Aston’s POV
“Greed is the greatest and oldest enemy to mankind.”
—Aston von Rosenmahl
The side of my body is buried beneath dozens of dresses, every thread slling faintly of roses. The wardrobe presses against , dark and suffocating, and from ti to ti, I force a narrow gap open with my hands just enough to see. I feel like a Peeping Tom, crouched here in shadows, breath shallow, watching a world I should not, but I must.
It has been five minutes since I slipped into the king’s chambers; odd, unsettling minutes. Harmon swore to there would be no guards here, and indeed, there are none. That, in itself, makes tremble.
There is no protection for the king’s chambers? Unless the false god himself is the guard. Unless those golden eyes I felt earlier are already fixed on , waiting. He stared at in the hall—eagle-like—as though I were prey he would snatch the mont I faltered. The mory is enough to make my chest tighten.
The clock ticks, and with every second, my pulse accelerates. Ten minutes until it strikes zero. Ten minutes until I must act. The single candle flickers in this dim chamber, casting long shadows against the carved walls; its light is weak, yet enough to make feel exposed and vulnerable.
The door opens.
I jerk back into the dresses, pressing myself flat; silk and linen suffocate .
My heart kicks against my ribs like a trapped animal. The silhouette that enters is unclear, and the light behind is too bright for to distinguish. My knife waits hidden in my watch, the weapon Harmon crafted and poured his blood upon, a finger-long blade capable of cutting through any skin on this continent.
At the right mont, I need only flick my wrist, turn the circle, and the edge will be free.
I almost move to ready it. Then the figure becos clear, and the air leaves .
Not the king. Not a man at all; Elisia, the 23rd, the youngest princess.
She slips out of her shoes and stockings, her pale feet pressing against the polished floor; her presence here shocks more than any guard could. I catch my breath, and the wardrobe creaks, my heart pounding so hard the blood starts roaring in my ears.
She looks toward , and her eyes et mine.
For a mont, I am sure she sees , but her gaze drifts, turning instead toward the window. Relief collides with sha inside . I should not be here. I should not be seeing this.
She holds a rope in her hands.
My stomach drops. Why?
The King should be here, not her. Elisia ties the rope to the bed fra, fashions a noose, and steps onto a chair, her figure trembling, though she forces a smile through tears that glisten in the candlelight. She looks at a frad picture—her family, the royal line. Parents. Siblings. And then she lets go.
The chair falls back with a dull clatter.
I cannot move.
Minutes fly, and her body kicks in the air, bare feet thrashing as she gasps for breath; she coughs violently as though determined to force out everything she has left.
Help her, part of screams, but I do not. My mission binds like iron chains. It is still five minutes before zero, still five minutes until the window of opportunity opens to strike the king.
So I watch.
Every second feels like a lifeti. She kicks, claws, her orange eyes swelling, tears running unchecked down her face. She turns her gaze again toward , or perhaps toward the candle near , the faint flicker of light she might mistake for hope.
Yet I feel it—she looks at . She sees .
I grip the knife until sweat soaks the handle. My mouth tastes of copper from biting back my breath. She tries to speak.
“Fster...” Her voice is broken, too strangled to understand. Another word follows, but it dies in silence, nothing but the shape of lips moving; a scream without sound.
Her eyes shift. Away from . Away from the candle and towards the open door.
A shadow fills the fra; broad, heavy, and no need to wonder who it is. Robertson.
He strides in and—in one motion—lifts Elisia by the waist, tears the rope loose, and hurls her onto the bed. The rope dangles, swaying like a pendulum over the two.
Then he stays above her, moving with grim rhythm.
Ramming.
Her voice cracks against the walls, and disgust starts to coil through ; my grip hardens. This is it. This is the mont.
I push the wardrobe door slightly open, the creak being faint, but enough for cold dread to spear my spine.
A step.
Not Robertson’s, but the false god.
I squint right, and there he is.
His golden eyes fix on —eyes like mist, like omnipotence itself, burning through the narrow gap of the wardrobe. My body goes rigid, every breath frozen in my throat. He does not see all of , only a sliver, only the single eye I dared to expose. But it is enough, and his steps turn toward .
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