Unlike Arnik, Dyter was unmarred of any signs of recent torture, though he bore plenty of scars from serving in Emperor Draedyn’s war, scars I knew from memory. Dyter’s eyes widened as he saw me between two of the Druman surrounding him. Even with my silver hair and violet eyes, and in the enemy’s navy aketon, he recognized me.

My gaze shifted from him to his companion, and my mouth dropped. It was the twenty-something blond man from The Crane’s Nest. The young man who’d paid for his soup in coin.

“Ah, you’re feeling better,” the king said with a smile.

I turned to face him but blinked as I did so. I peered at the young man and then back at the king.

Even from across the room I could see the tightness in the king’s features. “You see the family resemblance, I gather,” he said, voice cold. “It seems my son, Irtevyn, hasn’t been fighting at the frontlines of the emperor’s war like I thought but rather plotting to overthrow his father, instead.”

His son was plotting to overthrow him? But . . . that would make the young man, Cal. I gasped, and something huge clicked into place. Cal was this man’s child?

I’d come here to face the music for trying to escape and for killing Jotun, but the king hadn’t yelled at me, and I wondered if he knew.

Dyter leaned forward. “Ryn?”

His tentative question and familiar voice were a crushing weight to my chest. Be quiet, Dyter, I begged him silently. I hung my head, squeezing my eyes shut, but when Dyter said my name again, I couldn’t ignore him. Everyone had heard by now.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to him. Sorry for Mum’s death, sorry I’d been captured, sorry Arnik was dead, sorry the rebellion had failed, and sorry Dyter was about to die now, too, because he had uttered my name and confirmed to the king that we knew each other.

“I see you’re acquainted, so introductions won’t be necessary. I’m sure everyone in my entire kingdom is aware of the penalties of treason.” He scowled at his son. “There are no exceptions.”

Cal raised his chin. “I wouldn’t expect anything else of you, Father. But know that it doesn’t end with me. The people are tired of your oppressive rule. You can kill me and my first today, but another will rise up tomorrow. Your time is nearing its end, and whether I watch it here in Verald or from the stars, I will watch you fall, and I will cheer.”

As the crown prince spoke, Irdelron’s face reddened, darker and darker. “You speak of fantasy and dreams, boy, and you always have. This is reality: There is no one with the power to stop me.”

The crown prince smirked. “You’re wrong, old man. There are Drae, besides the one you’ve poisoned and corrupted, as well as Phaetyn in hiding. They’ll join together, and they’ll destroy you.”

The king laughed, a harsh bray. “You know nothing. I have the only Phaetyn, right here,” he said, pointing at me. “And we all know Drae cannot harm their own, if indeed you have more, which I doubt. Your pitiful rebellion will be gone within the week. Lord Irrik will obliterate the rest of the peasants, and that’s all you’ll be seeing in the sky. You and your pathetic, decrepit first,” he mocked.

The insult to Dyter was enough to spark my anger.

“You believe your own propaganda. You’re—”

“Enough!” King Irdelron yelled.

The king was going to kill Cal. He was going to kill Dyter. It would happen in the coming minutes. When that happened, he’d send Irrik out and obliterate Cal’s rebellion. I wasn’t under the same delusions Cal seemed to be. If he died today, there was no tomorrow for the rebellion. He was the myth, the uniting factor, and if it was not him, it wouldn’t be anyone. If Dyter died today, I would cease to exist. I saw this clearly as calm acceptance settled over me. If Cal died, the kingdom of Verald died with him—what was left of it. My breathing became shallow, and the knife strapped underneath my borrowed aketon burned.

The doors to the throne room crashed open, and Lord Irrik strode in.

“My Drae?” Irdelron snarled, but his face paled as Irrik drew closer and what he was dragging became visible.

Dressed in his black aketon, the muscles of Irrik’s bare arms were taught as he hauled Jotun’s body behind him. The dead Druman’s face was still covered in dried rivulets of blood. The red moisture was splattered on his skin. In Irrik’s other hand, he carried a round object wrapped in black fabric. As he stepped up to the foot of the king’s dais, next to me, something dripped from the bottom of the makeshift bag and puddled on the floor.

“What is this?” the king demanded.

For the first time since I’d been in the castle, the king’s voice quivered.

Irrik threw Jotun’s body, and it came to land sprawled across the bottom two steps of the raised platform. “His body was in the passageway of the interrogation deck.”

Irdelron narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips as he studied Lord Irrik. He glanced at his son and Dyter and then the Druman around me. They melted back several steps.

The silence in the cavernous room added to the weight surrounding us, and the very walls seemed to be holding their breath.

The king turned to me after several moments. This time there was no superficial smile of friendship. The intensity of his fury radiated across the space, and the glower he wore twisted his face beyond the realm of anything I’d ever seen.

I knew he knew, and the calm that had settled over me didn’t waver in the face of his wrath. His rage was almost as sweet as nectar.

