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I opened Draven’s door. He looked up from the chair by the fireside, saw me, and lurched toward the fireside set. I scooped a vase off a nearby sideboard and flung it with well-practiced accuracy. It smashed over his head, raining water and flowers over his shoulders. He grunted, staggered, almost fell into the roaring fire, and reached for the poker.
“Let’s dance, then,traitor.”
I snatched the poker away from his fingers and spun, cracking it against the backs of his knees. He barked a cry and dropped. I straddled his legs from behind him, clutched the poker in both hands, pulled it down over his head, and yanked it up, under his chin, against his throat, jerking his head back against my chest.
I had him.
His hands flailed, trying to grab behind him.
He choked and snarled, growling like an animal. I yanked tighter and pressed my cheek to his. “You think you know me, Draven? Do you believe Razak told you everything, or just what he wanted you to hear? You have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of. But you are about to find out. I’m going to hurt you in ways you can’t imagine. My only regret is Arin isn’t here to witness your death.”
He roared, reached back, caught my arm, and bent double, throwing me forward over his head. I hit the floor, flat on my back, blinking up at Draven’s rage-twisted face. Damn his strength. I smacked the poker across his jaw, and as he reeled, I flipped onto my front.
Draven bolted for the bedside cabinet—probably going for a weapon. I had to stop him now.
I ran after him, swung the poker like a bat, and cracked it across the side of his head.
He tripped, spilling onto the bed. I snatched a fistful of shirt, pulled him around, and jammed the poker’s tip under his chin, clamping his jaw shut.
“Stay down,” I panted.
He glared but didn’t struggle. He could have reached out and gripped my neck; we were close enough, and his arms were free at his sides. But he didn’t move, didn’t try and push me off, just panted and glared, surrendering under me.
“Do it,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
Blood dribbled down the side of his face.
“Kill me,” he added, in case I’d missed the point.
I wanted to. A step back, a final swing, and I’d shatter his skull. But why had he stopped fighting? He could kick me off, wrestle me for the poker. We stared at each other, breathing hard, each waiting for the other to make the next move.
“Under the bed,” he said, dropping his chin as much as the poker allowed.
“What?”
“Check under the bed.”
What trick was this?
“You’re going to want to see,” he said.
I huffed. “I’ve knelt in front of you once before, Warlord. I’m not doing it again.”
“I won’t hurt you, Lark.”
What was this? He seemed sincere, but he’d always been sincere. “Oh fine.” I shoved off him, putting safe space between us, and kept the poker pointed at him. “If this is a trick, I will rip your balls off and roast them on that fire.”
He gave an exasperated growl, dropped to his knees, hauled a traveling case from under the bed, and shoved it across the floor, toward me.
I stopped its slide under my boot. It didn’t look important. Just a deep-sided tan leather case.
“Open it.” He slumped back against the bed and dabbed at his bloody head. “Do it, Lark. And then kill me. It’s all I deserve.”
“If it’s full of scorpions, so help me Draven—” I kicked open the lid.
The Court of War’s black and red crown hadn’t lost any of its vicious aesthetic for being dumped into a simple traveling case. Was this a fever dream, because Draven could not have one of the four courtly crowns hidden under his bed. Not even Draven was that foolish.
“Say something,” he demanded.
