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After our fight, I’d expected to see Vincent the king here. I saw him look at me as a threat that night, even if it was only for a few seconds. And once Vincent saw a threat, he never saw anything else.
And yes, this man had all the trappings of Vincent the wartime king—the visible wings, the exposed Heir Mark, the crown perched over his brow.
But those wings were pulled in tight, as if his nerves had tied his muscles in knots. The exposed Mark seemed less of a show of strength and more like his heart was open and vulnerable. And his face—he looked at me like he felt every stab, every burn, every wound on my skin.
I was so ready to hate him. I wanted to hate him.
I could hate Vincent the king, who had slaughtered whatever family I had left, who had overseen the torture of my people, who had relentlessly killed and destroyed.
But how could I hate Vincent, my father, who looked at me that way?
My anger made everything certain and easy. My love made everything complicated and difficult.
I allowed myself to be distracted.
It was Vincent’s eyes, flicking up a split second before I turned, that saved me.
I whirled around just in time to dodge the arrow. A breath later, and it would have been buried in my back. Instead, I let it soar over my left shoulder, a streak of black smoke—magic—trailing it. The crowd laughed and shouted as it landed in the audience, causing a flurry of activity behind me.
Ibrihim limped from the second open door.
Fuck.
I didn’t know how he was alive.
He held his bow in an iron grip, but he’d let his arrow fly, and now he struggled to ready another one. His once-good leg now dragged behind him, twisted and mangled. His hands were so covered in blood that I couldn’t tell how they were injured, only that they were, and badly. If there was any doubt, the fact that he couldn’t even reach for his quiver put it to rest.
He lifted his head, his mouth twisted into a grim line of determination. One eye was missing, blood ru
Mother, he had fought. He had fought so hard.
I approached him. He didn’t take his one eye off me as he fumbled with his weapon.
Behind me, the sound of the crowd changed in a way I couldn’t make out at first. It was only as I was two strides before Ibrihim that I realized…
Laughter.
They were laughing at him.
Ibrihim managed to ready his bow. But his hands were trembling so badly that his fingers kept slipping from the string. He would never be able to draw it.
He jerked his chin up, a sneer at his lip. He had recognized that sound before I did. But then, he probably had been hearing it his whole life.
“You pity me?” he rasped out.
I shook my head.
No. I felt no pity for Ibrihim. He had fought, and fought well.
Maybe we were the same. Both of us had been raised in a world that had hobbled us. Both of us learned to fight twice as hard to make up for everything we weren’t. Both of us had everything to hate.
I was only two steps from him. Close enough to see his shoulders lower slightly, and the flicker over his face.
He was considering giving up.
“No. Don’t stop.” I unsheathed my other blade. “Fuck them. Don’t let them mock you. Give me a fair fight, and I’ll give you a fair death, Ibrihim.”
His jaw tightened. After a moment, he forced open his shaking fingers and let his bow fall to the ground. When he drew his sword, he could barely support the weight of it. Still, he threw everything he had into those final strikes.
I didn’t patronize him. It took me seconds.
And when I wrenched him close, when I prepared my killing blow, that one remaining eye met mine, as if looking into a mirror.
“I’m glad it was you,” he said, quietly.
And I made sure my aim was true as I slid my blade right into his heart.