Page 159 of A Court of Wings and Shadows

The king’s hand tightened around the goblet. His eyes sharpened, then clouded. “Don’t lecture me, girl. My ancestor built the guilds. Our nobility held this kingdom together through blood and fire.”

“We know,” Zander said gently, trying to calm him. “But things are shifting. Theron is?—”

“Theron,” the king snapped, rising unsteadily to his feet, “is loyal. You? You were always the difficult one. The rebellious one. I see how you look at me. Like I’m fading.”

Zander said nothing. His silence was steel.

The king pointed a trembling finger at him. “You come here, speak of betrayal, and bring a prospect to pass judgment? Is she your new conscience, Zander? Your new queen?”

His words struck deeper than they should’ve.

I stayed silent, pulse hammering, but Zander’s voice remained even.

“I brought her because she sees what others miss. Because she listens when you won’t. And because she deserves to know the truth, as much as anyone.”

The king scoffed again and slumped back into the chair, suddenly looking years older.

“I’m tired of conspiracies,” he muttered. “Tired of ghosts in the shadows.”

Zander watched him for a long moment. Then he turned to me, voice low.

“He’s slipping again.”

And in the dim light of that gilded suite, we both knew?—

Whatever hold the king had left on Warriath was unraveling. And the kingdom’s future was teetering on a blade.

Zander turned to me, his lavender eyes softening beneath the weight of frustration.

“I need to speak to him alone,” he said quietly. “He listens more when there aren’t witnesses.”

If he listens at all.

I nodded, though I didn’t feel good about leaving him. The king’s moods were unpredictable, swinging between lucidity and fury with no warning. But Zander needed the chance—he deserved the chance to try.

“I’ll return to the barracks,” I said.

His hand brushed mine briefly, barely there, but enough to steady the breath between us. Then I slipped out of the suite, closing the ornate door behind me with a gentleclick.

The corridor was quiet, the halls near the royal quarters always kept empty unless summoned. I walked slowly at first, my boots muffled by the thick rugs, lost in the sound of my own thoughts. The walls here were lined with portraits, stoic kings and dragon riders long gone, all watching with the same cold judgment.

At the far end of the hallway, just before the turn to the main stairwell, I caught the murmur of voices.

I slowed.

Two guards, half-shadowed in an alcove near the window, stood with their heads bowed toward each other. They didn’t notice me. Their voices were low, sharp with urgency.

“I’m telling you, it’s spreading faster than we thought,” one said. “They’re recruiting from the old bloodlines, noble houses that lost everything when the dragons refused their heirs.”

The other scoffed. “You mean the ones who got passed over. Bitter fools.”

“They were powerful once. They still have power. And now the sect’s promising them justice. Revenge against the dragons. The guilds. The riders.”

I stiffened behind a column, holding my breath.

“They blame the throne for their decline. Say the king let tradition die when he let commoners into the Fourth Guild.”

“They’re not wrong,” the second muttered. “Used to be, a rider came from lineage. Honor.”