It didn’t take long to reach the gallows in the center, the townspeople bustling around it like ocean waves preparing to crash upon a rocky shore. The wooden structure was rough and shoddy, clearly built up in haste.

Seven people stood on the platform, a noose around each neck, hands bound behind them, a burlap sack obscuring their faces. But Ciaran would recognize the squat, friendly figure on the far left anywhere: Thomson.

Ciaran’s heart leapt into his throat. He still had time to save him.

Though how he was going to do that, Ciaran wasn’t quite sure. Guards stood around the perimeter of the gallows, keeping the fractious townspeople at bay, and the accused were accompanied on the platform by four armed guards, the executioner, and a crier, whose words rang out over the roars of protestors.

“You’ve been gathered here to witness the execution of justice against these traitors against the crown, whose actions—”

The rest of the crier’s words were drowned out in the waves of jeers and swears from the surrounding commoners. Ciaran pulled Bane’s head against his thigh, terrified of the dog being dragged from him in the energy of the crowd.

Commoners’ discontent had only ever been something Ciaran had filtered down to him through his nanny or Vincent or—rarely—through Nolan himself. To be caught in the energy and power of the force itself was not something he’d ever expected to experience in person. Nolan never would have allowed it.

And yet, the sensation was not unwelcome. There was an odd sense of kinship thrumming through the crowds. Something told him Asra would love to be here right now, and that set him at ease, as though she were actually at his side.

Ciaran wet his lips. He’d never be able to take all these guards on his own, especially considering he’d never killed anyone before. Perhaps he could provide enough of a distraction to slip Thomson away?

He had his bow and arrows, but Bane would be his most potent weapon here. If he knew the best way to deploy him …

The executioner reached for the lever that would drop the trap door beneath the condemned.

Ciaran kneeled down next to Bane, holding his arm out in a straight line toward the executioner, palm turned to the side. The ridgeback’s gaze locked onto the target.

“Bane, get him!”

The dog launched forward, forcing a path through the crowds. He catapulted onto the scaffold, then latched his jaws on the executioner’s extended arm.

The man screamed, and the chaos of the crowds paused for a split second. Then, Ciaran’s arrow whistled through the air, lodging itself in the shoulder of the guard closest to Bane before he could grab the dog.

And then the scene around him exploded. The townspeople rushed forward, overwhelming the paltry number of guards. Ciaran allowed the crowds to carry him up to the scaffolding, and he threw the noose and burlap sack over Thomson’s neck.

”Bane, out!” Ciaran shouted.

The dog released his hold on the executioner’s bloodied arm and returned to Ciaran’s side.

“Let’s go!” Ciaran said, but when he tried to pull the man forward, Thomson resisted. “Move, unless you want to die here!”

Thomson finally acquiesced, and Ciaran led him down the stairs against the current of the mob. Gunfire cracked through the crowds, smoke casting a haze over the scene—haze that thankfully gave Ciaran and Thomson cover as they snaked through the riot.

They finally broke through, darting into the shadows to the tethered gelding. Ciaran turned to Thomson, and the man stared wide-eyed at him.

Thomson’s voice warbled when he spoke. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“I’m here to settle my debt for all those pastries you snuck me after supper,” Ciaran said as he untied the rope on Thomson’s wrists.

Ciaran didn’t think the man’s eyes could get any wider. “Your Highness?”

Ciaran held a finger to his lips and said, “We need to go. Can you still ride a horse?”

Thomson puffed out his chest. “I’m not that old!”

Ciaran tossed the rope from Thomson’s wrists aside, untethered the horse, and hauled himself up in the saddle. He pulled Thomson up into the saddle behind him, then tapped his heels into the gelding’s sides.

The four of them tore through the town, Ciaran opting for what he hoped were back streets too small for the guards’ attention. The strategy worked until they found themselves at a dead end he had forgotten about. Guards shouted behind them, and Ciaran tucked the horse into a dark corner as best as he could manage.

He held his breath as the footsteps of the guards neared, paused … then thankfully continued down a side street. He released his breath.

“I don’t think they’ll come back this way,” Ciaran said. He fumbled in his coat pocket for the flask and took another swig. “If we wait it out, we should be able to sneak away when things are quieter. But first we’ll need to get you a disguise.”

“Oh, Your Highness,” Thomson said, slipping down from the saddle. “You’ve no idea what a relief it is to see you.”

“What happened?” Ciaran asked, hopping down from the horse’s back to help the man to his feet.

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“Your brother found out I let you escape,” Thomson said. “I tried to flee, but … well, you see how that’s gone. If it’s not too much trouble, Your Highness, perhaps you could speak with him? I don’t expect my position back, but I would be grateful for my life.”

Ciaran took a moment to absorb Thomson’s words as he fished through the saddlebags for a ring inlaid with a small lodestone—a failed attempt at his disguising spell. It wasn’t significant enough to disguise his more recognizable face, but most likely enough to conceal Thomson, whose face was not as prominently displayed in newspapers and bank notes.

