Page 139 of The Rebel and the Rose
Monster.
Sera’s temper flared, stoking the well of her magic.
There is a wrongness in fate’s tapestry. A thread that does not belong, it whispered Saint Oriel’s words to her.You must pull it out.
Heart thundering, she strained against the ropes binding her wrists. They bit into her skin, leaving deep red welts.
His voice arcing, Andreas turned towards the dais. ‘Tonight, in celebration of my uncle’s birthday, we will welcome him into retirement and celebrate a new golden era in our kingdom. Here sit the first members of my royal court. My fiery Valterran rose, Seraphine Marchant, and the Hand of Death itself, Lark Delano. My maker and her saint. The first of many more to come.’
Murmurs of unease rippled through the crowd as the meaning of his words sank in.
‘Rot in hell, Andreas!’ The cry tripped off her tongue before she could help it. ‘Your silky words won’t work on me.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Andreas moved to stand in front of his uncle. ‘Are you enjoying your farewell party, Uncle?’ he asked the stone-faced king. ‘It’s growing quite stuffy in here, is it not?’
The king gave no answer.
The prince snapped his fingers at a nearby soldier. ‘Open the balcony doors. Let some fresh sea air in.’
A moment later, the doors groaned open, revealing a breathtaking view of the moonlit South Sea. Marred by four hanging bodies.
Cries of horror filled the ballroom.
‘SILENCE!’ shouted the prince.
The nobles choked on their whimpers, at once wrangled into unnerving quiet. Sera recognized those hanging bodies, even from a distance. The king’s royal advisers. Hissilent quartet. How true that was now. The kills appeared fresh, the men dangling from the ledge above the doors by their necks.
Sera glanced at the king. His eyes had turned glassy, his skin so pale he looked bloodless.
‘Do you regret your callous treatment of me yet, Uncle?’ Andreas called out. ‘Your selfish disregard for your only nephew? Your barely contained disdain for my dear mother? All these years, you’ve held Valterre in the palm of your greasy hand, leaving the capital at the mercy of the twisted festering magic of Shade. Content to sit in your palace and gorge yourself on your own people’s fear. The tides of fate havechanged. Valterre no longer bends its knee to greedy, cowardly kings but to blessed saints.’ He canted his head. ‘Today, I will take what is mine.’
The king said nothing, only watched in passive silence as the prince crooked his finger. ‘Come. Give me your crown.’
Rising on trembling legs, the king stood like a puppet yanked on a string. He drifted down the steps towards his nephew. In one fluid movement, he ripped the crown from his own head and placed it on his nephew’s. It shone as golden as his eyes.
Andreas removed the sword from his belt and handed it to his uncle. Looking directly at Sera now, he crooned, ‘And now, your heart.’
There was a collective intake of breath.
The king hesitated, confused.
‘Andreas,’ hissed Sera. ‘If you do this, there’s no going back.’
Through his teeth, Andreas said, ‘Cut. It. Out.’
With ruthless efficiency, the King of Valterre took the sword and drove it into his own chest. Falling to his knees, he continued his impossible task, attempting to cut through muscle and bone and sinew, but there was so much blood pouring out, his grip slackened.
The sound of retching filled the ballroom. Guests began to faint, hitting the floor in a chorus of dull thuds. Bibi was hyperventilating, clutching onto Val for dear life.
Digging her fingernails into the armrests, Sera fought to hold her nerve. Even as her magic became a furnace in her chest, burning hotter than ever before.
Pull it out! Pull it out! Pull it out!
Wrinkling his nose at the growing pool of blood, Andreas stepped backwards. ‘Watch the boots, Uncle.’
The king swayed, his hands falling to his sides. He looked up at his nephew, and with his mouth full of blood, drew a final, wet gasp.
His body hit the ground like a sack of grain.
