“I’ve come to believe this girl is your sister,” the king said. “She is, yes?”
Gregor hadn’t taken his eyes off the girl for a second. “Release her.”
“Not so fast. Here’s how this will go. You will tell me what I need to know. We will discuss the matter man-to-man without any need for violence. After that, you and your sister—Lysandra, correct?—you and Lysandra will be prepared for public execution. Apart from having to endure the presence of the crowd, your deaths will be quick and virtually painless. However, if you refuse to tell me what I need to know, I will have your sister tortured to death in front of a much smaller audience, which will include you. Should I go into detail about what will be done to her?”
The calm demeanor with which the king delivered this news sent a chill racing down Magnus’s spine.
ought again about Cleo. He hadn’t admitted a thing, but he wondered what she would say if he told her the whole truth about Aron, about his mother, about the king.
Would she tell anyone about her suspicions that Magnus killed Aron? And would it even matter if she did? She had no allies within these walls, apart from the useless and inconsequential Nic.
And, of course, her new best friend, Lucia.
Before he could meaningfully consider any of this, they’d arrived at their destination—a place that struck him with surprise.
“He’s questioning the rebel in the throne room?” Magnus asked.
“Yes, your highness.”
Fancy. Perhaps the king didn’t wish to soil his fine clothes or dirty his boots by descending into the dungeon today. Several guards were stationed outside the doors, and four more stood inside. Gregor, the rebel who’d attacked Magnus in Limeros, kneeled at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the large golden throne, where the king calmly sat.
“Finally,” the king said to Magnus. Then he addressed the guards. “We’re waiting for one more guest. In the meantime, the rest of you can leave. Cronus, you stay.”
Cronus bowed. The other guards turned and marched out of the room, closing the tall, heavy doors behind them.
“Who are we waiting for?” Magnus asked.
“Something vital I feel has been missing until now.” The king fixed his gaze on Gregor. “I believe you two are already acquainted.”
Gregor didn’t look up, and Magnus regarded him with disdain. This boy had made him bleed. And he would have killed him, had Magnus not been so alert.
Magnus walked a slow circle around Gregor, who was much thinner than he last saw him a month ago. His dark hair was matted and dirty; his left hand was bandaged with dirty rags crusted with dried blood. His face showed fading bruises. His lip was split.
And he smelled rancid.
“Gregor has the answers I need.” The king’s tone was surprisingly calm, almost friendly. “And he’s going to tell us everything.”
“I’ve already told you all I know.” Gregor finally spoke, his voice hoarse.
“I want you to tell me more about Phaedra, the Watcher who visited your dreams.”
The name took Magnus by complete surprise.
“Phaedra,” he said aloud. “Her name is Phaedra?”
“Perhaps,” Gregor said, shrugging.
Magnus reeled around and grabbed the boy by his throat. “The proper answer is either yes or no, rebel scum.”
“Yes,” Gregor hissed. Magnus released him. “Her name is Phaedra.”
It was the name of the Watcher Magnus had seen, the one who’d saved Jonas’s life before Xanthus snuffed out hers.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
“You haven’t dreamed of her lately, have you?” Magnus said.
“No.”