Page 104 of The King's Queen

Irene was blessed, there was no way for Ophelus to kill her. Not without using dark magic. Not without losing his mind.

“Ophelus, please. Stop,” she begged, her fingers slowly reaching for her gun. Her beloved didn’t even look her way, just narrowed his gaze on his wife, who lay writhing on the ground. She held Rowan closer to her chest as the queen began to scream silently. Her mouth dropped open as she choked on her blood, and her eyes rolled back. Emilie stood with Rowan in her arms, cocking her pistol. Rowan’s wooden sword clattered to the floor.

The king’s attention snapped to them.

His eyes softened, the first sign of him she’d seen all day. “Emilie-“

“Don’t,” she warned, raising the pistol to her chest. “Don’t come any closer. King or not, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

“I was saving you,” he begged. Tears dripped down her cheeks, mingling with her blood. She whispered for Rowan to close his eyes and cover his ears. He nodded, but his gaze was dazed and unfocused. Then she noticed the blood on his hairline. The blast of Ophelus’ magic had hit him too, his body too weak to be in the presence of such powerful magic. She didn’t need to look to know that the queen was dead.

“And you’ve killed yourself. You’ve killed us. You killed her!” She couldn’t help the way her voice cracked. She loved him. By the gods she loved him. But she loved her son more. “That magic, it will kill what is left of you. For your son, please…”

Ophelus’ gaze darkened again. “You will not take him from me. I need you.”

He took a step forward. And with a broken heart, Emilie fired the pistol.

Ophelus roared as the bullet lodged itself in his thigh, pure silver blood pouring from the wound. She wasted no time sprinting out the door and mounting their only horse. She urged the gelding into a gallop while a storm brewed overhead.

“EMILIE!” Ophelus’ howling chased them from the village. “EMILIE!”

The earth shook with the first earthquake of the season.

Emilie, Emilie, Emilie, Emilie, Emilie, Emilie, Emilie, Emilie.

Rowan let his head hit her shoulder as his eyes slipped closed. Something etched deep in his soul, the only knowledge of that day that his memory would not take from him.

They were shadows and would be so long as his father lived.

Chapter43

Verosa

Idon’t know how long I was out for. No windows or glint of light offer any hint of what time it is, but I know where I am. They haven’t taken me from the palace yet, just moved me to one of our towers.

The Etherbane muddles my brain, lending hand to my confusion. Who would be so bold as to kidnap the crown princess and hold her hostage in her home? The rebels? No, they would have killed me already.

I drag myself towards the wall, only to be tugged backwards. A heavy clinking noise draws my attention to the wall. I notice now that my wrists are bound by a simple rope that has already begun to rub my skin raw, but a chain of some dark material attaches my restraints to the floor.

Wincing at the raw bruising across my skin, I try to slip my wrists out from the binds. It’s a simple knot, but it holds effectively as the fraying bits bite into my skin, eliciting a small cry from my lips.

The noise draws the attention of two figures standing by the door. Both are covered in armor made of the same dark material as my chains. I question for a moment why they’d bother with just rope for my wrists when I note a distinctive smell. I swear. It isn’t blood coating the binds, but Etherbane. I clench my teeth. These fuckers are continuously drugging me. At these watered-down levels, the worst it can do is make me ill and tamper my powers, but hours of this will kill me. I don’t know how long I’ve been out for, an overdose can be imminent.

The guards advance, followed by an overbearing sense of darkness that wears down my senses. I nearly collapse to the floor, gasping without the strength of my pure blood to protect me. I recognize the feeling within a second, dread filling my gut.

Dark magic.

My dread rises to suffocating levels as a third person steps from the shadows behind his guards.

I cry out as my father stares down at me with a mixture of aloofness and disgust. He clicks the door shut behind him and steps towards a mound in the center of the room. He flips open a book that I recognize from that one night ten years ago. It is one from Mother’s study.

Ophelus rests it atop the mound, which I realize is an altar. Bile rises in my throat as he cuts his palm. Pure blood flows out. Puresilverblood.

From between the bars of my cell, I can see a fourth figure step out from the shadows and bite my tongue to stop myself from crying out once more. Lucius’ eyes are bloodshot, appearing like he hasn’t slept in many days, but his signature dazzling grin still rests atop his face. It drops when he sees me.

“What is she… oh.” His face grows pale in realization as I struggle against my bonds, the ropes drawing golden blood. Frayed fragments of the rope material is imbedded within my broken flesh, clumping with my sticky blood. I swear as I try to slip out of them again, only to rub my already open wounds raw. What was that trick Rowan had taught me? I wish I had paid more attention.

“One of pure blood must wet the flames of past sin,” my father recites. The recitation’s origin is unfamiliar to me, but one line stands clear. Pure blood. Pureblood. My own blood runs cold in my veins.

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