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Chapter 940: Fading Past

“Earl Luoxi! That coward — how dare he—” Appen spun from the window and swept his gaze across the hall. “Ministers! Where are my ministers?”

The chief guard hesitated long enough to make the answer obvious. “Lord Kerlong said earlier that he was going to… handle some matters.” A pause. “I don’t believe he’s coming back.”

Appen stared at him.

“Lord Wirant left as well,” the chief guard said. “And ‘Gold Hourglass’ Neal. Your Majesty — everyone is gone. Only I remain.”

He looked around the hall then, and saw it: the vast room reduced to a handful of servants and one loyal guard. He had agreed to let them go, one by one, each with a reasonable-sounding duty. Check the stone wall’s defenses. Supervise the inner court staff. Manage the preparations. All of it legitimate. All of it an exit.

His ministers had abandoned him before the attack even reached the gates.

“Traitors.” The scepter hit the floor. “Every one of them — traitors. My reign is ruined by traitors.”

“Your Majesty, those cowards will be punished in time. But right now you must withdraw—” The chief guard stepped closer. “The mercenaries won’t hold them for more than an hour. The imperial guards couldn’t last longer. If we don’t move—”

“No.” Appen pushed him away. “Go to the underground cell. Bring me the head of Otto Luoxi.”

“But—”

That is your king’s command.

The chief guard stepped back and bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

After he left, Appen stood alone in the enormous hall.

His fingers were trembling, faintly. His vision had a reddish cast to it — not blood, exactly, more like the eye’s own heat when rage and exhaustion met. He sat on the throne and looked at his hands.

He pressed them flat against his legs to make them stop.

It was over. He had known it when the mercenaries on the wall simply turned and ran — not repelled, not broken in a pitched fight, but dissolved, like salt in water. After that, the arithmetic was simple. Earl Luoxi’s betrayal was almost beside the point. The outcome had been written before the first horn call.

What he could not understand — and the question kept returning no matter how hard he pushed it aside — was why. Not why Horford Quinn had moved, that was obvious enough. Not why the Tokats had supported him: Quinn was clever and the Tokats were pragmatic. But why Earl Luoxi had chosen this moment to risk his son’s life. Why the three families — whose interests had always diverged at the crucial points — had moved as if coordinated by someone they all trusted. There had to be a person at the center of it. Someone who could reach all three at once.

Appen could not find the name.

He was still sitting there when the hall doors opened.

A team of warriors filed in. He hadn’t seen them before — not palace guards, not mercenaries he’d hired. Their weapons were still wet. Their armor carried dark spatters. And yet their faces were calm, the specific calm of people for whom the last quarter-hour had been, at most, a brisk walk. Not winded. Not cautious. The chief guard had said an hour before the defenses broke; in reality it had been perhaps fifteen minutes.

Behind the warriors came Horford Quinn.

And behind Quinn: two others. Earl Tokat, and — Appen’s stomach tightened — Otto Luoxi himself. Walking under his own power. Alive.

When Appen saw Otto, he understood that the revenge he’d intended was already gone.

“Why is this—”

“Are you surprised that Otto is alive?” Oro Tokat stepped forward. “Two warriors hidden in the palace’s secret passage. Ordinary iron gates and standard locks are not difficult for them. As for how they entered the Castle District in the first place — the guards, in their panic, may not have checked the members of an acrobatics troupe carefully enough.”

Appen’s pupils contracted. “If that’s not a bluff — they could have entered my bedroom at any time?”

“Yes.” Oro spread his hands. “The King of Graycastle needed to create a demonstration. Otherwise you would have been dead before today. Truthfully, I’m disappointed in you, Your Majesty. I thought you kept Otto imprisoned out of anger. I never imagined you would use him as a threat against his father, and then plan to kill him.” He sighed. “I thought — even if we were no longer friends — you wouldn’t forget who we had been to each other.”

“Roland Wimbledon.” Appen said the name like a stone dropped into deep water. The rest of Oro’s words had not reached him. “All of this was his doing.” He looked at Horford Quinn, then pointed. “Do you understand what you’re doing? You’re serving a demon’s instrument. You’ve betrayed your ancestors and sacrificed your kingdom and your people to him — for what?” His voice climbed. “Do you think you’ll actually sit on that throne? You’re a puppet, Quinn — nothing more. If they could topple me today, they will topple you tomorrow. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen this.”

“You’re wrong.” A voice from the doorway — a woman’s voice, unhurried.

Appen began to respond before he had registered her face. Then his voice stopped.

She was barely standing without assistance — someone had a hand at her elbow. She was pale, visibly spent, her body giving out the signals of a person who had pushed through their limits and was surviving the aftermath on will. But the face, the pale skin, the long blonde hair, the bearing beneath the exhaustion—

It was someone who belonged to a time he had put away.

“Andrea Quinn,” she said. “It’s been a long time, Appen.”

The answer came to him whole, in that instant. Not piece by piece — whole. Why both families had trusted the same person enough to risk everything. Why the Tokats had followed without hesitation. Why Otto’s father had gambled his son’s life on the promise that he would be protected. There was only one person who could have reached all three families with that kind of credibility.

She had been the center of the young generation once — the Flower of Glow, the earl’s brilliant eldest daughter, the girl that Oro and Otto and Appen had each, in their own way, loved.

The anger went out of him like a flame pinched off.

What replaced it was something older and simpler. He had been angry for a year: at Roland, at the defeat, at the nobles, at the world’s arrangement. But this was different. This was grief wearing the face of the future he’d been denied.

Why, he thought, did you choose them and not me?

If he was going to lose to Roland Wimbledon regardless, why had she also abandoned him? He could have given her more than Roland ever would. If things had gone differently — if that one accident years ago had not happened — she would have stood beside him. Would have ruled with him. Would have made him into something worth remembering.

He managed one word: “Why?”

Andrea read the rest of the question in his face. She always had.

“Because I’m a witch, Appen.” Her voice was steady. “A Fallen. One of those who deserves to die, in your world.”

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