The throne room of Ocean Hill looks out over the city, across blue rooftops and white walls, all the way down to the harbor. Grand windows arch over the king’s seat, flooding the chamber with the golden light of late afternoon. It gives everything an almost dreamlike quality, as if this moment isn’t real. Part of me thinks I might wake up to the darkness of this morning, before we set out for Province. Before the war was so easily won, and a life so easily traded.
Cal didn’t say anything about Salin Iral afterward, but he didn’t have to. I know him well enough to understand how much the memory weighs on him. A disgraced lord, but a lord all the same, drowned and murdered in payment for Cal’s brother. It hasn’t gone easy for Cal. But looking at King Tiberias the Seventh, no one would be able to tell.
He sits on his father’s throne, tall against the diamondglass chair, looking like flame itself in his crimson and black. The windows make his silhouette glow, and I wonder if one of his guards is a Haven shadow, manipulating the light to create an image of power and strength. It’s certainly working. He seems a king, like his father. Like Maven never was.
I despise the sight. The shimmering throne, the simple crown on his head. Rose gold, like his grandmother’s. Finer than iron. More elegant. Less violent. A crown for peace, not war.
Farley and I sit side by side, to the left of the throne with Davidson and his Montfort attendants. On the right, at Cal’s hand, is Anabel, her seat closer to the throne than any other. House Samos sits near her, clustered around another king.
I wonder how long Volo Samos spent constructing his own throne of steel and pearly metal. The materials weave in intricate braids of silver and white, studded with the occasional flash of black jet. My lips twitch at the thought of the Samos king wasting hours of his day to make a chair. As always, the pageantry of Silvers never ceases to amaze.
Evangeline seems oddly nervous next to her father. Usually she delights in these things, content to watch and be watched. Instead she can’t sit still, her fingers twitching and one foot tapping slightly beneath the folds of her gown. I wonder what she knows, or suspects. It can’t be Davidson’s offer. He hasn’t extended it yet, not until he’s sure we’ll need her. Still, her dark gray eyes flash back and forth, searching the hall. And always returning to the tall doors thrown wide at the far end of the chamber, open to the receiving halls of the palace. A crowd idles outside them, Silver and Red, hoping to catch a glimpse inside. I feel myself coil with fear. Evangeline is not one to scare easily.
But I quickly forget all that when Julian enters the hall, his hand on a familiar arm as he guides the royal prisoner toward the throne. Bold murmurs follow, silenced only when the chamber doors swing shut with an echoing thud, separating us from the rest of the palace. Cal isn’t the kind to require an audience, and he’s smart enough to know we shouldn’t have one while he decides his brother’s fate.
Maven doesn’t stumble this time. He holds his head high, even with his wrists bound. I’m remind of a bird of prey, a falcon or an eagle, surveying us all with sharp eyes and sharper talons. But he isn’t a threat. Not without his bracelets. Not without anyone here to follow his command. The guards flanking him are Lerolan, loyal to Cal and Anabel. Not Maven.
I see no way out of this, even for him.
They stop a few yards from Cal’s feet, and Anabel stands, her body casting a long shadow. She draws her eyes over Maven slowly, as if they are knives skinning him alive. “Kneel to your king, Maven,” she says, her voice echoing around the deathly silent chamber.
He tips his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Suddenly I’m back in another palace, staring at a different Calore king. On my knees next to Maven, my hands shackled behind my back as he stands. When he betrayed us all and revealed who his heart truly belonged to.
Maven, help me up.
No, I don’t think so.
Maven Calore chooses his words carefully, and he does so now. Even when they have no meaning, when he has no power left, he can still cause us pain.
On the throne, Cal darkens, one hand curling into a fist. I feel the monster rise up inside me, begging to tear Maven into pieces. Obliterate him. I can’t deny the desire, but I have to. For my sanity. For my humanity.
“Stand if you wish,” Cal finally says, some tension in him releasing again. He waves a hand like he doesn’t care at all. “It doesn’t change where you’re standing. And where I currently sit.”
“Currently, yes,” Maven replies, careful to emphasize his meaning. His eyes glint, cold as ice, hot as blue flame. “I doubt you’ll sit there long.”
“That’s not your concern,” Cal says. “You have committed treason and murder, Maven Calore. Crimes too numerous to name, so I won’t even try.”
Maven just scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Low effort.”
His older brother knows better than to take the easy bait, and he lets the insult slide off. Instead he angles his body, turning toward Davidson as if consulting an adviser, or even a friend.
“Premier, what would his punishment be in your country?” he asks, his face open and inviting. It’s a brilliant show of solidarity, all part of the image Cal is trying to build for himself. A king who unites, rather than destroys. A Silver who looks to Reds for counsel, disdaining the divisions of blood.
It already has consequences.
On his throne, Volo curls his lip, rustling in his robe like an annoyed bird puffing up his feathers. Maven is quick to notice.
“You’re going to allow that, Volo?” he croons. “Standing second to a Red?” His laughter echoes, a sharp sound to cut glass. “How far the House of Samos has fallen.”
Like Cal, Volo has little desire to sink to Maven’s taunting. He stills, crossing his chrome-covered arms over his chest. “I still have a crown, Maven. Do you?”
Maven only sneers in response, one corner of his mouth twitching.
“Execution,” Premier Davidson says firmly, leaning forward. He plants his elbows on the arms of his chair as he shifts for a better view of the fallen, false king. “We punish treason with execution.”
Cal’s eyelids barely flicker. He turns again, leaning to Volo. “Your Majesty, how would you deal with him in the Rift?”
Volo is quick to respond, teeth clicking. Like Evangeline’s, his eyeteeth are capped in pointed silver. “Execution.”
Cal nods. “General Farley?”
“Execution,” she replies, raising her chin.
On the floor below, Maven doesn’t seem bothered by the sentence. Or even surprised. He spares little attention for the premier, or Farley, or Volo. Or even me. Whatever snake coils in his brain has eyes for one person. He stares up at his brother, unblinking, his chest rising and falling in tiny puffs of breath. I forgot how similar they are, even as half brothers. Not just in coloring, but in their fire. Determined, driven. Constructions of their parents. Cal is built from his father’s dreams, and Maven from his mother’s nightmares.
“And what will you do, Cal?” he asks, his voice so low and quiet I almost can’t hear him.
Cal doesn’t hesitate. “Exactly what you tried to do to me.”
Maven almost laughs again. Instead he chuffs out a short breath. “So I’ll die in the arena?”