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’s arms are covered in blood.

That should not bother him. He is a king, after all. History itself is bathed in blood, and it is the kings who shed it. He should be indifferent, stony like his father raised him to be.

But this is not some necessary battle or worthless Ordinary. This is…

Voices muffle around him, blurring together into one frantic string of words.

The queen is dead.

Iris’s lifeless body lies on the bed. Blood stains once-white covers, mars once-warm skin.

Advisers bicker, Healers hover, Fatals stand solemnly beside him.

hears none of it. There is a steady ringing in his ears, and for that, he is thankful.

His wife is dead. The life has been drained from her body by a mere infant, and there was nothing his Healers could do to save her. Now, there is nothing left but a still shell of the woman loved.

Well, that isn’t entirely true.

There is a baby girl in his arms.

Her lungs are filled with shrill cries that slip from a small mouth. Again, the king does not mind such a distraction. He shuts bleary eyes, unable to lower them to his daughter below. Only further remnants of his lifeless love lie there.

This child shares her mother’s piercing gaze, or rather, stole it. Those eyes belong to Iris, not the infant who killed her.

When the ringing quiets in ’s ears, and the floor threatens to cave in beneath him, there is only one question the king cares to ask. The child is quickly shoved into his Silencer’s arms. “How much power?”

The three words are born of greed, of an unquenchable ache for strength. Because nothing is more important to than power—not anymore.

The Silencer stutters.

“What is it, Damion?” the king pants.

All eyes fall to the three Fatals under ’s care. A crease of concentration forms between Damion’s brows, followed by a concerning flurry of blinks. He opens his mouth. Shuts it.

“Out with it!”

The king’s command rings about the chamber, cutting through even the thick stench of death. It is the anger and grief in his voice that pushes the Silencer to whisper what may be his own death sentence. Kings have a way of killing the messenger.

“She is powerless.”