The tactic could work. Even as I rushed towards him, boots crunching grass, I believed it fully. Lingering doubt and the mental fog that clouded me dissipated as I focused on him, leveraging every injustice, every cruel word, every snide, backhanded remark.

Almost casually, he hefted his sword in a slow, casual arc, completely telegraphing the first downward diagonal swing. In the morning light, his blade caught the light, as if coated in oil.

He started with a simple kata.

And so far, at least, he hadn’t noticed.

I manipulated the water coating his steel, pouring mana through the weave, until the clear coating flash froze opaque, dimming the shine.

There was a flash of doubt a split second before our swords met. His cool blue eyes shifted from me to the altered surface of his untempered blade. But I’d already shifted, and instead of trying to hit him, I was aiming for the blade itself. Roaring flame hotter than any forge collided with the frigid ice of the north.

And as the adage goes, ice sunders all.

King Gil’s blade exploded into shrapnel and shards that whizzed through the air in a sphere, the solid, sturdy-looking metal reduced to ruin. In that brief moment, wonder flitted across his face. Which of course, was when I transferred all the momentum from the run, spared by the shattering sword, and drove my demonic arm into his gut.

Because whether by divine gift or aberrant biology, I’d learned from our first clash that the King of Whitefall had an iron jaw, and had no intention of making the same mistake twice.

He grunted from the impact and bent forward slightly, a manic gleam in his eye. During the exchange he’d caught my sword arm and now held it with a vice-like grip. “My turn.”

Shit.

Before I had time to think, let alone counter, I was airborne and inverted; the sky zipping by beneath my feet.

Then I was splayed on my back, panting for the air that was knocked out of me. A dent in the back of my armor pressed up into my spine, and I called to the wind, forcing a torrent through my mouth and down my impact. After a moment, the contractions ceased. But I kept taking small gasps of air, feigning incapacity. Belatedly, I checked the xescalt gauntlet and found several gems were cracked, others outright crushed, the delicate mana pathways carved into the surface disabled from the damage.

How? With his gods damned hand?

King Gil stared down at me, more irritated than anything else now that the dust had settled. “A less than ideal outcome. Someday soon, boy, we will need to discuss the difference between a marathon and a sprint.” With that, he raised his heel above my head. Unlike before, the movement was measured and controlled. Still more than enough to knock me unconscious.

I feigned weakness until the last second, looping strands of air through the back of my armor, forming an aegis behind my back.

His heel plunged. I empowered the spell, using the now frictionless back of my armor to scoot upward. There was a ringing impact, and a considerable dent where his boot struck my chest plate. I snared his foot, wrapping my arms around it.

“What—”

“DO IT!” I shouted.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Immediately, a blunted arrow struck just above his ear, with pinpoint precision. The king’s head snapped to the side, and slowly, hatefully, he turned to look for the shooter. And found far more than one. In the distance, on top of the walls, at least a dozen bows were held taut. With a collective twang, they were loosed.

The King covered his face with his gauntlets and instinctively tried to turn away. But I put every ounce of strength I had into holding his foot in a vice-like grip, and the trapped foot and misplaced movement were enough to send him tumbling to the ground.

“Archers! Cover his majesty!” One of his personal guard lingering by the exit shouted.

Several responded immediately rushing forward, shields held before them. They’d have him defended in short order, and after that, he’d be after me in earnest.

Thwip Thwip Thwip

Or maybe not so short order. The bulk of the blunted arrows were still aimed at the king. But I watched bemused, several absurdly well-aimed arrows ricocheted off railings, urns, the fountain itself, and despite carrying a fraction of the speed forward, found their way to the honor guard’s hidden faces and helmets. Several fell from the unexpected impact, others forced to route around them.

I spared a glance to the top of the wall, to where Aetherya stood atop a palisade with two of her best shooters.

My first thought was that it seemed like something of a waste. It must have taken countless hours of repetitive shooting to achieve this level of accuracy, and anything but the blunted tips of skirmish arrows wouldn’t bounce so predictably. Despite that, this single seemingly pointless ability waylaying the king’s guards was buying me significantly more time than I’d have otherwise. I nodded to her.

Aetherya responded by firing an arrow that nearly parted the skin from my cheek, the resulting clang sending a rushing guardsman crashing to the ground.

Right, gotta move.

Predictably, the black shields were almost entirely focused on protecting the king rather than attacking his son. A few took errant swipes at me as I ran into the castle, but none landed a hit as I weaved between them, and none shifted their attention fully.

My legs pumped as I descended the stairs, heading for the ground floor and aiming lower. As we’d discussed, other than Aetherya, my lieutenants would be taking an alternate route, meeting with their soldiers outside the palace and then splitting up, taking varying paths that appeared to lead other directions but all eventually ending up in Topside, near Kilvius’s headquarters. Out of every possibility of places House Westmore and the Black Shields could hide Annette, it had to be somewhere in Topside. Even if he wasn’t the savviest political mind, my father was hardly stupid. He wouldn’t risk an outbreak of violence around the critical houses, especially given the volatile state of things. It had to be Topside.

I’d avoided seeking Kilvius’s help to locate Lillian. He probably would have, but given the recent rockiness of our relationship and the high likelihood she was dead, I’d chosen not to cash in that chit. And thank the gods I hadn’t.

Before I could leave the palace, I needed to find Sera. If my lieutenant’s path was contested, Maya would stay with them. However, if the path was clear—

“Cairn, cushion!” Maya’s voice echoed down the stairs just as I reached the bottom. I looked up to see her diving downward, narrowly threading the gaps in the rails.

I summed a disc of air, solidifying it beneath her in scant seconds before she landed and threw her balance forward, running past me. “Really want to get out before the pissed off king catches up to us!”

For a second, I stared before running after her. “What the hells were you going to do if I didn’t get the spell off in time?”

“I knew you would.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

“Used the shard of the mirror to heal my incredibly sore ankles—gods I’m out of shape.” She glared at me as I jogged alongside her. “Are they trying to fatten me up? The food I’m served is far too decadent to eat every day.”

“You’re keeping pace fine, but I’ll tell the chefs to put you on porridge.”

“Do that and wake up one day to find your lower intestine lined with taste buds.”

Equally amused and horrified, I laughed. Somehow, despite the severity of the situation I felt lighter. Partially from the adrenaline, partially because with the first hurdle cleared, I knew I could pass this test. House Westmore was primarily a merchant house. The black shields were observant, generally excellent fighters, but they were guardsmen first, trained to escort a king who was rarely anything but visible.

Somehow it made me feel more like myself.

“You’re smiling.” Maya observed.

“Yeah. I guess I am.”