The Throne Room
The great hall of Kingsfall had not changed.
Rhaena stood in the shadows of the gallery, looking down at the room where she had played as a child. The tapestries were the same — faded now, threadbare in places, but depicting the same scenes of battle and triumph that had hung on these walls for centuries. The banners were the same — the silver wolf of her family, tattered but still flying. The floor was the same — black and white stone, polished by the feet of a thousand courtiers.
But the throne was different.
It was not the throne of her father. That throne had been made of iron and oak, simple and strong. This throne was made of gold and bone, encrusted with jewels, towering above the dais like a monument to greed.
The usurper’s throne.
Malrik’s throne.
“Where are the guards?” Corin whispered.
Theron pointed to the shadows at the far end of the hall.
“By the doors. Twenty of them. Maybe more.”
“Can we take them?”
“Not all of them. Not quietly. Not without losing people.”
“Then we don’t take them. We avoid them.”
Rhaena studied the hall.
The pillars were thick, carved with the faces of old kings. The galleries were empty, the seats of the nobles vacant. The servants’ doors were small and hidden, tucked into the corners where no one would notice.
“We go through the servants’ passages,” she said.
“Your Grace—”
“I spent twenty years in those passages. I know them better than anyone. I can lead us to the throne room without being seen.”
“And the guards?”
“They will not see us. They never saw me.”
They descended from the gallery.
The servants’ door was where she remembered it — behind a tapestry of the first king slaying a white wolf. Rhaena pushed it open. The passage beyond was narrow and dark, barely wide enough for one person.
“Stay close,” she whispered. “Do not speak. Do not light a torch. Follow the sound of my voice.”
She stepped inside.
The darkness swallowed her.
The passage twisted and turned, climbing stairs and descending ramps, crossing over the great hall and under the kitchens. Rhaena moved without hesitation, her hands brushing the cold stone walls, her feet finding the path by memory alone.
She had run through these passages as a child, playing hide and seek with her brothers. She had crawled through them as a servant, carrying laundry and linens. She had wept in them as an orphan, mourning the family she had lost.
She knew every turn, every step, every shadow.
“Stop,” she whispered.
They stopped.
“We are beneath the throne room now. There is a grate above us. It leads to the floor behind the throne.”
“Behind the throne?” Corin asked.
“Malrik’s back will be to us. The guards’ backs will be to us. If we are silent, they will not see us until it is too late.”
She climbed the last few steps.
The grate was cold beneath her fingers.
She pushed.
It did not move.
“Theron,” she whispered.
He reached past her.
His burned hands gripped the iron.
He pulled.
The grate lifted.
Light flooded the passage.
They emerged behind the throne.
The great hall was crowded.
Nobles and courtiers filled the space between the pillars, their silks and velvets bright against the dark stone. Guards lined the walls, their armor gleaming, their hands on their swords. Servants moved through the crowd, carrying trays of wine and bread.
And on the throne, Malrik.
He was older than she remembered — much older. His hair was white, his face was lined, his hands were thin. But his eyes were the same — cold and gray and hungry.
He was speaking, but she could not hear the words. Her blood was rushing in her ears.
She looked at Corin.
He nodded.
She looked at Theron.
His good eye was wet.
She looked at the throne.
At the golden monster.
At the man who had killed her father.
“Now,” she said.