Firefox

The city was not yet walled in, but the palace was. They checked in at the gates, and the guard standing duty studied them with a hard look before he nodded them in.

“The king is awaiting for your arrival,” he said. “Stable your horses and report to him immediately.”

“We had no plans to do otherwise,” Percival said, ruffled to a degree by the treatment. After his talk of holidays, it was clear he expected a warmer welcome.

Braxton did not let the icy reception get to him. He understood that they were tradesmen who’d accomplished their task—no matter how difficult that task was.

They left their horses with the stable boy and entered the palace on foot. The ornate halls spoke of wealth and power, and the warmth within its walls was a marvel after so long spent exposed to the elements. Braxton and Percival both approached the throne room, and after a brief moment, they were granted entrance.

King Edgar sat upon the throne at the far end of the room, and the moment after they entered, Braxton and Percival both removed their hats and bowed low to him. Before they could rise and continue their approach, strong hands gripped both of Grantham’s wrists, and someone drove their elbow down into the back of his head. He fell to his knees. Beside him, Percival gasped and did the same as he was battered in tandem.

“For treason against the Crown,” King Edgar’s voice rose powerfully in the large room. “I hereby sentence Braxton Grantham to death.”

“Treason?” Grantham lifted his chin to see a figure emerge from behind the throne. Bishop Hemming, dressed in rich furs and bright colors, simpered at him. He had always opposed him and whispered that

Grantham’s reputation was too powerful and a threat to the crown, but he had never been in favor with the king.

It seemed that the city was not the only thing changed in the last four years.

Before Grantham could argue, cold steel bit into the back of his neck and knocked against his spine. His eyes widened, pain squeezing his throat closed so he couldn’t even scream. Blood streamed down his neck and shoulders, quickly beginning to pool on the stone beneath his knees.

“Let it be known that conspiring with Dane nobility will result in immediate and painful death,” said King Edgar. “Or any enemy, for that matter.”

Conspiring with Dane nobility? He’d done no such thing. Bishop Hemming had obviously fabricated a story and fed it to the king, and now…

The accusation jarred him to the bones.

Edgar whom he fought for with his heart and soul condemned him without giving him a chance to defend himself. Edgar whose friendship he treasured the most. Edgar who he had been willing to give up his life to defend his honor.

This allegation… This betrayal.

Betrayal…

Hatred for that vile man and his weak-minded king twisted in Grantham’s stomach. His vision blurred and grew dark, but through it all, he clung to his anger and kept it alive. There was no force more powerful, or more hateful.

Fury.

Hatred.

King Edgar should have known better, no matter how young and naïve he was. Grantham was disappointed that he’d let an evil man like Bishop Hemming influence his mind in such an underhanded way. If he believed baseless allegations, he was not a fit ruler. Hemming—he did not deserve the title of Bishop for his deeds—was a man made ugly by envy. A conniving, wretched waste of flesh that did not deserve the amenities of a barn, let alone the luxuries of a palace.

As he tumbled down to the ground, he screamed a silent plea to whoever might hear him. Be it god, demon or something else. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Let this hatred, this injustice be avenged.

Fire crackled within him. The flames licked up and engulfed his soul, and the pain of encroaching death from his injury was matched by an agonizing tear inside of him—as though someone had pulled his arm off with their bare hands.

Whoever is there, let me have my revenge…

Let me, let me…

LET ME!

Extract revenge, a dark voice whispered in his mind. His vision cleared and sharpened, and the man who’d just held him by the wrists shouted in fearful surprise and released him. Renewed strength coursed through him. He stood, stronger than ever, as the darkness once behind his eyes, leeched from his skin and spilled upon the castle floors. It scurried outward like cockroaches, and when the darkness made contact with Percival, he shrieked and writhed. The guards holding him were sucked into the shadows. He never saw them again.

“Braxton!” King Edgar shouted, rising from his throne and drawing his sword.

Grantham noticed that the king’s hand trembled.