Good faith. He returned her back to me out of good faith. I didn’t actually believe he would do it. It was a test. The result of which tells me the most important thing of all—he doesn’t know what she is. What she can do.
Once I knew that, I was able to breathe for the first time in weeks.
So long as that secret is secure, the rest can be managed.
I feel my lips curl with a self-satisfied smirk. What a fool he is. He gave away the most valuable treasure in the entire realm, for free.
I’d laugh in his face if I could, just to rub it in.
But the secret is much more valuable than my ability to gloat. It’s why I’ve learned to do so in private. Every time Auren turns something gold under my direction, I gloat. Every time someone else marvels at my power, or calls me the Golden King, I gloat.
I’ve fooled the entire world of Orea.
And now, I’ve claimed two kingdoms for my own. I just need to ensure that I keep them both, which is why this meeting is so important.
If the meeting ever actually happens. The tapping starts up again.
Six more minutes. I’ll give the bastard six more minutes, and then I’ll go down there to his encampment and drag him out myself.
No one keeps me waiting.
My fingertip counts the seconds. One minute. Two. Three minutes. Four. Five. When I hit six, anger is thick in my chest, like viscous mucus I’m unable to clear.
I get to my feet, shoulders set with vexation, the corners of my eyes creasing with stress.
“I’ll go after the bastard myself,” I bark out.
Just as I’m about to take my first step, the door to the throne room is tossed open like a wayward wind tore through the wood as it slams against the wall.
Three sets of footsteps echo in—no, four. One of them has a tread too light to hear. All of them are in full black armor and helmets, but even without being able to see their faces, I can sense their arrogance.
The one who walks quietly is small, both in height and in stature. But the next one is massive, a brute no doubt chosen as guard for his size alone.
The third one on the end appears of average size, with the same black armor and leathers as the other two, same crude tree branch sword hilt.
The emblems of Fourth Kingdom are displayed on their chest plates—a bare, crooked tree with four craggy branches and its roots full of sharp thorns.
Yet my brows pull together as I watch the fourth member of the quad walk toward the dais. This one, I’ve heard of.
The commander of the army.
It seems the sharp points depicted on their armor’s emblem have been brought to life in him, because black thorns jut from the armor along his arms and back like sinister barbs yanked from the soils of hell.
He’s a walking message made by Ravinger himself, if some of the rumors are to be believed. The king corrupted his commander into something to be feared and reviled.
He is the vicious thorns that root the wicked tree.
The quad stops in front of the dais with identical postures. Feet spread, arms loose, helmets facing straight ahead. None of them say a single thing. So silent you could hear a pin drop.
Instead, I hear an easy, unrushed gait.
My eyes lift to the doorway just as King Ravinger himself walks inside. Despite myself, I find my body going rigid. He seems to step with the same rhythm as my tapping fingers.
Calm and collected, he comes forward as though he were the one to win this kingdom, rather than me.
My eyes track his every movement as I take in the infamous King Rot for the very first time.
No kingly robe for him—he wears the black and brown leathers of his army men, only missing the armor and helmet. But coming up from his neck and extending over his jaw and cheeks are some kind of lined tattoos.