The Archshade

Thirty-Four

My feet react before my mind can. I tear out of the kitchens and through the corridors. Echoes of distant screams reach my ears from the direction of the banquet hall. I grab handfuls of my skirts in my fists and run faster, heading towards the danger. Fear settles in the back of my mind, but one thought urges me faster and faster.

I round a corner, running into a group of nobles fleeing the scene. One man barrels into my shoulder, slamming hard against me. I stumble. My hands and knees hit the floor, but I push myself up before I can feel the pain. The throbbing of my knees matches my pounding feet as I continue down the hall.

The door to the banquet hall is thrown open by the time I reach it, and two nasty-looking guards stand by its entrance with their weapons drawn. Their backs are to me as they stare at something inside the room. I slip right through the them. They have no interest in me. They're not stopping people from getting in.

They're stopping someone from getting out.

Almost an entire garrison of fully armored soldiers stands in the banquet hall. I take it all in with wide eyes—the overturned platters, the split wine, the slashed tapestries, the chairs knocked over and strewn everywhere. The entire place is torn apart.

Syris appears at my side. He puts an arm around my shoulders, trying to turn me away, but I shake him off. I follow everyone's gazes to the far side of the room.

"Gods..."

Strung between two burly guards, the assassin hangs limp and helpless. Clad entirely in black, I can't tell if the intruder is young or old or even man or woman. The guards give a wrenching yank on each arm, nearly tearing the intruder in half. It remains motionless. Only two blank, unblinking eyes are visible beneath the assassin's hood. A tightly wound scarf covers the rest of its face.

Prince Darcron's boots resound with each heavy step as he crosses in front of the assassin. Sighing like a parent reprimanding a child, he draws a jeweled dagger from his belt and lowers himself to one knee. His face is a breath away from the assassin's.

"Who sent you?"

His growling voice makes even Syris beside me shudder. The other guards in the room shift their weight, awaiting commands. The assassin says nothing.

Darcron chuckles lightly through his nose. "Fine then." In one vicious motion, he stabs the blade of his dagger into the shoulder of the assassin. Blood oozes from the wound, pouring down the assassin's dark clothing. The intruder squeezes its eyes shut and slumps forward but makes no sound.

"Who sent you?"

Nothing.

Darcron twists the hilts blade, burrowing the dagger into the assassin's flesh. I cringe and clench my fists, but the assassin only slumps farther forward, forcing the guards to tighten their hold. Darcron puts his lips beside the assassin's ear.

"Who sent you?"

The only sound from the assassin is a hissing intake of breath. Displeased with this answer, Darcron ferociously rips away the assassin's scarf.

Vayssarian...

The assassin is a Vayssarian man. Though his eyes are glazed, I can see a frightening resolve behind his stony expression.

Darcron roughly grasps the assassin's cheeks, prying his jaw open. The prince forcibly tilts the assassin's head one direction then the other, inspecting the inside of his mouth. With a sigh of disgust, Darcron releases the assassin's face, pushing it away. The man's head lolls. The room waits, watching the prince.

In a sudden but smooth motion, Darcron yanks his dagger from the assassin's shoulder. Still nothing but silence from the intruder. Blood seeps freely from the wound. I catch a shivering glint of light over the golden blade as Darcron flicks his wrist.