The air in the grand chamber was thick with the scent of bitter lavender, stale medicine, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood.
Outside the towering arched windows, the thunderous roar of the courtyard battle had begun to subside into a heavy, ominous quiet. The Northern Vanguard had swept the outer grounds, trapping the remaining usurper forces within the lower stone gates. But inside the Imperial Bedchamber, time itself seemed to freeze.
High upon the velvet-draped dais, Caspian stood over the bedridden Emperor. His crimson ceremonial robes were torn, stained with dirt and soot, and his golden hair hung in matted, disheveled strands across his pale forehead. His hands trembled violently as he pressed the edge of his curved steel dagger against the old monarch’s exposed throat. A
