Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(93)

I rub my chilled arms as Lysander rounds a bend, taking us down another deserted hallway where we have to step over potted trees and flowering shrubs that have fallen across our path. The silence is somehow more unsettling than the screams and clashes of battle.

As we near the throne room, someone coughs. The sound startles me into alertness, and I hold my dagger at the ready. Peering around a corner, I count ten guards stationed outside the throne room’s only entrance and exit.

Of course Hadrien’s in there, the arrogant boy who thinks himself a king. But king is more than just a title, and while he can call himself whatever he pleases, he’ll never rule the hearts or minds of Karthia.

“Now, Lysander,” I whisper as one of the guards bends over to inspect a cut on his leg.

Glowing eyes narrowed, the bear charges around the corner, sending the newly hired guards into a frenzy. I don’t know what promises they made to Hadrien, but while they draw their swords and bows, not one of them looks prepared to fight a grizzly.

I dart through the chaos toward the throne room. Lysander’s bulk knocks me sideways, into a soldier who swings his sword at me. I drop to the ground, slashing the backs of his knees with my dagger, and crawl as fast as I can toward the throne room doors.

Something pierces my leg. The soldier I cut looms over me, his face white and livid, the tip of his blade stuck in my calf. “Where do you think you’re going?” he sneers.

I try to jerk away, but the blade pins me in place. The slightest movement sends fresh waves of pain through my leg.

The soldier shakes his head, pulling the sword from my leg and raising it like he’s about to end my life, right here on this worn old floor.

But before he has a chance, Lysander knocks him back into a bloody pile of his fellow guards. The bear roars, rising up on his hind legs in a sort of victory dance. “Doing okay in there, Meredy?” I whisper.

Lysander’s eyes flicker as he settles back down, shifting from green to brown, then back to glowing green.

I shiver. Could Meredy be losing control? Or worse, what if she’s hurt? Hopefully, she’s keeping her promise and leaving Lysander’s mind to focus on whatever she and Danial are facing now.

As Lysander saunters toward the throne room, I hiss, “Meredy, if you’re still in there, go. Take care of yourself. That’s an order!”

Then I charge after the bear.

“What’s the news from the city—?” Hadrien’s question dies on his tongue as he catches sight of Lysander and me. “Sparrow.” He blinks at me from atop the throne, perhaps wondering if he’s seeing a spirit walking among the living.

Four more guards charge toward us, but Lysander quickly sets to work disarming them.

I raise my dagger, noting the absence of the usual longsword at Hadrien’s side. His blade rests in its scabbard on a table well out of reach of the throne, almost like it’s on display, or at least like he doesn’t feel he needs it here. King Wylding’s jeweled crown looks especially fine on the handsome prince, making his shadow on the floor taller, more imposing.

But I’m not afraid.

Hadrien frowns at the water I’m dripping on the room’s glossy floor. “Did Lyda try to drown you?” he asks quietly, not bothering to rise as I climb the steps to where he sits. “She couldn’t even handle this one simple task. You were as good as dead when I handed you over!” He shakes his head, disgust evident in his tone.

I clutch the dagger so hard my knuckles ache in protest. I’m almost to the throne. Almost close enough to knock the crown right off his overinflated head.

But as I gaze from my blade, still slick with the guard’s blood, to Hadrien’s neck, my stomach churns. There’s been so much death today already. More than anyone should have to witness in a country that’s not at war. But then, I guess that’s what this is.

Hadrien rises from the throne, gazing past me at Lysander and the guards. Remembering the way Lysander’s eyes had returned to their usual amber brown, I wish I could see what’s happening, but I won’t turn my back on Hadrien for an instant.

“Take off the crown,” I say firmly as his eyes return to mine. Finally, we’re face-to-face, standing on the narrow platform that holds the throne. “If you come with me peacefully, I’ll tell Valoria not to have you hanged. We can get you your own dungeon cell, where you’ll never have to gaze upon any of the Dead again . . .”

Hadrien lunges for my dagger. I drop the blade and grab his wrist with both hands, twisting it as hard as I can. The resulting crack raises gooseflesh on my arms.

He screams several names at me as we both scramble to retrieve my fallen dagger. I reach it first, my fingers closing around the hilt and the fingers of his good hand closing over mine. He spits a curse, releasing his grip as though my skin burned him.

Lysander growls low and long like thunder, drawing my gaze for the briefest moment. Like a sheepdog, he’s herded all the guards into a far corner of the room, unimpressed by their blades and their taunts.

Sensing my distraction, Hadrien wraps his good hand around my neck, snarling as I struggle to pry him off.

“It doesn’t—” I splutter as his fingers squeeze the breath out of me. I strike with the dagger one-handed, still trying to pry him off with the other, but my aim is terrible as stars dance before my eyes.

The dagger sinks into his shoulder, which only makes him choke me harder.