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M IKAEN PACED THE marble floor outside the queen’s bedchamber—same as he had done when Myella had birthed the twins. Back then, joy and trepidation had fired his blood. Now, there was only miserable despair.

After he had returned a fortnight ago, physiks and alchymists had flocked in and out of Myella’s room. From the start, no cure could be hoped for. The goal was to keep Myella alive long enough to allow the baby inside to grow strong enough to be wrested free, to be torn from that poisonous womb.

To that end, ice baths fought fevers. Tonics kept her faltering heart beating. Water and gruel were forced into her belly through a snaking tube. Twice, she had come close to dying, requiring pounding on her chest and elixirs to pull her back from the brink. All the while, she grew more frail. Her body wasting, burning away to bones and jaundiced skin.

Still, he had spent every night in her bed or at her bedside. He kept a vigil, barely sleeping, refusing to look away from the agonized aftermath of his actions. He knelt beside her, casting up prayers. He begged her for forgiveness until his voice grew hoarse.

He loved her deeply. She had been the only one to hold his heart, to accept all of him: his stormy moods, his petty outbursts, his miserly spirit, even his cruelties that sometimes lashed in her direction. In her arms, he found his only haven. She had recognized that he only wanted the best for their family, for their lineage, for the future of Hálendii. She appreciated how brutal choices had to be made to preserve all.

He stared toward the sealed bedchamber doors.

Like now.

Despite his misery, this sacrifice had accomplished much. Word of the queen’s suffering, of her brave struggle, had spread far—not only throughout Azantiia, but across all of Hálendii’s territories, from the cold frontiers of Aglerolarpok to the dusty forges of Guld’guhl. All now rallied to their grieving king. Any dissension withered to naught.

You’ve done well, my love. Your pain has forged our future—mine, your children, all the peoples of these lands.

He had already commissioned a great tomb to be built in her honor. It would forever be draped by lilies from her home in the Brau e lands. Incense would continually burn her sacrifice up to the gods themselves.

This, I promise.

The doors to the bedchamber crashed open. A young healer rushed out, her face ashen. Horror etched her every feature. Blood soaked her garment, splattered her face. She dashed away, covering her mouth, clearly struggling to hold down the contents of her stomach.

Mikaen stepped toward the door, but it slammed shut in front of him. He caught the brush of a gray robe inside.

Iflelen…

He motioned to one of the Silvergard, one of the six Vyrllian knights manning the queen’s antechamber. Mikaen nodded toward the fleeing healer. The knight’s crimson-stained face remained stoic. He settled a hand on his sword and set off after the woman.

Mikaen resumed his pacing.

None must know what transpired within. The cadres of healers in attendance would be slain, silencing their tongues. A short, sharp cry from the hall outside confirmed this command.

From an opposite doorway, another of his Silvergard entered. Captain Thoryn strode toward him. Mikaen knew him well enough to recognize the slight narrowing of the man’s eyes and what it meant. He came with a problem.

Relieved for this momentary distraction, Mikaen turned to face the man. “What is it, Thoryn?”

The knight tilted his head, indicating he wished to talk more privately, even away from his fellow Silvergard. Mikan nodded and followed Thoryn to the side.

Once at a safe distance, Thoryn held out the curled missive of a skrycrow. “This just arrived. Dispatched to the royal nest.”

Mikaen took it. “Who sent it?”

“It’s from the Brotherhood.”

Mikaen took a deep breath and unrolled the message. He read it, but he knew from Thoryn’s attitude that matters had not worked out as Prince Mareesh had planned.

“Your brother still lives,” Thoryn said.

“As I had asked,” Mikaen muttered. “At least, in this regard, my gold did not go to waste.”

Mikaen had financed this assassination attempt. He had learned through intermediaries that Prince Mareesh sought his help in usurping the Klashean throne, with the promise of a halt to hostilities. It would’ve been a small cost to end this pending war.

So, he had agreed, lending Mareesh the services of the Brotherhood. Though, in truth, Mikaen cared little if this act succeeded. He welcomed war. In battle, he shone his brightest.

And peace is a paltry prize.

