Nigel Ashdown had died. He’d died for his duty, but honor spent had bought no lives. He’d died on his knees, pierced through the heart with an assassin’s blade, and all the hope for the world had died around him.
He was staring into the face of the dead queen, an unspoken question still lingering on Sophia’s perfect lips. She lay in a pool of her own blood, pearl-gray gown stained scarlet. The emperor clenched her lifeless body in his arms, teeth bared, tears streaming down his face.
Nigel woke in a sweat, a scream just behind his bitten lips. His heart didn’t pound and his blood didn’t throb. Those things would never happen again. He was dead. He had died. His heart no longer beat; a simple circulating pump resided in his chest instead. He had no pulse to race. He coughed, spluttered. H
