The Usurper
The throne room erupted into chaos.
Corin moved first, his sword already in his hand, his body already in motion. He cut down the nearest guard before the man could raise his weapon, then pivoted toward the next, his blade singing through the air. Blood sprayed across the white and black stone.
Theron followed, slower but no less deadly. His burned hands gripped a dagger, and he used it like a surgeon, precise and terrible. He did not look at the faces of the men he killed. He had stopped looking twenty years ago.
Rhaena did not move.
She stood behind the throne, frozen, her eyes fixed on the man who sat upon it. Malrik had risen from his seat, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his gray eyes scanning the room for the source of the attack. He had not seen her yet.
Move, she told herself. Move.
Her legs would not obey.
The guards rallied.
They were trained for this. They formed a semicircle around the throne, shields raised, swords pointed at Corin and Theron. The nobles screamed and fled, their silks trailing behind them, their crowns and jewels forgotten. The servants dropped their trays and ran.
Corin cut down another guard.
Theron buried his dagger in another.
But more were coming.
“There are too many,” Corin shouted.
“Hold the line,” Theron growled.
“We cannot hold forever.”
“We do not need forever. We need a moment.”
Malrik drew his sword.
It was a beautiful blade — silver and gold, encrusted with rubies, etched with the symbols of the old kings. The sword of the true king. The sword of Rhaena’s father.
“Show yourself,” Malrik said.
His voice was calm, cold, controlled.
“I know you are there. Behind the throne. I can smell you. You smell of bread and ash and desperation.”
Rhaena stepped forward.
Malrik’s gray eyes widened.
“Rhaena.”
“You remember me.”
“I remember a child. A frightened child who ran away while her father died.”
“I did not run away. I was taken. Hidden. Saved.”
“By whom?”
“By people who loved my father. By people who hoped for my return. By people who are still waiting.”
Malrik laughed.
It was a terrible sound — like bones breaking, like glass shattering, like worlds ending.
“Waiting for what? For you to kneel? For you to beg? For you to die?”
“For you to fall.”
She drew her father’s crown from beneath her cloak — the iron crown, the true crown, the crown that Corin had carried through the forest and the tunnels and the dark.
Malrik’s face went pale.
“Where did you get that?”
“From my father’s tomb. From the place where you buried him. From the place where he has been waiting.”
“The crown is mine.”
“The crown was never yours. The throne was never yours. The kingdom was never yours. You stole them. You have been stealing them for twenty years. But stealing is not owning. And I am here to take them back.”
Corin cut down the last guard between him and the throne.
He knelt, breathing hard, his sword dripping with blood.
“Your Grace.”
“Rise, Ser Corin.”
He rose.
Malrik looked at him.
“You are the knight. The one who escaped. The one who has been hiding in the north.”
“I have not been hiding. I have been waiting.”
“For what?”
“For her.”
Malrik raised his sword.
“I will kill you all. Every last one of you. I will hang your bodies from the castle walls. I will feed your bones to the dogs. I will—”
“You will do nothing.”
Theron stepped forward.
His scarred face was wet with tears.
“You will die.”
Malrik stared at him.
“You. The Butcher. The man who killed the king.”
“The man who gave the king mercy.”
“There is no mercy. There is only power. Only fear. Only death.”
“There is also hope.”
Theron raised his dagger.
Malrik lunged.
The swords clashed.
The throne room shook.