Dozens of people stand around, watching on, all fearful of getting too close. Thankfully, Grenda isn’t one of them.

‘On your left, Commander,’ she calls out.

‘Find that fucking siphon!’ he barks back.

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him swear, and judging by the fear that flashes across the faces of the guards and other nobles, it’s not a good sign.

Zelle and Grenda form a rhythm, her swordwork as impressive as his, yet it’s not enough. And I’m not the only one who sees it. As Zelle continues to battle the icy blade of the Issen, Kyor grabs a sword from some noble’s waistband – probably meant for display – and moves towards the two of them. But Zelle shakes his head.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ he snaps. ‘Respectfully,’ he adds.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Kyor snarls. Fighting close to Zelle means Kyor’s magic is also removed, but his skill with a blade is not. More rebels swarm in, and Kyor faces them, sword swinging deftly.

Steel flashes in the dim candlelight, each strike swift and economical as Kyor moves like water over stone – fluid, unstoppable – cutting down the first rebel before the man can even raise his weapon. My eyes follow him as he falls to the ground and his body lands with a thud. I know I shouldn’t be staring, that I need to be doing something, but the tattoo on the rebel’s wrist has me frozen.

Delicate black ink weaves up his arm, outlining a thin tendril of smoke. It’s identical to Peter’s and the one I saw on the carriage driver.

Before I can contemplate what this means, a second rebel lunges at the prince, only to be met with a twist of Kyor’s wrist and the snap of steel biting flesh. Every motion is precise and deliberate, and several rebels falter, their fury curdling into fear as they realise too late that even without magic, Kyor is still death incarnate.

No matter how many are cut down, more rebels rush in. How many of them are there?

I can no longer stand on the sidelines and watch. Clenching my dagger, I’m about to wade into the fray when my eyes fall on one of the rebel bodies, and I freeze yet again. The shock of red hair. The paintbrush freckles. My body stiffens. It can’t possibly be…? But it is. Peter’s lifeless eyes stare at me accusingly, his flaming red hair coated in blood, just like the tattoo on his wrist. I cast my gaze around the room and find another body. This time the smoke tattoo weaves up the side of her neck. It was never just a random tattoo that Peter liked to display. It was a sign. A sign of what he was. A rebel.

Panic surges through me. I never saw the same mark on Ruben’s body, but he and Peter were inseparable. Does that mean he’s here too? I whirl around wildly, trying to find my former lover among the press of the crowd.

I don’t see him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here. Godsdamn it.

Zelle’s pushing the rebels back inch by inch, reclaiming the ballroom, and all the while, King Korvane sips his drink like this is all some elaborate entertainment he ordered that’s disappointing him.

I falter because suddenly I’m not sure whose side I’m on. Killing King Korvane has been a recurring dream of mine for as long as I can recall. But taking on Zelle? And Kyor? Fuck. I don’t even know where my head’s at, let alone what I’m meant to do.

While I watch, Zelle slices straight through an Issen, then pulls the sword out and goes for the next one, but his blade meets nothing but air.

No friction. No slowing. Nobody.

‘It’s an illusion!’ somebody shouts.

There wasn’t an Issen ice warrior at all. It was all a distraction, and seconds later, we see what it was really for.

A rebel shimmers into existence, materialising only inches behind Zelle, and his blade arcs in a cruel, merciless sweep, steel whispering as it slices across the commander’s throat.

For an instant, everything slows. Zelle’s eyes widen, shock flashing there as disbelief collides with pain. His lips part as though he might speak, but only a wet gurgle escapes. Blood blossoms in a vivid spray as his trembling hand lifts, pressing uselessly against the wound as though sheer will might hold him together.

Horror grips me because I’m a healer’s daughter. I know the difference between wounds that beg to be mended and wounds that mock the very idea of hope. This is one of the latter.

The commander’s blood pours too fast, too freely, and there is nothing left for me to do but watch him die.

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Chapter 42

‘Zelle, no!’

Kyor’s voice echoes through the hall as he races forward to where his tutor, his confidant, his friend, is lying on the ground, blood pouring from him.

If the rebels thought the prince was deadly before, it is nothing compared to what he becomes now. He cuts through the remaining rebels like they are paper, and the few survivors decide to flee.

‘Where’s a healer?’ Kyor shouts as he slides onto the marble floor, lifting the old man’s head onto his lap as he tries to stem the blood with his fingers. ‘Where’s a fucking healer!’

It’s too late, I want to say, but I don’t. The words are cruel and unnecessary. Kyor’s a soldier; he’s seen death – dealt death – so many times, and he knows there’s no light left in Zelle’s eyes. He just can’t accept it.

A man walks forward from the crowd, but rather than going to Zelle, he stops and looks at the king, who offers a shake of his head.

‘He needs a healer!’ Kyor cries again.

‘You’re making a fuss, son,’ Korvane drawls. ‘There’s nothing that can be done. Now, get off the floor. You’re not a peasant.’ His face is taut, the disdain he feels for his only son stark. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who hears the threat in his words.

Kyor looks up at his father in disbelief.

‘He saved your fucking life! Do something!’

The king’s lip rises in what is close to a sneer. ‘What he did was his job. Very well, as it happens. But there is nothing that can be done now, and there is no benefit to you making a scene.’ He lifts his gaze to the room, curling his lips into a smile. ‘Someone clean up this mess. We still have a ball to enjoy.’

Most people shuffle, trying to look anywhere but at the ghastly scene before them, but some do as commanded and go to remove the dead bodies of the rebels.

I can’t draw my eyes away from Kyor. The white of his eyes. The slump of his shoulders. His pain is so palpable I can feel it burning into my own chest.

‘Music,’ the king says gruffly, clapping his hands. ‘Let’s have the music playing again. We should be dancing. But first, someone deal with this.’ He gestures to Zelle’s corpse.

The blood has stopped pulsing now. Zelle’s gone. I know it. Everyone knows it. Everyone but Kyor, who refuses to accept it. Servants appear from the hallways, ready to remove the bodies of the dead, and yet none even dare to approach Kyor.

‘Rose! Thank the Gods!’ My sister’s voice pulls my gaze away from the prince, and a gasp leaves my lips as I see the blood on her forehead.

‘You’re bleeding! What happened? We need to get you to a healer!’

‘It’s fine. It’s not mine.’

‘It was just a nick.’ Hew is beside her and he shifts his posture to show me the cut at the top of his shoulder.

‘Thank the Gods. And thank you for keeping her safe.’

He dips his chin as I pull Kay into me. Her warmth is a poultice to the fear that filled me. When we break away, she looks back up to Hew, only to find his attention has shifted to Kyor.

The prince is still on his knees. Lost.

‘He needs you.’ I speak so quietly I barely hear myself. I try again. ‘Hew, the prince. He needs you. He needs a friend.’

Hew’s face is grey. ‘That’s not how he works,’ he says finally. ‘Best to leave him be. Do as the king said. Dance. Enjoy the ball.’

Coward, I think harshly. Fucking coward.