Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1)(30)

“Come. Speak in private this way, away from the ears and eyes of revelers,” Midas says, nodding his head in the direction of the letter room off to the left. I’m hoping to slip away, but the guards don’t let me go. Instead, I’m hauled down a short hallway, away from the staircase, and our group files into the room.

The space holds a few scattered tables and chairs, while parchment, candles, ink bottles, wax, and quills are piled up for anyone to use to write their letters and send them off.

The door is closed behind us, shutting me in with two kings and ten guards between the two of them.

The messenger doesn’t look any more composed than he was when he first burst in through the doors. If anything, he’s breathing even harder now, his eyes shifting nervously around the room as he positions himself behind one of the golden tables.

“Well?” King Fulke demands. “I want to know why my messenger is dead and why you’ve been sent here from the border.”

The messenger’s hands shake slightly. Whether it’s from nervousness or exhaustion, I don’t know. “My king, if I could speak to you in private…”

But Fulke’s dark eyes narrow on his request. “Are you a traitor, soldier? Did you defect?”

The messenger’s eyes go wide. “What? No, sire!”

“Then explain yourself!” Fulke demands, crashing his fist onto the table, making both me and the messenger flinch.

Somber resolve settles in the man’s face, though he grips the hilt of his sword. “As soon as your army breached Fourth’s border, King Ravinger’s men attacked. Your entire fleet was decimated, sire.”

King Fulke’s brows pull together. “You are mistaken. Our troops broke through Fourth’s line earlier this morning. We took Cliffhelm. Our joined armies with Sixth’s were victorious. Fourth was caught completely off guard. Our negotiations are already in place.”

The messenger darts a look around the room, eyes landing on a stoic, expressionless Midas before returning to Fulke. “No, Your Majesty.”

“No?” Fulke repeats, as if he’s never heard the word before. “What do you mean, no?”

“We—we didn’t take Cliffhelm. Ravinger’s training outpost there was full of soldiers. We never even breached the walls before they were on us.”

One of Fulke’s guards curses, Fulke’s fists tightening at his sides. “You’re saying my entire division was taken out?”

The messenger hesitates. “Yes, Your Majesty, and…”

King Fulke picks up one of the ink bottles and sends it hurtling against the wall, the glass shattering, ink splattered and dripping. “And what?” Fulke fumes. “Spit it out!”

Something is wrong here. Very, very wrong. They were celebrating. Their plan was victorious. My brows pull together in a frown as my mind whirls. What happened between then and now? How could such misinformation be passed to the kings earlier? Or is this soldier lying? But if so...for what purpose?

The messenger grips the hilt of his sword tighter under the scowl of his king, and I’m not the only one who notices. “What are you doing, soldier?” King Fulke’s guard asks, tone heavy with suspicion as he reaches for his own blade.

But the messenger isn’t looking at him. He’s not even looking at Fulke. He’s looking at Midas.

My body coils with tension, my instincts blaring at me that something terrible is about to happen, but I have no idea what.

“Explain to me how we were told that we took Cliffhelm this morning, only for you to now inform me that my men were all slaughtered!” Fulke snarls. “Tell me how Ravinger’s men were able to overtake both my soldiers and Midas’s without us knowing!”

Fulke’s guards close in on the messenger, like a pack of wolves sniffing out a traitor. A liar.

But they’re closing in on the wrong man.

The messenger tilts his chin up, a proud stance widening his feet even as resignation flashes in his eyes. “They didn’t overtake King Midas’s men. Because Midas’s army never met ours. Sixth’s army never went to Fourth’s border. Your soldiers were there to face King Ravinger’s men alone, and the earlier messages were a deceit.” Accusatory eyes cut over to my king. “Midas betrayed you.”





Chapter Thirteen





For a span of a breath, no one moves.

Shocked silence fills the room at the messenger’s declaration. Then both sets of guards tighten formations around their kings.

King Fulke frowns, confused. “You are mistaken, soldier,” he says to the messenger.

“He’s not.”

My eyes shoot over to Midas at his bold declaration, but he only looks steadily back at Fulke with pleased arrogance. Fulke’s face changes from confusion to shock and then into budding fury as the world settles in, shaking with the aftershocks of the shift.

“You betrayed me?” King Fulke asks, his voice like a whip.

His guards tighten their hands around their blades, purple pommels with their kingdom’s sigil of jagged icicles carved through the hilt. Just minutes ago, these men were all drinking and laughing together. Now, tension radiates through them as they face each other.

Allies to enemies.

Enemies from allies.

“Let this be your last life lesson, Fulke,” Midas replies calmly, not the least bit threatened despite the deadly menace hanging in the air. “True kings don’t give out their armies for cunts.”