Page 42 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Anais

The small chamber was crowded with rebels.

The Escorts stood behind the Queen, the rebel captains arrayed opposite. No one looked comfortable.

Pelios finished his report.

"I don’t know how much you remember. It’s clear to us that Damon… stopped acting for the people. That box—he killed a young girl and took her claws as trophies. The child wasn’t the first. To make sure they wouldn’t grow into the beasts they are, he said."

Angry murmurs were cut short by Jerrl’s glare.

Pelios continued, "We've decided. Make him walk the coals."

Anais needed to confirm. "Do you know what that means?"

Jerrl nodded once, his eyes hard. "Yes. He killed my brother. He pretends to want better but he's just like them," he spat.

"His death would convince the court of your loyalty to me," the Queen replied in a neutral tone. Damon's death would deter those few who had been swayed by his charm, but this needed to be the rebels' choice.

The captains glanced at Jerrl, who stared at the table with a clenched jaw. When he looked up, she saw the answer in his bleak eyes and the determined set of his shoulders.

"Do what you must," Jerrl said. He paused, holding her eyes for a moment before declaring in a clear and loud voice, "My Queen." Jerrl fell to his knees. The other rebels followed close behind.

They still trusted her. One small blessing from this nightmare, she supposed.

"Thank you. All of you."

The rebels stood and left the room.

"Are you sure about this?" Vern murmured. "Damon has an unhealthy obsession but he is a symptom—a victim—of our world. If his mother hadn’t been assaulted, if the babe didn’t have claws, if his mother could have had the care she needed…"

"And if he were still a child, I’d forgive him. Perhaps even if he’d come to me or one of our healers—and we did offer, did we not? But he’s murdered children , Vern. Babies. Even the worst of the snakes don’t go that far. How do I forgive that? These were his choices."

"They were monsters in his eyes," he sighed.

She flexed her claws. "Aren’t we all?"

Castien took her hands in his, brought them to his lips. "No. Never," he said, holding her eyes. "He wasn’t trying to make a better world. He doesn’t love his people. If he had been born with a title, he’d just be another snake. Don’t ever compare yourself to him."

Tears blurred her sight but she was fairly certain Jerome smiled slightly. She blinked rapidly and gathered herself. "He cares, Castien. That’s why I trusted him. He wants change, but…" But we failed him . She sighed.

Squeezing his hands, the Queen let go. "The nobles will want blood, and we still need their support. Damon will walk. "

Castien

Damon sat against the back wall of his cell, his head tilted up at the ceiling. His gaze shifted at the sound of footfalls, his face twisting into a sneer upon recognizing his visitor.

"Ah, my friend. Are you to be my executioner? I didn’t think you had it in you."

Castien leaned against the far wall, staring at the man who had saved his life. "What happened, Damon? Why did you do this?"

Damon laughed harshly. "You were always a pampered lordling. The most beloved whore in Drantar. What would you know of hardship, of how us poor peasants live?"

"So my chains were gilded. But I never forgot you, any of you."

"Chains," he scoffed. "You could have run away with us. You enjoyed a taste of ‘freedom’ but you willingly walked back to your cage every time."

True. Castien had toyed with the idea of joining his friends, but he saw the way they lived. It wasn’t simply his comfort—he could provide for them, help them. It was never so simple.

Castien asked softly, "How did the streets make you a murderous bastard, Damon?"

"If you’d lived with us, maybe you’d understand. The streets are kind to children, but we grew up. Darcy married because she was getting too many looks . The palace’s poison seeps into the streets. We all learned how to kill, Cas. How to defend ourselves. "

"But you took it further."

"That poison makes more monsters every day! We can’t live in peace with monsters. They’ll always find a way to destroy us."

"So you decided to butcher children and kill a Queen."

Damon glared, his lips twisted in disgust. "The child was an accident. And I wasn’t going to kill your little lover. She’d be useless dead—her steward seems competent enough until they pick a new Queen and everything continues as it always has. No, she would have been my puppet, doing as I commanded. At least, until we killed all the other bitch Queens and their courts."

"You’re mad. She would never bow to you, and the rest of us wouldn’t let her."

