Aston’s POV
“How can we dream of achieving anything without hope?”
—Aston von Rosenmahl
The words echo in my skull like scripture: The false god is out of order; he won’t be trouble anymore. Now, assassinate the King. It’s Eriksson’s voice, clear, as if whispered into my ear. They should bring relief, but they don’t. Not when the false god is still moving. Not when his steps echo closer, each one aid directly at .
My hands shake against the wardrobe door, palms slick with sweat as they press hard against the wood, desperate to shrink the gap. If I can close it tight enough—if I can erase the proof of my hiding place—perhaps he will forget . Possibly his gaze will slide past; he might not have seen at all!
Then it happens.
A whistle pierces the chamber, a sound sharp enough to crawl beneath skin and twist the marrow of bone. My blood revolts within , as though an unseen hand seeks to invert the very cycle of life. His eyes flare golden, a brilliance that cuts like a blade. And then—movent. He vanishes, his body fracturing into dust in less than a heartbeat.
The false god is out of order. Eriksson again, but not him speaking, but recalling what he said. Now, assassinate the King.
I burst from the wardrobe, my whole body trembling, yet driven by that single phrase, clinging to it as though to faith itself. Muscles coil, my calves snapping like bowstrings as I launch across the chamber.
My blood surges—no, it writhes—disturbingly concentrated in my legs, leaving my face pale and numb. Darkness pricks at the edges of my vision. Yet, I hurl forward, carried by Eriksson’s voice, teleporting in jagged fragnts of motion, the 4th Grade Artefact—the short knife from the watch, able to cut any skin, flesh, and bones on Elisia—heavy in my grasp.
The room is not silent. It never was; Elisia’s cries lace the air, sharp and broken, drowned only by the guttural sounds of the King’s ecstasy. And through it all, there is —an intruder—and my knife-carrying wrath.
My knife ets resistance. Hard; a surface like stone collides against my fingers, but I push, drive forward, my entire arm quaking as the flow of blood constricts, yet I force it forward. My legs leave the ground, body arched midair, every nerve screaming, every vein lit with fire.
The candle’s fla swells in the corner of my sight. It spills gold across the rope that lies discarded on the floor, its fla casting shadows over the bed where the struggle unfolds.
And then—contact.
Orange blood.
The King’s blood.
It splatters warm across my clothes, staining the once-proud blue fabric. My task is complete, but I cannot comprehend it yet.
My body is still moving, pressing the blade deeper, twisting, grinding until bone cracks beneath the strain. His breath tears out in a single, ragged exhale—a soul ripped loose.
Then silence, broken only by the wet sound of steel burrowing through temple into brain.
He falls slack.
Dead.
For a heartbeat, I hover over him, knife buried in skull, blood dripping down my arms, painting in orange. The stench floods my nose, tallic and sour, and yet all I can see is not the King, but Lieben.
A flash of mory: my brother. The Reds, at that mont, I chose to stand between cruelty and innocence. That sa look, lifeless eyes drained of light, staring back into mine.
My stomach twists. My fingers tremble uncontrollably.
The knife drips, spattering across my knuckles, sliding into the lines of my prints. My jaw hangs open, words unable to form.
I stagger back. Elisia’s gaze locks onto , and tears start streaking down her face, but her eyes are hollow, stripped of any living spark. She looks like him. Like all of them.
Dead.
Stick to the plan, Aston.
I drag the words from sowhere deep inside, forcing them into thought, chaining myself to them before I fracture completely—the plan.
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