Page 22 of Polestar (The Global Paranormal Security Agency #3)

Magnus’ gaze flicked over their resolute faces. As far as he could tell, none were marked, but they were all prepared to carry out their orders. No matter what.

Magnus was no longer their prince. He was banished—a prisoner of the realm.

Now isn’t the time to escape. Not yet.

He nodded.

… maybe I can take Elias with me…

He buried that thought as quickly as it came and waited while the lockmaster unfastened his chains from the wall.

Magnus’ mind worked as they moved through the dungeon corridors, up the winding stone steps, twisting and turning down the too familiar halls of his former home.

My son’s home. Elias.

He couldn’t help block the thoughts of his son from his mind. He might see him again.

My boy.

No.

Ana. Ana needs my help. Ulla’s partners have her. She isn’t safe.

Magnus clenched his jaw, his instinct to protect both his son and his mate conflicting and overwhelming.

Every muscle in his body tensed as he passed through the open double doors into the ancient Great Hall. The sounds of his chains echoed through the vast room with each step toward his fate.

Two guards preceded him with two behind, and two on either side. More at key positions of the expansive room, as was expected when the king held court.

Escape wouldn’t be easy from here. He considered his other options as he moved forward.

At the far end, his father occupied the throne. Elias stood to the right of the throne while Ulla stood to the left.

Where is the shaman?

His father, his son, his former wife—the three people he’d committed his life to, before his banishment.

He sucked in a breath as unexpected emotions slammed through him.

Betrayal. Regret. Disgust.

He focused on Elias as he approached his father’s judgment.

No matter what, he’d imprint his son’s face in his memory.

Even if he, too, hated him and turned his back on Magnus.

“Stop there,” Ulla commanded.

Ignoring her, he turned his attention to his father, ten paces before him.

Sadness swallowed every other emotion.

Bjorn Thornsson, King of the Barentian Polar Bear Shifters, was no longer the physically robust ruler exuding power that he’d been when Magnus last laid eyes on him.

The arm of the throne supported his shrunken, sallow form. His once thick white and gray hair hung in limp strings to either side of his hollowed cheeks and bleary eyes.

Magnus sniffed. Not right . His father smelled of slow rot from the inside out.

Illness?

How?

Magnus searched for a mark denoting Ulla’s influence on the elder man. His high collar encased his throat below his thinned beard.

Magnus turned on Ulla, ready to throw accusations at her.

She met his gaze, but there was no triumph or delight in her eyes. Fear?

Couldn’t be. What is there for Ulla to fear? Here? Now? No.

He stayed his words.

“Magnus the Banished,” his father rasped, still denying Magnus his paternal surname.

Still not Magnus Bjornson in Barentia’s eyes.

He sucked in a breath at the resurgence of rejection, attempting to re-bury it.

He straightened his shoulders, staring at the sick old man, willing him to get on with his judgment.

The old man’s jaw worked before he spoke. “I charge you with treason for attempting to influence the true heir of the realm,” Bjorn repeated Ulla’s words almost verbatim, panting against the energy those words cost him.

Magnus’ keen hearing picked up the subtle movements of the guards surrounding him. Clenching fists on weapons, shuffling feet, deep breaths.

They were prepared for him to resist. To fight.

They expected it.

Gladly. But not yet.

Not yet.

Magnus kept his features neutral as he leveled his gaze at Elias’ drawn expression.

“In consideration of your previous position as heir and member of the ruling family, I shall grant you mercy.”

Tears glazed Elias’ eyes.

Magnus nodded.

Execution then.

“By rights of the condemned, I claim my entitlement to a final interview with the clan shaman.”

“You do not observe the clan ways,” Ulla blurted.

“Hm,” Magnus grunted, looking at his ex-wife. “Perhaps in my last moments, I’ll make my final statements. One of which may indicate which facility Aksel is in, where they’re working to keep him alive.”

“You bast—.”

“Tradition dictates that I have three days before the allotted execution date, doesn’t it? Plenty of confinement time to consider my last words.”

Ulla’s fingers curled into fists as she struggled to control herself.

“Three days. The sooner you bring the shaman to me, the sooner I may relieve my conscience and set my soul right. So that I might not haunt my executioners.”

Bjorn’s glassy eyes found Magnus’ face, frowning as he regarded him.

Magnus couldn’t read him. He never could.

What happened to this family?

What has Ulla been filling his head with, all this time?

Before her arrival at Barentia, Magnus’ relationship with his father wasn’t exactly loving, but it was mutually respectful and healthy despite their differences of opinion on certain matters.

Ulla had always wanted control. She had it. In his absence, she’d gained control as regent, bridging the rulership between his still-living father and too-young son.

She was threatened by Magnus’ appearance to sign the register, recording his impending union.

Insecure in her position?

“Summon the clan shaman,” Bjorn wheezed, then waved Magnus away.

The guards’ expressions were uncertain as they exchanged glances before they moved to fulfill their order.

Magnus looked at Elias one last time. “You will be a fine king someday.”

He turned and left the Great Hall his ancestors had ruled for centuries. Probably for the last time.

Three days.

Magnus had three days to figure out an escape, or he’d fail Ana, Elias, and Barentia.