The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(7)

“Vardaan thought he could maintain the bond by himself. We were wrong, and for that, I am sorry.” He closed his eyes and coughed up blood. He grabbed on to her, his bloody fingers a cuff on her wrist. “The fireplace.”

“What of it?”

“The fireplace. And my nephew . . . ,” he whispered.

Before she could register his words, the general of the Red Fortress, her target and mission, died with one last gasping breath. Her knife was still warm in her hand, had been ready to end his life. But just as he had cheated her in life, he cheated her in death, stealing away the moment she had longed for.

Fury coursed through her veins and she wanted to shake him for taking this from her as well. Instead, she watched as life faded out of him, etching a new memory of the man who had plagued her nightmares, fueled her hatred for years. Her ghosts whispered, and she closed her eyes, letting their insistent voices wash over her.

She should be happy. The general was dead. The first pawn to be toppled as she made her way across the board toward the Pretender King, Vardaan.

It felt hollow.

Esha heard the conch shell blow again and jumped—the soldiers would come in now from their exercises.

She ran to the small fireplace situated in the corner of the room, remembering the general’s words and the report she still had to find. Was it another trap? Even if it was, there was valuable information for the rebels in this room.

A scroll had been tossed into the flames, along with a short note that was mostly burned away. Esha smothered the fire with the bottom of her sandal and picked up the note and then the scroll, hitting it against the stone floor to stop the spread of flames.

Was this the report? She hoped to the Moon Lord it was, as she was running out of time.

Something glinted in the ashes. Pain was shooting up her palm from where she had grasped the hot scroll handle, but Esha reached in to pick up the object. It was a silver pin shaped like a crescent moon, an arrow through the center.

The symbol of the Crescent Blades, the Dharkan rebel group she called her family.

No self-respecting Blade would be careless enough to leave their pin behind, Esha thought immediately.

Which meant whoever had left it had done so on purpose. Esha couldn’t fathom a reason a Blade would do such a thing, unless they had turned traitor and double agent. Or it could have been left by a new foe, someone who wanted to draw the Blades into a conflict that wasn’t theirs.

She might not be the only one being framed—whoever had been here had wanted the soldiers at the Fort to find the pin. And if they found it and tied the general’s assassination back to the Blades, Viper or no Viper, it could be the start of a full-fledged vendetta against the rebels.

Just as the cease-fire had been struck and peace was on the horizon.

It wouldn’t matter that the Blades weren’t representative of Dharka’s army or monarchy—Vardaan was known to end agreements, and lives, for more trivial reasons than the murder of his right-hand general. And right now, Dharka needed peace. If the Fort and Vardaan discovered that the Blades had a connection to the Dharkan throne . . .

A chill crept down her spine.

Esha shook her head. She couldn’t stay here any longer if she wanted to escape and get to the bottom of this. She rushed over to the general’s desk, rattling through trinkets and correspondence for any more reports. Her hand hit scrolls that were hidden in the back, in a secret compartment, and she grabbed them, shoving them into her waist sash.

Time to leave.

At the last minute, Esha took the whip replica and left her real one.

It was rash, reckless, stupid, an action colored by rage and disappointment. But whoever had done this had wanted to frame her, and if she let them think their plan was still working, if she let this story play out, she might get enough clues to find them.

To unravel who was behind this, who had killed the general before her.

Who might know her real identity.





Chapter 4


Kunal woke to a rapping sound outside his door.

He looked at the door with a sour expression. Whoever was making that noise would shortly meet his fist if they didn’t stop. The sound dissipated and Kunal sighed back into his pillow, the side of his face nestling into the rough cotton fibers. The sun had barely peeked its head over the horizon, and ribbons of orange painted the sky outside his small window.

How anyone could be up this early after last night’s festivities was a mystery to him. He hadn’t had more than a glass of rice wine after his shift—which his body thanked him for this morning. Most of his friends had imbibed significantly more, and there would be throbbing headaches and regret today, for sure.

Midnight exercises had been a nightmare, soldiers stumbling and slurring. He had avoided the talk that inevitably followed, of conquests—militaristic and personal. It soothed his conscience to know he had been able to help that girl, after so much bloodshed.

The knock sounded again and he groaned. For once, Kunal had planned on waking late—or as late as his body would allow him. Even the commander had foreseen that need and postponed any training to later in the afternoon.

The incessant knocking started up again, and with it came a few snickers. In a fluid movement, Kunal threw his knife, which was always within reach, toward the door. It thudded into the thick rosewood and the noise ceased, besides a small yelp of surprise.

Kunal smiled into his pillow.