“You’ve always been loyal to the crown and my family,” Ciaran said, twirling the ring in his fingers as he considered Thomsons’ words. “Nolan would never … ”

Thomson’s brows drew together. “Perhaps you underestimate His Majesty’s protectiveness over you. He hasn’t been right since you were kidnapped. If His Majesty was paranoid before … it’s nothing compared to now.”

Guilt twisted Ciaran’s stomach. It wasn’t as if he wanted to murder his brother. But Nolan hadn’t left him much choice.

Ciaran rubbed the back of his neck. “Nolan … won’t be a concern for much longer, Thomson. I’ll be glad to give you your position back when I’m king.”

Thomson’s brows drew together. “When you’re … ?”

Someone shouted behind them. Thomsons’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack. Ciaran followed his gaze and turned to see a guard at the end of the alley, revolver raised. Bane snarled and hurtled toward the woman, but he’d never reach her before her bullet reached Thomson or Ciaran. Ciaran reached for his bow, but he’d never aim and loose an arrow in time. Someone was going to die. His heart pounded. His blood went cold.

Then there was a thunderous snarl, and the woman was lifted into the air by the jaws of a massive dog. Asra shook the guard rigorously, then dropped her body to the cobblestone below.

“Hellhound,” Thomson breathed.

It was clear why Thomson would come to that conclusion. The wound on Asra’s side oozed, her muscle and bone still exposed. Her skin, normally taught against her muscular frame, hung from her bony body like a corpse. The dim flames of the lamplight turned her amber eyes into an eerie red. She was the haunting image of a hellhound, summoned by the gods to drag mortals to the depths of the underworld.

Asra took a shaky step forward and flicked her muzzle toward Thomson as she said, “Do you need me to kill him?”

“No,” Ciaran said firmly. “Stay back. This is none of your business. You shouldn’t even be here right now.”

When Ciaran turned back, Thomson’s brow furrowed once more.

“Not a hellhound,” he said. “A shapechanger. Why are you … Why is she … ?” Horror dawned on his face. “You weren’t kidnapped at all. You went willingly. With her?”

The betrayal in the old guard’s eyes sent daggers through Ciaran’s heart. It was evident where the man’s thoughts lay; he’d risked his life, betrayed his king and duty, so that Ciaran could betray his brother and take the crown for himself.

“You’re going to kill your brother, aren’t you?” Thomson asked. “You want his throne.”

“No,” Asra snarled. “I’m going to kill his brother.”

“You’re not helping, Asra,” Ciaran snapped, wheeling around to point a finger at her. “Stay out of this!”

“Your brother I expected to turn out the way he did,” Thomson said, “but you—”

“Watch your tone,” Ciaran said, rounding back on Thomson.

“I thought you would be the one to finally put an end to all of this nonsense,” Thomson continued. “All of this scheming for power. Killing each other for the throne, as the rest of your family has. I thought you were better than that.”

“I told you to watch your tone!”

Ciaran’s heart hammered in his chest, his head swam, his breath was short. He shouldn’t have drank as much as he did.

And some part of him knew what Thomson’s next words would be:

“What would your mother think?”

Blindly, unthinking, Ciaran gripped the collar of Thomson’s shabby prison tunic and slammed him against the brick wall of the alley.

“How dare you?” Ciaran growled. “I am your prince! You will show respect!”

Asra growled behind him, and Bane whimpered at his side. It took him a moment to push past the fog of alcohol and truly comprehend the scene around him.

He loosened his grip on Thomson’s shirt, taking a shaky step back. “I’m … sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Thomson straightened, brushed the masonry dust from his trousers, rubbed the back of his head, cast a few furtive glances at Ciaran—probably gauging his mood, likely a habitual movement from the days of his father’s rule.

“You should leave,” Ciaran said. He fished into his pocket for a wad of paper royals. He placed the disguising ring on top and handed them to Thomson. “Don’t let anyone find you.”

“I assure you,” Thomson said, taking the stack from Ciaran, “none of you will ever see me again.”

Ciaran winced at the words. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“I don’t hold it against you,” Thomson said. “I suppose it's just in your blood. Like father, like son. You and your brother both.”

The words hit Ciaran like a sucker punch, but before he could say anything, Thomson shuffled out of the alley and around the corner.

Asra left him alone with his thoughts for far too long before she said, “We should get going.”

The gunfire behind them grew louder. Asra swayed on her paws, her breathing shaky and heavy. She was right; they needed to get out before anyone saw her. The gunpowder smoke would at least provide cover.

“Right,” Ciaran said. “Of course.”

Asra took a deep, steadying breath and snorted it out through her nose, as if bracing herself for the exertion of their escape. Ciaran hoisted himself onto the horse and nudged him into a gallop. Bane followed closely behind, Asra limping just behind him. He hoped the sound of the horse’s hooves wouldn’t draw attention to them.

They raced through the empty streets, the sounds of gunfire and screams rapidly vanishing behind them. Eventually they reached the edge of town and darted into the forest, leaving the events of the evening behind them.