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The dagger presses through the fabric of my clothes. “A plague that can kill?—”

“Let’s try something else! Are you the daughter of Mordred Kingslayer? Are you working with him?”

I’m desperate now, my skin prickling with cold sweat. My knees have gone weak, and I’m shaking. I don’t know if it’s from anger, grief, or the effects of the toxins in the secret room, but the chaos is tangled in my ribcage like thorny briars.

I rasp, “Fey and demi-Fey, they want to kill every magical being?—”

“Why won’t you answer the questions? A simple no would suffice. Can you deny these allegations?”

“They plan to destroy everything?—”

By now, everyone in the crowd is muttering, a loud hum echoing through the hall. My voice, weakened by the virus, can hardly be heard above the din. Wrythe is simply shouting over me.

“Once you know the truth, it’s quite apparent. The similarity between Nia Melisande and Mordred Kingslayer is astounding. She can go through veils. She can find Fey who disappeared centuries ago, and she has. She found her father. You cansee it in her features and the duality of her magic. We all know Mordred was also cursed by diametric magic. It’s what drove him mad, isn’t it? It’s what sent him into thisverytower on a murderous rampage. The Kingslayer. And of course, this wretched, rotten heritage is why youfailedto assassinate Auberon and Talan. Because of Nia, we failed, and our soldiers have kept dying because ofher. Our agent was working directly with Mordred Kingslayer, her kin!”

The noise is rising to an uproar, and shouts echo off the ceiling. My eyes meet Raphael’s.

I see the shock in his silver eyes as the truth dawns on him. He knows now that I really am Mordred’s daughter, and that I’ve hidden it from him.

Raphael has sworn to destroy the line of Morgan. He has sworn to kill me.

“I have been saying over and over that Nia Melisande cannot be trusted,” Wrythe shouts. “And now, you can finally see that I’m right. She will say any lies to protect herself. She will manipulate and deceive and mislead, using the tools that we taught her against us, so that we don’t see the simple truth. She is Mordred’s daughter, and she follows in her father’s footsteps.”

And with that, Wrythe’s lackeys wrench me away. A few people step forward to stop them, but others interject, pulling them back. Arguments break out, fists flying.

Despair washes over me. In one fell swoop, Wrythe has split the camp that opposed him, sowing discord between them. And as a bonus, he’s turned me into a pariah.

This is how it ends. Not with war drums and a fight to the death, but with my mother smiling at a crowd and my voice dwindling to nothing.

CHAPTER 47

Ithrash against my captors, but it’s useless. I’m already halfway to the grave. My breath wheezes in desperate little gasps, and I’m still trying to fight Wrythe’s people off like I have a chance.

One of them, a young recruit with pimply skin, punches me in the stomach again. The other cadet has slicked-back brown hair and a posh accent that you can tell is faked, unlike the pimply guy. The fake-posh prick twists my arm until my shoulder feels as if it is about to pop. After that, I decide my best course of action is to wait until I get my strength back.

If I survive that long. I can’t breathe. I cough wildly, my lungs still tight and wheezing.

The route they take is clear this time, the shortest route to the dungeons in Avalon Tower. Wrythe has stayed behind to orchestrate the chaos he’s spread, to control the narrative. So, it’s just me and the Iron Legion.

“Wait!” someone calls from behind.

The Iron Legion stops short and turn to look. “What is it?” the pimply one says.

Genivieve has caught up with us, her cheeks pink and her blonde hair neatly tied back. She beckons the Iron Legion guys to follow her into a narrow corridor. “In here.”

“Why?” the same guy asks belligerently. “That’s not the way.”

“Because I said so,” Genivieve answers tightly. “There’s not much time.”

Reluctantly, they drag me into the corridor with her, my feet sliding limply over the flagstones. My mouth feels dry, and my stomach curdles with nausea.

This hall is ancient and winding, and they pull me after Genivieve, past a bend in the passageway.

“That’s good enough.” Genivieve unsheathes a dagger.

“What are you doing?” the fake-posh one asks.

“She’s getting rid of me, you idiot,” I answer faintly.