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In the echoing silence that follows, Cotys’s eyes drift from the double doors back to Memnon. The Roman client king stares athim for a long moment, then laughs, his gaze sweeping across the rest of us, his eyes lingering on Ferox.

“Do you mean to usurp me?” He raises his eyebrows. Despite his bold words, I can practically hear the rapid thump of his heart. He must realize, stranded in this windowless room, that even though our group is small, his life is in grave peril.

And if he could see magic, as I can, he would know this for certain.

Memnon’s power is already sweeping across the room, enveloping the Bosporan subjects, shielding them from us and us from them. As for Cotys’s aides and guards, one brush of Memnon’s magic, and their eyes grow glassy and distant.

Calmly, Memnon says, “I prefer the wordousting.”

Cotys stares at Memnon with angry eyes as his men’s legs fold and eyes roll back. Bodies thump to the ground, earning gasps and screams from the crowd of Bosporan onlookers. But then they too collapse. Dozens and dozens of people lie in unconscious heaps.

“Holy gods!” Cotys shouts, rising abruptly from his throne, his gaze sweeping over the room. “What have you done to my people?” His gaze goes to Memnon.

“Mypeople,” Memnon amends. “They’re temporarily indisposed.”

Cotys stares, horrified, at them all, and I’m sure he believes they’re dead. I can see the soft rises and falls of their chests, but in his panic, I doubt he can.

“The stories were true,” Cotys breathes. His eyes flick back to Memnon. “You use sorcery.”

“Sometimes,” my husband agrees, stepping forward. He places one booted foot on the marble step leading up to the dais.

“No!” Cotys barks out. He reaches for his sword and, with great effort, unsheathes it.

“Do you want to fight me?” Memnon asks skeptically as he climbs the stairs. “We do not need to, but if it’s an honorable death you seek, I shall give it to you.”

“Stay back, sorcerer.” Cotys swings his sword wildly, his eyes darting around the group of us.

Memnon withdraws his own blade and, with one sweep of his arm, knocks away Cotys’s blade, the great sword slipping from his grip and clanging to the ground.

Disbelief clouds the client king’s eyes. Taking a throne is supposed to be harder than this. Otherwise, people would do it all the time.

Memnon closes the last of the distance between them and rests his blade against Cotys’s neck. “Shall this be peaceful, old king, or bloody?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing. Rome will come for you.”

“Bloody it is.” Memnon pulls his sword back.

“Wait!” Cotys cries.

Memnon lowers his weapon as the Roman ruler falls to his knees.

“I don’t want to die.” Roughly, Cotys reaches up and removes the ribbon from his hair, tossing it to the ground. “Take it. The palace is yours—for as long as you can hold it.”

The literal act of removing a king from his throne might’ve taken a short span of time, but the process of actually transitioning authority from Cotys to Memnon and myself will take days, and I’m sure notifying all of the Bosporan Kingdom and Sarmatians will take months more.

In the wake of our conquest, Memnon, myself, Ferox, Katiari, Tamara, and Memnon’s closest warriors now wander the castletogether, our footsteps echoing in the quiet, largely abandoned halls. The royals and much of the palace staff have already vacated the premises.

“It’s big,” Katiari notes as she casts her eyes up at the high ceiling.

“It’sunnatural,” Zosines corrects, spitting off to the side before he realizes there isn’t bare earth for it to sink into.

Unnatural?

No, I couldn’t disagree more. Already, I can feel my excitement rising. I hadn’t realized how much I missed having sturdy walls around me.

“If we settle here, we will grow weak and soft,” Rakas says.

“We willneversettle.” Memnon’s voice is cutting, vicious. “But it is time we had uncontested control of these lands we defend. Do you disagree?”