Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
A single cough buried in the silence answers.
“You do not believe me? It has already begun, has it not? Where is your thirst for mortal blood? Surely you have noticed it suddenly absent?”
Questioning glances dart around the room. Both immortals and humans seem equally mystified but for different reasons.
Malachi stands and paces around the two thrones. “You were growing too dependent on the mortals, and with this wicked Ybarisan poison spawned by Aoife—a curse upon these lands!—you were vulnerable. That is why it no longer plagues you. Because I made it so.”
“How?” a male voice challenges, the source hidden.
Malachi’s gaze narrows. “Who asked this question?”
But no one raises their hand or steps forward.
His lips curve in a wicked smile as he leisurely descends the steps. He finds their fear amusing. “I have brought freedom to the people of Islor!”
One by one, the crowd erupts in polite applause, but there is no missing their wariness.
Their doubt.
The main doors swing open and the guards herd in five prisoners. Their clothing, though filthy, mark them as nobility.
“Ah, the eastern lords who have stirred so much trouble for my realm.” Malachi holds his hands out in a welcoming gesture. “Remove their chains so they may come forward.”
The prisoners exchange uneasy glances with one another and those in the crowd as they’re unshackled. They take measured steps down the aisle.
Malachi regards them one by one for long beats. “Swear fealty to me, and you shall live.”
A lord with black hair and pale skin clears his throat before he plasters on a wide, fake smile. “Your Highness, if I may be so bold as to ask what your claim to the—”
With a flick of Malachi’s wrist, a rope of flame lashes out and slices through the lord’s throat as precisely as a blade. His head topples from his shoulders a second before his body buckles to the floor, the lethal wound cauterized by the fire.
Screams fill the throne room as the head rolls along the aisle.
My stomach clenches. Fates know I am no delicate flower where delivering death is concerned, but Elijah has always played the diplomat, choosing words over violence. He would never serve a punishment so callously.
Malachi pats the air, calling for calm. “Now, now. Let us not pretend that we do not all know of Lord Adley’s treachery. He has long since proven he cannot be trusted. It is unfortunate that neither of the previous kings had the gall to do what needed to be done, but I promise you, I shall not allow such a poison to seep into my realm.” He turns his attention to the young, raven-haired female who stares at the decapitated body in horror. He must have been someone special to her. “Lady Saoirse of Kettling.”
It’s a moment before she seems to hear the address and then her head snaps up. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“Do I have your fealty?”
She drops to her knees without pause, bowing her head, and the other prisoners follow an instant after.
Malachi nods with satisfaction. “In answer to Lord Adley’s bold question, my claim to the throne is that it is mine, as Islor has always been mine, for I am King Malachi, and I am here to rule that which I created.” His deep, booming voice ricochets around the room. “Now, let us all feast tonight, so we may rebuild Islor tomorrow. Peace has come at last!” He throws his arms up and every torch within the great room swells with flame.
A muted cheer rises among the ranks.
He turns and raises a hand toward me. “May I present to you, Her Highness Queen Sofie, the first key caster ever to wear Islor’s crown.”
Gasps fill the room.
“Come, my love,” he beckons over the noise.
I collect my skirts and take the stairs slowly. It’s been some time since I donned such a weighty gown. Centuries.
A guard charges in just as I reach the bottom of the steps. “My apologies, Your Highness,” he stutters. “But the flying beast is back. It circles the city.” He frowns. “Only, I don’t know if it’s the same one.”
“I imagine we will have guests. We must greet them.” Malachi hums, unconcerned. He takes my hand and leads me down the aisle, pausing at a frail, middle-aged woman in tattered clothes, her bandaged hand cradled against her chest. She sits next to a guard. A caster, I realize, sensing the buzz of her affinity.
She trembles under his attention, keeping her focus on the floor.
“I believe I have you to thank. You played a vital part in allowing me the opportunity to return.”
The caster swallows, and then bobs. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Come,” he orders. “Old friends are here to pay a visit.”
She stands on shaky legs, sparing me nothing more than a fleeting glance before her eyes regard her feet again.
Malachi steps around Lord Adley’s loose head and then pauses. “On second thought … where are my manners? I should bring a gift.”