Page 98 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

“Skylar, no!” Her mother’s anguished cry tore through the air. “Lyinell, I beg you, ignore her. This is between us.”

The King paused, his sword hovering mere inches from Skylar’s throat. His eyes raked over her kneeling form, a predatory gleam igniting in their depths. “The father’s power and the mother’s beauty…” he mused, a cruel smile twisting his features. “An intriguing combination.”

Before Skylar could respond, the King’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in her hair. Pain lanced through her scalp as he yanked her to her feet, bringing her face close to his. His breath was hot against her skin, reeking of wine and malice. Tears of shame and anger burned in Skylar’s eyes, but she refused to look away, meeting his gaze with defiant hatred.

“You know,” King Lyinell hissed, his lips barely moving, “I always wondered what it would be like to break your mother, but she proved… disappointingly resilient. But you, my dear? I think you’ll do nicely.”

Skylar’s stomach churned with revulsion, bile rising in her throat. She opened her mouth, ready to spit in the King’s face, when a familiar sound cut through the air.

The whistle of an arrow in flight.

Thorncrest again?

Skylar couldn’t turn her head, couldn’t see anything from the corner of her eyes. She watched, frozen in disbelief, as an arrow sprouted from King Lyinell’s neck. The King’s eyes widened in shock, his grip on Skylar’s hair loosening as he stumbled backward. A gurgling sound escaped his lips, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

Skylar whirled around, her heart racing.

There.

Arye.

His expression was calm, almost disinterested, as he tossed aside a bow, letting it clatter to the floor beside a fallen Thorncrest archer. The sound echoed in the sudden, deathly silence that had fallen over the ballroom.

With deliberate slowness, Arye drew his sword—no, her sword, the one they had exchanged what felt like a lifetime ago. The scrape of steel against scabbard sent shivers down Skylar’s spine as he strode towards his father, its point scratching against the marble floor as he dragged it. Sparks flew with each step, tiny flashes of light in the dimness.

Skylar stood rooted to the spot, her mind reeling. She waited for the familiar pull of the curse, the compulsion to protect the King that had been ingrained in her very being, no matter if she wanted or not.

But there was… nothing.

No urge to defend. No instinct to intervene. Just a hollow emptiness where the Gryphon’s presence had once resided.

Arye’s voice, cold and filled with barely contained rage, broke the silence. “I had hoped to give you a few more months, Father. To crown me properly, to maintain some semblance of dignity in your final days.” His eyes flickered to Skylar briefly. “But you crossed a line. You dared to touch what’s mine. Made her beg. Made her cry.”

King Lyinell, sprawled on the blood-slicked floor, clawed at the arrow in his throat. His mouth worked soundlessly, desperately trying to form words that wouldn’t come. The once-mighty ruler reduced to a pathetic, gurgling mess.

Arye’s boot connected with the King’s chest, forcing him onto his back. “You know,” Arye continued, his tone conversational despite the hatred burning in his eyes, “I’ve imagined this moment for years. How I would end your miserable life. Butnow that it’s here…” He paused, a cruel smile playing at his lips. “There’s nothing left to say. We’ll see each other in hell, father.”

With a swift, merciless thrust, Arye plunged Skylar’s sword into the King’s chest. The blade sank deep, its jeweled hilt coming to rest against King Lyinell’s breastbone. For a moment, the only sound in the ballroom was the wet gurgle of the King’s final breath.

Then, silence.

Absolute and suffocating.

Arye straightened, his gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles. “Does anyone,” he asked, his voice deceptively calm, “have any objections to my ascension to the throne?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. The threat in his tone was clear as crystal, brooking no argument. No one dared to speak.

Finally, Captain Knox stepped forward, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. “Your Highness—Your Majesty,” he corrected himself, dropping to one knee. His armor creaked with the movement, spattered with blood both fresh and drying. “What are your orders?”

Arye’s eyes flickered to the Captain, a hint of approval in his gaze. “Begin immediate conscription and muster the full forces. Set up a camp near the border.” He glanced at Skylar. “Anything else, Duchess Anathemark?”

Skylar looked up, surprised by her title. “We need to create supply lines and prepare our siege equipment.” Her eyes fell on Princess Quince’s severed head, still lying where Arye had tossed it. “And send the Princess’s remains back to Thorncrest. That should be message enough.”

“You heard her.” Arye’s gaze swept over the wounded nobles, then dropped to Skylar’s bloodied skin. A flicker of concern passed over his features. “Send healers as well.”

“At once, Your Majesty, Your Grace,” the Captain replied, rising to his feet.

A satisfied smirk curved Arye’s lips as he turned back to Skylar. He extended his hand, an invitation and a claim all at once. “My Queen,” he said softly, but loud enough for all to hear.

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