But he didn’t. He kept his gaze locked with hers to show he was trying to be strong. For her.
She tried to focus on the dais and on the king who stood watching the proceedings, his expression smug and satisfied. She saw Prince Magnus’s scarred cheek twitch, but otherwise he appeared impassive. Princess Lucia stood still behind him, her beautiful face calm and cold.
Princess Cleo, on the other hand, looked frantic, her gaze darting from Lysandra to Tarus to the crowd as if she were a nervous hummingbird searching for shelter.
As the executioner hoisted his heavy ax above his head, Lysandra finally squeezed her eyes shut to block out the sight of the king’s followers, who continued to cheer her impending death loud enough to drown out any protests from the back. There was one thing about which the king had been truthful: This wouldn’t be a torturous death. It would be over swiftly.
She had no deity to pray to and no faith in the goddesses of other lands, so she thought of her parents and of Gregor and, lastly, of Jonas.
I love you all.
Just as she exhaled one long, last breath, an explosion rocked the stage. Lysandra’s eyes snapped back open and she saw a plume of orange flame rise up before her. A dagger flew through the air and caught the executioner in his throat, forcing him to stagger backward and drop hard to the floor. Beneath his hooded mask, Lysandra saw that his dead eyes were still open and filled with shock.
Another explosion bloomed to the left, crashing directly in the center of King Gaius’s supporters. Bodies and debris flew through the air, catching fire, the carnage extending into the rest of the audience, who began to scatter in all directions. Now they screamed for their own lives instead of Lysandra’s head.
Stunned, Gregor’s warning echoed in Lysandra’s ears: “When the sorceress’s blood is spilled, they will finally rise. And the world will burn.”
If Lysandra wasn’t mistaken, the world was burning right now.
“Lys! Help!” Tarus yelled. A guard was hauling the boy backward toward the dungeon, away from the sudden chaos.
She didn’t hesitate. She lunged toward the fallen executioner and turned to slice through her bindings with his discarded ax. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the royals being ushered away toward the safety of the palace by a flank of red-uniformed guards who stepped over bodies strewn on the ground below the dais.
Lysandra jumped down from the stage, shoving and punching anyone in her path as she tried to get to Tarus.
An iron bar of an arm came around her throat from behind. She clawed at it, fighting and kicking. A man had fallen to the ground nearby, screaming, his body ablaze.
“Let go of me!” she shouted.
“Why? Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”
She froze. The firm arm was clad in the hateful red uniform, but as soon as she heard him speak, she stopped fighting.
Her captor loosened his hold just enough for her to spin around and confirm his identity.
“Jonas!” The word was nothing more than a throaty rasp.
He didn’t greet her with a smile, not even a smug, self-satisfied one. He didn’t even look at her; his gaze was fixed on the crowd, his expression deadly serious.
“That explosion hit closer to you than I wanted,” he growled. “Idiot doesn’t know how to follow orders. He killed too many people today. And he came damn close to killing you, too.”
Jonas wasn’t remotely gentle as he began yanking her along with him, following Tarus and the other guard through the melee. Thousands of spectators fled the explosions, and the detonations kept coming. One after another after another.
Two guards raced past them without giving them a second glance. A third slowed his steps and cast Lysandra a sour look.
“Where are you going with the prisoners?” he demanded of Jonas and the other guard—another disguised rebel, Lysandra had figured out—who had Tarus by his shirt.
“I was told to take them back to the dungeon until this area is secure,” Jonas said. “Unless you want to take them?”
“No. Carry on. And make haste.” The guard continued on his way.
“Oh, I’ll make haste,” Jonas spat past his gritted teeth.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Lysandra growled. “Because you’re doing a great job so far.”
“Good to see you, too. Oh, and you’re welcome for saving your arse. Now shut up.”
Jonas moved so swiftly that Lysandra nearly tripped over her own feet. She was weak from dehydration and hunger, from grief and fear. What did he think he was doing? He and this other boy had just risked their own necks to rescue her and Tarus. Idiots!