Page 88 of The Last Heir of Elsewhere

The assassin slashed the air in front of me with his long sword, and I met his strike with my own blade. Everything Ambrose had taught me flew from my mind, yet somehow, the memory of the movements had not left my muscles.

We danced across the balcony, his long sword clashing against my short dagger, each strike echoing through the night. My breaths came in quick gasps as we danced and dodged, both determined to win this fight. As I parried his blows, my heart thumped wildly in my chest, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

With each clash, I wove my way closer, reading the attacker’s rhythm. Their strength was formidable, but it was brute force, lacking the subtle artistry of true skill.

Seizing an opening, I feigned right, and the assailant took the bait, lunging with a thrust meant to end me. But I was no longer there; In the space of a faltering heartbeat, I struck back.

My dagger found home, plunging into the throat of the mysterious attacker, and he finally let out a single, long shriek.

I dragged my blade downward, and the man crumbled onto the ground. Quickly, I crouched atop his chest, my own breath heaving as he sputtered and died, blood pouring out across the terrace.

“Are you harmed?” I asked the queen without looking back.

She was ominously silent, and I glanced back to look at her, forgetting for a moment that I would learn nothing from her covered face. She appeared to be uninjured, and the red splatters of blood on the ground and my dress did not seem to have any effect on her equally crimson robe.

My chest heaved, and a cold realization washed over me as my adrenaline slipped away. I looked down at the assassin beneath me.

This close, the darkness was no longer able to hide his identity, and with a gasp I recognized his too-green, snake-like eyes.

The servant from earlier.

Unfortunately, his identity provided more questions than it answered. Why? What did the servant have against me? Or, perhaps I was not the target, but the queen was.

Moreover, Ambrose had just told me that the king could see everything that went on in his castle. Why then, had he allowed not only me, but his own wife to be attacked?

It seemed entirely too obvious.

This was intentional.

A test.

And I wasn’t sure if I’d passed or failed.

35

LONNIE

UNDERNEATH

Ithrew open the doors to the banquet hall, and a dozen eyes turned to me.

I let them stare, feeding off their shock as I crossed the threshold with purpose etched into every stride.

On the balcony, I’d remembered the conversation that Bael and Scion and I had back in the inn. My dagger was not made from Source-forged metal, which could mean that the assassin would heal his wounds and eventually wake. However, as Scion had told me, there were very few creatures who could live without their heads.

I strode toward the table, my head high, and for once I didn’t mind the weight of the obsidian crown. Blood from my blade, and the gift I’d brought the king dripped onto the floor, leaving a long crimson trail behind me.

King Gancanagh rose, his regal composure marred by a frown that seemed out of place in his court of mirth and splendor. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice the crack of an unyielding whip.

“Lonnie!” Ambrose exclaimed, seeming to forget he’d aimed to hide my identity.

He jumped to his feet and rushed forward, but I brushed him off, my gaze fixed firmly on the king.

Approaching the table, each step was a deliberate punctuation in the silence that had befallen the room. The nobles recoiled as if I were a tempest unleashed. And perhaps, at that moment, I was.

I stopped before the king, and with a flourish, I dropped the head in the center of the table. It rolled across the polished wood, and came to rest before the king, its sightless, snake-like eyes accusing. “Your hospitality is unmatched, King Gancanagh.”

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