Mikaen had greater ambitions.

He pictured the full breadth of the Crown.

The Massif family had ruled Hálendii for centuries; eighteen generations had claimed its throne before Mikaen. His son, Othan, would be the twentieth. Mikaen would brook no end to their dynasty. To ensure and firm that lineage, he intended to extend his reach across the Crown.

And the Southern Klashe must be the first to fall.

“I see Mareesh’s efforts failed to kill his sister, too.” Mikaen crumbled the scroll in his fist. “But he did spare my brother as I requested. Kanthe will not die in the dark, upon a poisoned blade.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve heard through other channels that Kanthe was attacked as savagely as the others. His survival might have nothing to do with Mareesh honoring your request.”

Mikaen considered this. He knew the Klashean prince could never be trusted, and this confirmed as much.

Thoryn straightened. “How do you wish to respond to Mareesh’s failure?”

Mikaen glanced to the bedchamber doors. He had much to dwell on already. He finally shook his head and faced the captain. “We’ll do nothing.”

Thoryn’s eyes widened.

Mikaen explained, “The survival of Mareesh’s sister—thwarting him from the throne—will be punishment enough for now. Plus, he did manage to get the Brotherhood deep within the imperial citadel. Such insight may prove useful in the war to come. So, for now, let the bastard lick his wounds. We can use this failure as a wedge later, to force Mareesh to abide our orders with a greater commitment.”

Thoryn bowed his head. “Wise indeed, Your Grace.”

Mikaen pictured Mareesh’s snide face, so full of Klashean disdain.

That must end.

He remembered a lesson that had been drilled into him during his harsh tutelage at the Legionary, reinforced by whippings and blows to his body.

It is a beaten dog who learns to obey his master.

Mikaen clenched a fist, looking forward to teaching that same lesson to Mareesh.

A S THE RINGING of the second Eventoll bell echoed away, the door to the queen’s bedchamber swung open with a heavy sigh of its thick hinges.

Finally…

Mikaen swung toward it, turning his back on Thoryn. The two had been talking strategy, mostly how to address the aftermath of the attempted assassination. They had no concern about the imperium casting blame in this direction. It was the failure that had to be considered. Such a botched attempt could cast doubt on Hálendii’s adeptness and competence, which could harm the alliances that still needed to be hammered down.

But all that can wait.

As the door opened, the tall form of Shrive Wryth stood at the threshold, blocking the view within. “It is done, Your Majesty,” the Iflelen intoned dolefully.

Despite the long wait, Mikaen hesitated, suddenly fearful of crossing into the room. Still, he took strength from the weight of Thoryn at his back. He headed across the tiles. He had planned on entering alone, but instead he waved to the Silvergard captain.

“With me, Thoryn.”

Mikaen continued, hearing the heavy footfalls of the knight behind him. As he reached Wryth, the Iflelen stepped aside to allow them to enter. Wryth eyed Thoryn, clearly surprised at this addition, but he remained silent as he closed the door behind them.

“How did you fare with the queen?” Mikaen asked, bitterness frosting his query.

“Come see.”

Mikaen noted Myella’s empty bed, the blankets in disarray. On a table, an incense burner cast a lonely curl of smoke. He had lit it this morning, casting a prayer to the Mother Below to intercede.

Off to the side, a corner of the chamber had been draped off with dark curtains. Voices murmured within, accompanied by a hushed rhythmic wheezing.

Mikaen balked at crossing there.

Wryth added to his trepidation. “Brace yourself, Your Grace.”

Mikaen scowled at the man. “If this ends badly…”

He let the threat hang in the air, but it came out muted. He didn’t have the breath to add any true force to it.

Still, Wryth bowed his head, accepting responsibility.

As well he should.

While Mikaen’s hand had poisoned Myella, it was Wryth who had supplied the rykin elixir. The Iflelen had promised that, while the queen must die, the child would be spared.

That proved not to be the case.

This morning, Physik Orkan had rousted Mikaen from his bed, urgently warning him that Myella had to be drawn again from the brink of death and that she would not last the day. The healer had urged him to come share his last words, to summon the clerics who would seal her fate with balms to help guide her to the gods.

