Page 131 of Merciless Is My Crown

Pounding boots rushed down the hall toward us. Crux hadn’t even closed the door before a soldier hissed, “The old commander was spotted inside the Keep. He’d almost infiltrated the throne room when a sharp-eyed guard spotted him. They have him detained, but he’s tearing through guards like they’re butter.”

“Your diversion didn’t work,” Crux sneered. “We’ve been waiting for something like this, and you walked right into my arms, little princess. You and your traitorous friends, and now…” His eyes flashed with something too terrifying to name. “Lyrae and I will paint the Shadow King’s throne with your blood.”

“Don’t get too cocky.” Tavion lazily opened one eye. “You still have to capture Zor and he’s going to kick your fucking arse, Crux. I only wish I was there to see it.”

By the time they dragged Zorander into the cell and tossed him on the floor beside Tavion, he was bleeding from so many places I couldn’t even tell where the wounds were, only that he’d been painted in blood.

“Good plan, Anaria,” Zor muttered, trying to right himself despite his hands shackled behind his back. “Worked out perfectly.”

“Thank the gods they didn’t catch…oh.” My voice trailed off as Raziel was tossed in next, his body hitting the floor so hard the stone walls shuddered around us. I crashed onto my knees and frantically ran my hands over him, thanking all the gods my hands were bound in front of me.

“He’s just unconscious.” I laid my palm over Raz’s chest, sucking in a quick gasp of relief at the sure, steady beat thundering against my skin.

“Today is the best day of my career.” Crux looked drunk when he raked us with his dark gaze, that gloating smile a now-permanent fixture on his brutish face. “I’m getting a promotion for this, guaranteed. My name will go down in history for singlehandedly catching you traitors and foiling a plot against the king.”

“And what makes you think there’s a plot against the king?” I asked softly. “I’m here to report our success back to my fake father after I saved your armies from being totally decimated.”

“Because I received word from Caladrius.” Lyrae stepped into the room behind Crux, her silky black hair hanging in a perfectly smooth sheath, cold eyes skimming over us with cool loathing. “From my contact there.”

I winced beneath that icy stare. Her contact. The Oracle.

“You came here to assassinate the Shadow King and claim his throne. You wish to usurp his power and make it yours like you did to his brother in Caladrius.” Her cold smile grew frostier and a little superior.

“I know everything, little princess. But now your plotting is over.”

She ran her hand up Crux’s arm with a purr. “And soon enough, all of Solarys will see you for exactly what you are.”

53

TRISTAN

I’d hated this fucking city from the first time I’d seen it.

Over six hundred years ago now and nothing had changed.

If anything, the cesspool had only gotten worse. Blackcastle certainly smelled worse, my nose wrinkling at the jumble of odors that hit my senses, offal and rotten food and the body odor of ten thousand unwashed Fae soldiers in filthy uniforms.

The stagnant army stretched out around me as far as I could see, from the Keep’s fortified wall to the North Road, a solid wall of military might that the refugees, farmers, and asylum seekers had to navigate before reaching the comparative safety of the city.

Until they realized Blackcastle was a bigger, more dangerous trap.

I measured the position of the morning sun, barely an outline behind the clouds.

A few more minutes to go.

I’d been camped out here since yesterday, monitoring the guards patrolling the wall around the Keep. Anaria’s strategy should be well underway, and if everything was going to plan, it was almost time for the most critical part.

The one none of us could control.

I pulled the hood of my stolen cloak down tighter and huddled between the wagons, just a grunt soldier trying to get some shut-eye, arms crossed over my chest, snoring softly every time someone wandered too close.

Letting the minutes drip past slow as honey, a faint hint of Anaria’s scent washed over me, probably from the last time I’d touched her. And just like that my jagged edges settled back into place, frayed nerves turning to resolve, fear to icy concentration.

She’d die for us, and we’d die for her.

That had, unintentionally and subconsciously, always, I realized, been the plan. That we’d rid this world of ruthless, evil kings and the blight that were the Old Gods, but in the process we’d all pay with our lives. Somewhere along the line, I’d resigned myself to that fate.

But Cosimo’s words stuck with me like mud caked on my boots.

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