Crown of Iron

Chapter One

He wants to say that the prince's taunts fall on deaf ears, but he's driven solely by desperation and fear right now. He doesn't have the strength to act as cold and as composed as his title demands he act. "What have you done?" he growls out through gritted teeth.

Cormac turns to look at him, and for a second, he almost sees regret in those haunting gold eyes. "What needed to be done," he says. "What you were too much of a coward to do."

His hand curls into a fist by his side, magic thrumming beneath his skin, all ice and frost and dark. "Watch your tongue, child. You forget your place."

All the young prince does is laugh, but the sound is bitter and hollow, lacking any mirth. "I always forget why my mother liked you so much. I should give her credit for that, at least. The fearsome Winter King kneeling for nothing and no one except her, but you are just as much of a coward as she was. This is how we survive."

"If this is how we survive, then we do not deserve to live," he replies as he takes several cautious steps towards him. Where is she? The blood on his blade must be hers, but—

"She got in my way," he says simply, as though they speak of the weather, of taxes, of anything but the fact that he had cut down the only person that had kept their people standing for so long. "I suggest you do not do the same."

He bares his teeth in a snarl so fearsome the prince flinches before his cool mask of composure settles back into place. "Where is she?"

Cormac waves his hand behind him, and there, in the shadow of the great elm, she lies. She clings onto life yet, but hot, wet blood pours out from a wound in her chest. It floods the gaps between the golden tiles, but he hardly notices as he rushes towards her without a second thought. The magic that had been thrumming beneath his skin releases, seeking out her wounds and desperately trying to close them, but something prevents him. There's something cold and sharp, cruel, bitter, and poisonous, that keeps him at bay. She barely has the strength to open her eyes as he pulls her head into his lap. When she speaks, her lips are stained with her own blood.

"You came," she says in a voice barely above a whisper, trying to summon the strength to reach up to cup his face. She barely manages to lift her hand before her face contorts in agony.

"I came as fast as I could," he says, fighting back the hot, angry tears that prick at his eyes. The great General of their people, the Flame of Summer, is... gone. She had once been their best warrior, their kindest leader, but now she is broken, shattered by her son's betrayal. Every breath she takes is ragged, her warm golden skin ashy, and her velvet vermillion robe stained by her own blood. She doesn't seem to have a weapon, but he knows she still could have killed her own son without a second thought.

Why didn't she? Why did she spare his life? She must have known, and yet...

He's her son, he thinks in pained silence. The son we never had. Even at the end, she couldn't bring herself to kill him.

"I know," she says hoarsely, leaning into his touch. "I knew you would."

"I'm so sorry."

She hushes him, as though he's the one who barely has enough strength to breathe. His magic isn't working. Nothing he's doing is working in the slightest, fended off by whatever foul poison Cormac had coated his blade in. All he's doing is buying her a few precious moments to say goodbye.

I won't let her see what I will do to them for this.

"We both knew from the start—" She is wracked by coughs, choking on blood. His armour is coated in it, bright hot red against shining silver. This armour has been stained by blood many times before, but never by hers. The only person he would never have dared to stand against. "We both knew from the start it would come to this, but we bought them peace. Bought them time."