Page 23 of When Kings Fall

Maybe that’s why Sophia’s murder feels like a twisted kind of relief. It’s awful, and yet—it’s a distraction, something else to focus on. Something outside of myself, my past, and this tangled mess of feelings. Her death, tragic as it is, has given me a reason to be consumed by something else.

I know why I’m like this. My whole existence has been transactional. Every moment of affection between me and my parents was a payment, a bribe for the fact that they never intended for me to belong to myself. They weren’t loving me; they were salving their guilt.

They sold their shame, their failures, their greed, and I was the price they paid to secure their way into the Hands of Kings. That’s what I am—just the cost of entry.

Once, I think I believed in the general goodness of people. I used to think people did things just to be kind, out of some innate generosity. But now? Now, I see the truth. The truth of my birth has clouded everything. It’s hard to believe in goodness when your very existence is a transaction.

Even my grandparents, who I love—god, I love them more than I can ever say—there’s always a small, poisoned part of me that whispers they only dote on me out of shame. Shame for what their son and daughter-in-law did to me, the way they rejected me. Maybe they’re trying to make up for it, or maybe they just feel responsible.

But then, there’s Diarmuid. And Niamh.

They do things for me without asking for anything in return. They’re kind, patient, and there...but I’m always tense around them, waiting for the moment they’ll hand me the invoice. I expect it, always—the day they ask for payment for all the help, all the kindness. But it hasn’t come. Not once. Not a word has been spoken about it.

I should trust it. I want to trust it.

But I can’t.

I’m not ready.

I flip through the notes again, eyes scanning over Sophia's time at university, her internship with Cóisir Amárach, and the countless interactions she had with Tyrone Lynch. The details blur together. It's all there, clear as day, but it feels like I'm staring at nothing.

With a sigh, I close the folder. I should be focusing. Iwantto focus—for Sophia's sake. But even now, I can’t help but wonder if I’m really doing this for her or for me.

There’s this gnawing feeling inside me, this ugly little voice that asks:Are you just using her death as an excuse?

I don’t know the answer. Maybe I am being selfish. Maybe I’m taking all these risks not just to expose the truth but because part of me has no value for my own life. It’s almost as if I want to throw myself into danger just to spite my parents.

Look at me now, I want to scream.Look at what I’ve become because of you.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop. Why the risk feels...worth it. The more everyone warns me to stay away, to let it go, the more determined I am to push forward.

Against all the rational warnings in my head, I grab my jacket and leave. I already know Diarmuid’s put more security on me since the kidnapping. He thinks I don’t know, but it’s obvious. Getting out unnoticed is nearly impossible.

And I fail. Miserably.

Now I’ve got not one, but two tails shadowing me. They keep their distance, but they’re there, hovering like unwanted ghosts. I’m driven into the heart of the city, lights flashing by as we pass one bustling shop after another. The streets are alive, vibrant, and here I am, stuck in the back of this car with no real way to escape.

I bite the inside of my cheek, tension building in my jaw. I have to get away from them. I need space to think, to breathe.

“Can we stop at the coffee shop up ahead?” I ask. My voice sounds calm, but inside I’m already working on a plan.

The car slows, and my pulse picks up. I could go inside, pretend I’m using the bathroom, and then sneak out a window. But then I see it—a city bus, slowing to a stop just past the coffee shop.

I stare at it for a second, heart pounding in my ears. A bus. I can lose them on the bus.

Before I can second-guess myself, I shove the car door open and sprint. My boots hit the pavement hard, each step echoing in my chest. I dash toward the bus, waving wildly at the driver as the doors begin to close.

“Wait!” I yell, breathless. “Wait, please!”

The driver glances at me through the glass, eyebrows raised. He pauses, then opens the doors again. I stumble inside, panting, feeling the adrenaline surge through my veins.

“Hurry! Hurry!” I gasp, turning back toward the street. “There are men after me!”

The bus speeds away, rattling over the uneven city streets as I slump into the seat, playing the part of the frightened victim. My breath still comes quickly, but I force it to slow, steadying myself. The older woman across the aisle eyes me with a mix of concern and sympathy. I see the moment she decides to act—her hand already reaching for her phone.

"Do you want me to call An Garda?" she offers gently, her voice full of concern.

I blink, feigning the shock of someone in distress. "No, no, it’s okay," I stammer, pulling out my own phone. "I’ll call them myself. Thank you."

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