The Blade

The blade is cold against his throat.

I've dreamed of this moment for eleven years. Practiced it in the dark. Whispered it like prayer. Now the steel kisses his skin and I wait for the satisfaction to bloom.

It doesn't.

His guards are frozen three feet away, swords half-drawn. Smart men. They know one twitch from me and their king bleeds out on his own throne room floor. The wine goblet I knocked from his hand still rolls across the marble, spilling red like prophecy.

"Well," he says. His voice is low. Calm. Like I'm not one breath from ending his dynasty. "This is unexpected."

I press harder. A thin line of crimson wells up beneath the edge.

His blood is red. Same as anyone's. Same as my mother's was when it pooled beneath her body. Same as my father's when it painted the walls of our home.

"You conquered my homeland." The words scrape out of me. "Slaughtered my family. Built your throne on the corpses of my people."

"Yes." No denial. No justification. Just acknowledgment, like I've stated an unremarkable fact about the weather.

"Don't you have anything to say?"

"Several things." The corner of his mouth curves. Not quite a smile. "But you seem busy."

Rage flares hot behind my eyes. Eleven years. Eleven years of training, of becoming something sharp and lethal, of carving away everything soft until only the blade remained. And he's amused.

His guards shift. I feel their tension like heat.

"Tell them to stay back," I say. "Or I'll cut your throat so deep they'll see your spine."

He raises one hand. Languid. Unconcerned. The guards freeze.

"Impressive." His eyes haven't left mine. Dark eyes. The color of deep water before it drowns you. "How did you get past the door wards?"

"Your mage is dead."

"Ah. Virek. I wondered why he missed dinner." A pause. "He was a good man."

"He was protecting a monster."

"Yes." Still that maddening calm. "He was."

Something flickers in his gaze. Not fear. Recognition, maybe. Like he's seeing something in me that interests him.

I don't want to interest him. I want to kill him.

"Any last words?" I ask. My hand is steady. I trained for this. Body disciplined, mind focused, purpose clear. Nothing exists but the blade and the throat and the eleven years of grief compressed into this single moment.

"Just one question."

I wait.

"What's your name?"

Of all the things he could ask. Not who sent me. Not how I infiltrated his castle. Not pleas for mercy or threats of retaliation. My name.

"You don't get to know my name."

"Pity." His smile widens. A real one this time, strange and almost soft. "I would have liked to know the name of the woman who actually got close enough to kill me."

"Dozens have tried," I say. "You've executed them all."

"Dozens have tried," he agrees. "None of them got within ten feet of my person." His head tilts slightly. The movement should make me nervous. It should. "You had your blade to my throat before I even saw you move."

Pride wars with fury. I crush it down.

"Enough talking."

"Quite right." He settles back in his throne. Settles. Like he's making himself comfortable. "Go ahead."

The words knock me off balance.

"What?"

"Go ahead. Kill me." His hands spread open on the armrests. Vulnerable. Inviting. "You've earned it."

I search his face for the trick. The trap. The hidden signal that will bring arrows raining from above or blades from behind. There's nothing. Just those dark eyes watching me with something that looks almost like curiosity.

My hand trembles. Just barely. Just enough that I feel it.

"What game are you playing?"

"No game. You want me dead. You've clearly worked hard for this moment. I'd hate to see all that effort wasted."

His pulse beats against my blade. Steady. Calm. Like he genuinely doesn't care whether I open his throat.

"You're insane."

"So I've been told." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Nothing reaches his eyes. They're empty in a way that makes something twist in my stomach. "Though I prefer the term 'tired.' Insane sounds like I still care enough to be afflicted by something."

I should do it. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me to do it. One quick motion and it's done. Justice. Vengeance. The end of a monster.

But my hand won't move.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks. Gentle, almost. Like he's genuinely curious.

"Shut up."

"I'm not trying to talk you out of it. I'm wondering." His head tilts again. "You've clearly wanted this for a long time. Trained for it. Sacrificed for it. And now that you have exactly what you wanted, you're hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating."

"Your blade is shaking."

I look down. He's right. The steel trembles against his throat. Not much. But enough.

"Perhaps," he says quietly, "killing me isn't actually what you want. Perhaps what you want is something I can't give you by dying."

"You don't know anything about what I want."

"I know grief when I see it." His voice has lost its amusement. Something raw underneath. "I know what it looks like when someone has carved out everything inside themselves except the one thing that keeps them moving. I know because I did it too."

The words hit like a physical blow. I don't want his understanding. I don't want him to see me.

"You murdered my family."

"I've murdered a great many families." No apology. No regret. Just truth. "Yours was likely one of many. I don't even know which village you came from, do I? Which of the dozens I burned trying to build this kingdom."

"Does that make it better?" I snarl. "That we meant nothing to you?"

"No." Finally, something shifts in his expression. Cracks in stone. "It makes it worse. That's rather the point."

I don't understand him. I don't understand any of this.

My arm aches. How long have I been holding this blade to his throat? Minutes? Hours? Time has gone strange.

"Your guards," I say. "They're waiting for you to give the signal."

"Yes."

"Why haven't you?"

"Because you interest me." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. "I've had ninety-three assassination attempts in my reign. Not one of the assassins interested me. They were tools. Weapons pointed at me by people too weak to face me themselves. But you..." He draws a breath. "You're different."

"I'm just another weapon."

"No. You're something else entirely." His eyes track over my face like he's memorizing it. "A weapon doesn't hesitate. A weapon doesn't shake. A weapon doesn't look at me like it's trying to figure out if I'm real."

I should slit his throat just to prove him wrong.

I don't.

"Enough," I say. The word comes out hoarse. "Give the signal. Call your guards. I'm done playing whatever game this is."

"I don't think I will."

Before I can react, his hand moves. Fast. Faster than any human should be able to move. He grabs my wrist and wrenches the blade away from his throat, not to disarm me, just to create distance. His grip is iron.

The guards surge forward.

"Hold," he says. One word. They stop like they've been frozen.

He's still holding my wrist. His blood drips from the shallow cut on his throat, staining his collar. He doesn't seem to notice.

"I'm not going to kill you," he says. "And I'm not going to let them kill you either."

"Then what?" I struggle against his grip. Useless. He's stronger than he looks. "Torture? Interrogation?"

"No."

"Then what do you want from me?"

His smile returns. Different now. Not amused. Something darker. Something that makes my blood run cold.

"I haven't decided yet." He releases my wrist and waves a hand at his guards. "Take her to my chambers. Chain her. Make her comfortable."

His chambers. The implications land like stones in my stomach.

"You can't..."

"I'm the Blood King." He rises from his throne, and I finally see how tall he is. How broad. How much space he takes up in the world. "I can do anything I want."

The guards close in. I fight. Of course I fight. I take two of them down before the others overwhelm me. They're efficient about it, a blow to the temple, hands wrenching my arms behind my back, the world going gray at the edges.

The last thing I see before darkness takes me is his face.

He's watching me with something that looks almost like wonder.

"Finally," he says, soft enough that I barely hear it. "One worth keeping."

I want to scream. I want to kill him. I want to understand what those words mean.

The darkness swallows me whole.