Instead, Mikaen had stalked deep beneath Highmount, bringing with him his entire Silvergard. He had raged through the lair of the Iflelen, demanding Wryth’s presence. His rampage ended at a pair of tall ebonwood doors, sealed with the horn’d snaken of Lord ? reyk. It closed off the innermost sanctum of the Iflelen.

Even the Silvergard balked at breaking that seal.

In the end, the violation proved unnecessary. Wryth stepped out to face Mikaen’s wrath. Upon learning of Myella’s danger, the Iflelen had demanded to be taken to her. Wryth had set off immediately, such was his haste.

Mikaen hurried after, but not without a final glance back at those sealed ebonwood doors. He suspected the man was hiding something. Whatever foul alchymy that had kept Wryth distracted from his duties lay behind those doors. Mikaen intended to find out, but first Myella had to be attended to.

Upon examining the queen, Wryth had demanded privacy. His words had driven out everyone, all but a few of his fellow Iflelen and a handful of healers. Wryth had then clutched Mikaen’s arm with a dire warning: If you wish Queen Myella to live long enough for her child to thrive, you must do as I ask. It is her only chance, the only hope for your child.

Mikaen had heeded those words.

Not only did he fear losing the child, but such a tragedy might sour the sentiment at large. While such a death could be blamed on the Southern Klashe, others would take it as a punishment from the gods, some portent that Mikaen had fallen out of their favor. Dissension could rise again.

That cannot happen—not after the sacrifice I took.

Wryth led the way to the curtains and reached a hand to part them. “Hold firm, Your Majesty. This will be difficult.”

Wryth pulled the drape aside and motioned everyone inside to retreat, opening the way for the king to greet his queen.

Mikaen stepped forward—then halted abruptly at the threshold. He struggled to comprehend the sight before him.

Myella now rested in a new bed, one of copper and iron. She lay naked on her back, half-reclined, a small blanket over her waist offering privacy. But the true violation lay bared above.

Thoryn stumbled back, horror driving him to a knee.

Mikaen remained where he was, knowing this must be faced.

Myella’s head had been craned back. A tube snaked past her pale lips. Smaller ones defiled her nostrils. Blind eyes stared up at the frescoed ceiling. Someone had shaved her head, leaving a landscape of stubble.

Still, Mikaen recognized her. A hand rose to his mouth, not in revulsion, but in remembrance of those lips upon his, those dead eyes looking upon him with love, his fingers stroking her hair as her head rested in his lap.

The memory drew him forward, one leaden step at a time. He stared unblinking ahead at what Wryth had revealed to him, a view of his beloved that he had never seen, could never see.

Myella’s chest had been cleaved open, cutting a window into her, framed by her sawed rib cage. The ends of the bones shone white, tipped by red marrow, still weeping blood. Past that window, lungs billowed up and down. A fist of a heart clenched and relaxed, over and over again.

Mikaen continued forward, drawn by the sight.

Beyond the bed, large tanks burbled with amber fluid. More tubes ran to areas where Myella’s skin had been flayed open. Another mekanical box wheezed and pumped, in harmony with the rise and fall of her gossamer lungs.

“What have you done?” The question came not from Mikaen’s lips, but from Thoryn’s.

“We call it a bloodbaerne,” Wryth answered. “It will sustain her. Long enough to harvest the child when the time is ripe.”

Mikaen finally reached the bed.

Wryth repeated what he had stated before. “It was the only way.”

Mikaen slowly nodded. He shifted closer and gently lifted Myella’s hand, grasping it in his own. He squeezed his love into her, his appreciation of her sacrifice. He willed her one last message.

Be strong, my queen, for a little while longer.

Before he could lower Myella’s hand, her frail fingers shivered and closed over his.

He didn’t know if this was a reflex or if Myella was aware somewhere in that ravaged body, struggling to communicate with him. He was too afraid to ask Wryth, too fearful of the answer.

Instead, he bowed down and kissed the swollen belly rising above the blanket. As he did, he whispered a promise to the child within.

“I will save you.”