"Us? After Kevam, after Nadraken, I hoped you’d see…" Damon laughed. "Ah, what does it matter now? Your lady won."

Castien stared at the ground for a long moment. "You were my friend. You saved my life. And yet you would have killed me?"

A flicker of a frown crossed Damon’s eyes. "You were in my way."

As if that explained everything. He did what he thought was necessary. Wasn’t that Anais' justification?

Scowling, Castien pulled from his pocket a small bottle filled with yellow dust.

"Our healers matched this powder to the residue in the Queen’s wine. This was in your room. What is it? Poison?"

Damon eyed the bottle. "They sent you to interrogate me? Taste it, and I’ll tell you."

Castien frowned.

"Afraid? As I said, I wasn’t interested in killing your Queen. She’s fine, isn’t she? "

He lowered the bottle. "We’ll find out another way. Goodbye, Damon. For what it’s worth… I’m sorry." His fingers dipped into a pocket and pulled out a small chain. He tossed it into the cell.

Damon caught the necklace. His hand closed around the silvery half-moon.

"Castien. Say goodbye to them for me." There was a faintly pained note in his tone.

The Escort nodded.

Anais

The dining hall was more crowded than usual. A herald had announced Damon’s execution and his crimes—treason, attempted murder of the Queen, posing as a noble, insolence, intent to overthrow the throne—the list was long. Exposing him as an imposter quieted any who might have come to his defense. Satryani made a show of disavowing the worthless peasant. Or rather, her circle did, which was much the same.

The guards brought Damon out naked except for the sturdy rope that wrapped around his chest and bound his arms to his back. A thick gag circled his head, stuffed into his mouth. They shoved him to the hearth.

His eyes found hers. Burning, all-consuming hatred was all that was left now that he no longer masked his true feelings. Her ice met his fire and neither looked away, but the grip around her heart tightened as rage twisted his face and he struggled against his bindings.

"Dance."

The nobles cheered and laughed as they did for anyone walking the coals.

Guards yanked the rope, forcing Damon to stumble forward. His scream was muffled.

Castien stood behind and to her left. Though she couldn’t see him, she imagined his tense, taut posture and carefully blank expression. He had insisted on witnessing his friend’s execution despite assurances that he need not be present. But he refused to stay away, saying that Damon had been his friend, was his responsibility, and he would see this to the end.

She understood. Damon was her responsibility as well. She’d allowed him into the Queen's Wing, gave him too much trust. Which was why she allowed the chaos—the flying food and knives—where normally simply walking was enough.

The end came three hours later. Damon was stubborn and strong, fueled by his endless anger. She had thought they were alike in that way, but he had never learned to use his anger as a weapon; it used him. The rope didn’t slacken when he could no longer walk, holding him upright while slowly roasting his body from the feet up. She forced herself to eat, as she always did, the smell of cooked human flesh disgustingly sweet. Her nobles grew bored, most of them soon ignoring the man who refused to die.

When a new wave of nobles arrived, the Queen casually stood and glided toward the hearth. Guards cleared a path. She slipped her needle-thin blade from its sheath.

A glance at the guards holding the ropes stopped Damon’s movement. He weaved unsteadily, barely conscious.

Her blade flicked, opening a shallow cut across his stomach. His hoarse scream sounded inhuman, his eyes slowly focusing on her, the hate rising to renewed heights.

She cut him again.

How many cuts before her audience was satisfied? The sizzle of his blood was too loud in the silence. What would convince them that a peasant who dared style himself as one of them, who dared to threaten their Queen, had been thoroughly punished?

Not a single noble could walk the coals for a few minutes before fainting, much less three hours.

Enough.

Her arm moved almost carelessly. A line of red drew across his throat. The trickle of blood became a stream, steam rising from the coals until his hate wavered and finally disappeared.

She walked back, trailing blood from her blade. Applause and cheers erupted. Lowered heads preceded her passage.

Her gaze swept her Escorts. Their cold masks held. Castien’s expression revealed nothing. But she could always see behind the mask.

Grief. Sorrow. Sympathy.

Pride.