You Want My Crown: Fine, Take the Trash Too

Chapter 3 The Silver Scar

The silver cut deep.

White heat tore across my cheek. My skin hissed against the cursed metal, and the smell of burned flesh reached me before the pain crowded out the hall.

The lock inside me turned.

Elara's smirk faltered. I gave her no scream, no tears. Gold spread through my irises until no trace of brown remained.

Blood from a silver wound struck consecrated ground. The last condition had been met, and the seal bound to my soul broke.

Power tore through it.

My power returned all at once and burst outward without a sound. It ripped the guards from my arms and hurled them into the far wall. Bone cracked. Both men dropped and stayed down.

Pressure filled the hall and drove wolves toward the floor. The torches jumped, then burned blue. Caleb's Alpha aura vanished under mine. Shock held his face still; fear came a second later.

Every stained-glass window burst outward at once. The hundred-year record of Nightfall victories came down in colored shards and dust.

Caleb staggered and clutched his chest. He looked at me again. The orphan he had discarded was gone from his eyes.

Outside the empty window frames, daylight failed.

An unnatural eclipse swallowed the midday sun. Engines roared overhead, deep enough to shake the altar. Ten immense shadows crossed the hall.

Ten royal warships forged from obsidian and star-steel held position above the great hall. They were the same ships that guarded my capital and carried my law across the continent.

Their engines dropped to a low hum.

Figures dropped from the bellies of the ships without ropes or ladders. They struck the ground hard enough to rattle the doors.

Hundreds of Royal Guards in silent black armor surrounded the compound, and their energy weapons hummed as the perimeter closed. No one from Nightfall would leave without my order.

One man came through the shattered roof and landed on the altar, cracking the stone beneath his boots. He rose in armor the color of dried blood, a massive broadsword in his hand.

Gideon. My Royal Commander.

He took in the ruined hall, the crouching nobles, and the two guards by the wall with a commander's quick attention. Then he found me on my knees.

His gaze stopped on my torn clothes and the silver burn bleeding across my cheek.

His discipline slipped. Murder showed plainly in golden eyes a shade paler than mine. Gideon stepped off the altar and leveled the tip of his greatsword at Caleb's throat.