Page 46 of When Kings Fall

The church is enormous, its high ceilings arching toward the heavens. The stained-glass windows line the walls, the colors muted in the stormy night. I’m dripping wet, blood trailing from my hand, but I’m led inside with no regard for my condition. My uncle doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. We both know what’s coming.

Lightning flashes, casting the church in sharp, fractured light. For a brief moment, the shadows stretch long across the floor, twisting into grotesque shapes before disappearing as quickly as they came. Thunder rumbles in the distance, but it’s muffled by the thick stone walls. The air inside is cold, even colder than the rain outside. My teeth chatter, my body trembling, but I don’t make a sound. I can’t.

The whip cracks through the air, splitting the silence like a gunshot.

The first lash hits my back, and the pain is immediate, searing, like fire licking at my skin. I bite down on my lip, hard enough to draw blood, but the scream forces its way out anyway. The sound echoes off the walls, swallowed by the vastness of the church, but it feels deafening to me. I clutch the edge of the pew in front of me, my nails digging into the wood, but it doesn’t stop the pain. Nothing stops the pain.

Another crack.

Another scream.

The world narrows down to that sound—the sharp snap of the whip, the raw, agonizing pain, the weight of my failure pressing down on me. The storm outside rages on, but it’s distant now, muted by the walls, by the relentless pounding in my head. All I can hear is the crack of the whip, the sound of my own ragged breaths, and the blood roaring in my ears.

I’m nine years old.

Victor’s eyes are locked on mine, his expression a mask of calm. His lips curl into a slight smile, barely perceptible, but I see it. He’s mocking me without saying a word, confident in his control, confident that no matter what happens next, he’s already won. He’s always known how to manipulate, how to turn every situation to his advantage. The weight of the gun in my hand feels heavier with every second, the cold metal biting into my palm, but I don’t lower it. I can’t.

My breath is slow, deliberate, but inside, everything is chaos. The memories of my uncle, of the church, of that whip, churn through my mind, blending with the present, twisting together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.It’s him. It’s always been him.Victor stands there, waiting, his eyes never leaving mine. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows that he’s pushed me to the brink, just like Uncle Andrew did all those years ago. And now, I’m holding the gun.

I glance at Selene, her face pale but determined. She’s standing beside me now, her eyes locked on Victor, but she’s ready. We all are. Niamh is behind us, silent, tense. We knew what this was the moment we stepped into this room. We knew we were dead men walking. There’s no turning back now. No escaping what’s coming.

Victor tilts his head, his voice barely a whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a blade. “There are worse monsters than me, Diarmuid.”

Worse monsters. The words sink into me, twisting in my chest. I know there are. I’ve seen them. I’ve felt their hands on my back, their breath on my neck. I’ve faced them, lived through them. And I know that in moments, I’ll be meeting them again inHell. But at least this time, I won’t be alone. Selene and Niamh—they’ll be with me. We’ll face it together.

But first, we take Victor down.

I tighten my grip on the gun, my finger hovering over the trigger. The room is silent, waiting, the tension so thick it feels like it’s suffocating me. My breath comes slowly, deliberately, each inhale a battle to keep control. I can’t hesitate. I can’t let him win.

Selene shifts beside me, her body tense, and in that moment, something in me snaps. I pull the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening. The recoil jolts up my arm, but I don’t flinch. I watch as the bullet hits Victor, as his body jerks back, the look of shock flashing across his face. For the first time, I see fear in his eyes.Fear.

He stumbles, blood spreading across his chest, dark and vivid. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His knees give way, and he crumples to the floor. Just like that. He’s gone.

I wait. I wait for the retaliation, for the chaos, for the end. But nothing happens. The room is silent. I turn, slowly, my heart still racing, trying to understand why I’m still standing, why the world hasn’t erupted into violence. Why my body hasn’t been torn apart with an onslaught of bullets.

Victor’s men are frozen, their hands raised, their eyes wide. They don’t move. I blink, my mind trying to make sense of it, and then I see them.

Ronan and Lorcan step forward from the shadows, their faces hard, guns raised, their own men slowly melt away from the walls and it’s clear, Victor’s men are outnumbered.

They look at me, then at Victor’s body, and something passes between us. Something unspoken.

“Despite everything,” Ronan says, his voice low, steady, “we know where our loyalties lie.”

Tears burn my eyes. Ronan has put himself in the worst possible situation, but he has done that for me.

I always thought the Hands of Kings was first for all of us, but right now I see that’s not true.

Family comes first. Blood over water, even if that water is blessed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Selene

I STAND AT the window, alone, watching the world outside transform under the pale glow of the waxing moon. The night is quiet, except for the occasional creak of the house settling in the sudden cold. Winter arrived swiftly, unannounced, covering the landscape in a thin sheet of ice that now makes everything shimmer—frozen blades of grass, skeletal trees, rooftops. The world feels fragile as ifit might shatter if I touch it. But inside, something stirs that I haven’t felt before.

I trace a finger along the frosted glass. I’ve been so reckless, so careless with my own life, and now I’m left wondering why. All this time, I thought it didn’t matter; I didn’t matter. But that was before. Before I thought I might lose Diarmuid. Before I thought Niamh would die alongside him. The memory of those moments still clings to me like the cold in the air, and I feel it deep in my chest—a fear, a need I didn’t recognize until it was too late.

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