Despite his resolve to be strong, to face her, he could do nothing about his own weakness in the face of her strength, and it left him the same wounded animal he had come to hate.
The next blow stabbed him in the shoulder and he shrieked, tripping over his feet and going down with the blade still stuck within him. He dropped to hands and knees, an arm reaching blindly behind him to ward off his attacker.
“Salas!” a voice roared from the other end of the throne room.
Salas blinked through his blackening vision to see Jovack rushing through the threshold, his eyes wide and held on him.
“Your Majesty,” Victoria stuttered. Salas twisted to sit, just in time to see the witch straighten, trembling with crazed eyes as she smiled at Jovack. “I am relieving you of a pest that wishes you ill! You have no idea—”
But her words were cut short as Jovack, in a single fluid movement, pulled his own knife from his belt, and threw it. Itthuddedinto the witch’s chest, whipping through bone and plate, and burying into her heart.
Victoria gasped as she fell, her hands clutching at the gushing wound that seeped into her thin, adopted southern clothing. Her eyes were wide with shock, pleading, though at this point, there was nothing Salas could do.
The wound took her, her breath leaving her as blood continued to spill out.
Her eyes were like Newt’s, and he wanted to look away from them, but held on at the last moment, because he had to.
He saw it when life left her.
He also saw, with perfect clarity, why this all needed to end. No more death. No more, save for one.
The man rushed forward, the man he needed to kill, knelt beside him and gently pulled him into a sitting position. The blade was pulled from his back and tossed aside.
Salas blinked up at Jovack. The best friend of the Emperor. The man who released geese into the Great Hall. The man who taunted and teased him, as well as saved him. This was the man whose lap he’d laid across while being fed grapes. Who passed him flowers through his garden window.
It wasn’t right, he knew now. His life in Suscon had been…wrong.
But was he so terrible for not wanting to let go of the good?
The world seemed to still.
