KINGSLAYER

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Ermalai's posture was especially rigid today. He had been on edge ever since being berated by the Tilanic Prince, dangerously close to snapping with even the smallest point of pressure. Alexander was simply glad he did not have to kill Zensa—who was apparently a member of the extended royal family the entire time. He never knew what to expect anymore. But one thing was sure: the timing was too perfect to have happened coincidentally.

The mass of soldiers marched up the subtle steps and flanked Ermalai as he led them through the iron doors, held open by a few servants likely terrified into obedience. He planned to follow up the rear, but just then he caught a dark glimpse off to the side. It was Jaylah and that attendant of hers that was never parted from her side. And she looked murderous.

Ermalai was moving on. He knew she was watching and was adamant upon not looking back. He had not asked her permission to ship over more men. He simply did it and forced her servants to let them in.

Jaylah said and did nothing. Alexander wanted to shake her shoulders and tell her to unleash the wrath she kept coiled within herself like a hidden viper. Make him sorry, he would say. I know you are capable of it.

Instead, she let it happen. Her doubt about her own reputation had always crippled her. She was so vicious and terrible, but hardly ever when she truly needed to be.

Of course, she was not only vicious and terrible. She was also beautiful and intelligent and if he were anyone else, if his duty did not call for it to be otherwise, he would have been drawn to pursue her. But he was only himself, so he averted his gaze elsewhere.

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When Alexander bathed himself that night, he imagined the dark sea around him diminished. Though he was alone—it always got worse when he was alone—he was able to hold his head above the black water in his mind a bit longer.

Killing people, using them as pawns was something he could live with. It was cruel, but the world was crueler. What he could not live with was the knowledge that he was not the cruelest, because someone had used him. Over and over and over. What was he, if not a devil? Was he a martyr?

When he looked at himself through anyone else's eyes, he hated what he saw. Weakness. He was a burning house, and he had lit the flame himself. He was not funny enough, not charming enough, not desirable enough to fill the void in his own chest.

But...even if he was looking at himself through another's eyes, he was still the only one casting judgement.

Alexander dumped the pitcher over his head and his hair plastered to his face. Warm water slicked down his arms. It took the slide of clammy, clenching hands with it until all he could feel was the slide of moisture on his skin. Then he scrubbed his arms and face and chest until they were raw, as if he would wash the wrongness right out.

You owe it to yourself to feel better. Sonia did not know him, was not aware of the terrible, broken thing he was inside. Then again, he was perfectly comfortable taking things that were not his. He loved to spit in the face of his scoffers, even if what they were saying was true. How was this any different?

Some of the sickness in his stomach had gone away. When he was finished drying himself off, he looked down at the untouched plate of food. Deliberated. No, he would skip another meal. Never mind that it made him weak and lightheaded—it was the only thing he could trust a visible outcome from. No one could hurt him the way he could.

Avoiding the soldiers posted at every corner, he made it to the entrance of the secret passage in record time. He shook his head at their incompetence. It was enough to make him crestfallen about entering the palace on his own to assassinate the Queen until he realized they weren't incompetent at all. They were just no match for him.