He continued to glare at me, but his question was directed at Lord Irrik. “A good try, my Drae. You cannot kill your own blood. My Druman are compelled not to hurt each other, so tell me . . . how did she get loose?”

My heart stopped, and I prayed the consequences of my escape would fall to me.

Irrik dropped the parcel in his other hand next to Jotun’s body. “It appears someone was helping her.”

Lord Irrik pinned me with a dark, veiled look. But my eyes fell to the dripping black bag in his hands. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even breathe because . . . because . . .

Only one person had helped me.

“Tyr,” I choked on my strangled whisper, dropping to my knees.

The king’s growing smile froze. “What did you say, Phaetyn?”

His question rolled right past me. I brought my bloody hands to my lips, eyes fixed on the blood dripping from the saturated material Lord Irrik held. The bag hung with a round weight inside, and I groaned low from my stomach as it occurred to me what and who was inside. My heart would know it. I began to shake. My soul would know it!

By now, my head knew better. Souls only existed so men like the king could destroy them.

“What did you say?” the king screamed, standing up from his throne. His voice rang to me as though from far away, but my eyes lifted to him as he stomped down the first step toward me.

Tyr was gone.

His head was in that bag. His blood was on this ground. And it was this man’s fault.

Something deep within me snapped. I was done being a victim of this man’s brutality. I was finished having him steal everyone I loved.

Five steps stood between us.

My hand grasped the dagger, pulling it from the leather sheath underneath my stolen aketon. Irdelron was still moving toward me.

Four steps away.

Three steps.

He stood over Jotun’s body, screaming profanities.

Two steps.

I stood and lunged at him, shrieking at the top of my lungs, half in anticipation of killing and half in soul-deep pain.

I thrust.

The blade slid into the king’s abdomen like it was butter, and he stiffened, gasping in shock. His hand wrapped around mine, his grip crushing my fingers to the hilt of the blade, but I barely felt it. My wild gaze was fixed on him, lapping up the pain in his eyes with desperate hunger.

Grasping my hand in an iron vice, he forced the dagger out, with me still attached.

He dug his thumb into the groove of my wrist, and a stabbing pain shot up my arm, causing my fingers to reflexively relax. I would not let go of this weapon until he or I died, or both of us. I owed it to Tyr. For what could have been.

Irdelron torqued my wrist, the pressure driving me to my knees. “How dare you?”

His blood oozed from the wound I’d created, saturating his white aketon. This time it was his own blood. And I had drawn it. Panting, he struck me with his other hand. My stomach churned, and bursts of white exploded behind my eyelids.

“Irrik!” Irdelron growled. “I require your talons, my Drae.”

I stared at the seeping red spot on the king’s side, willing it to grow faster, to drain him of his strength and energy, to end his life. But if will alone was enough to make things happen, I would have been gone from this place long ago.

“I will not,” Irrik said in a quiet voice.

The king chuckled, relaxing his grip enough that I was able to blink the room back into focus.

Dyter was struggling against three Druman. He stared at me with wide eyes, scarred face blanched in horror. The prince, also surrounded by the king’s guard, studied me as if I were a puzzle, which I assumed meant he was ignorant of my Phaetyn nature.

Tyr was gone.

I longed to see his hooded face, his wry smile. My heart yearned to feel his lips on mine one last time. We’d shared one kiss. . . I’d hoped to share many more with him.

Irrik tossed the black bag, and my throat squeezed in horror as it hit the ground with a sickening squelch and the head inside rolled out. I didn’t want to see further evidence of his death or Irrik’s forced cruelty, but never once had I seen Tyr’s full face, and I wanted this one last thing before I died. I swallowed the lump of emotion at the back of my throat and let my gaze go to the decapitated head.

I blinked, my mind refusing to accept that the face of the Druman before me was Tyr. He was nothing like I’d pictured him. I tilted my head to the side, examining the young man’s face. His dusky skin was smooth, but his lips seemed thinner than I remembered, and his chin . . .

The king released my hand and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat.

“Kill her!” he screamed. “I command you. I invoke the power of your oath to me. Slay this traitor.”

My gaze collided with Lord Irrik’s dark eyes. The Drae stepped toward me, lips pursed, his eyes filled with haunted sadness. He was the bringer of death, and he would deliver me from the torment of King Irdelron. “Don’t be sad,” I said, choking on the words. I would be in the stars with Mum and Arnik in the blink of an eye. “I’ll be free.”

“Už ti nikdy neubližujem,” Irrik said, shaking his head. He held out his hand, and as he stretched his fingers, his skin darkened, his hand shifted, and black talons appeared on the end of his scaly digits. Razor sharp.

“Make it fast,” I wheezed.

Lord Irrik broke eye contact with me, and then he lunged forward.

I closed my eyes, feeling the whooshing air of his movement brush my cheeks. The hair on the top of my head rippled. I felt the warmth of Irrik’s body, and his terrible snarl echoed in my ears. The last sound I would ever hear.

I wasn’t afraid.