Chapter 39

Evangeline 

TWO LONG HOURS of sitting, itching and sweating in the crowded throne room weighed on Evangeline’s chest like a thick smog. More bodies than she’s ever seen packed into the rows of benches, others fighting just to find a place to stand. From between flurries of reds and blues and frills, between wings and ears and tails, a crowd still hovered outside the doors to the room before they clicked shut. She didn’t see any sign of Barto, Rasha, or Quan here or in the crowd outside the doors. Were they not allowed in? Did they leave the city when they found out what was happening?

Gossip and news always spread at an alarming rate throughout the castle and city, but it was almost absurd and disgusting the amount of people lining up to watch two Nytes be killed.

When Evangeline was sure she was going to pass out—either from nerves or the heat, maybe both—the doors to the throne room swung open once more. The silence that followed told Evangeline it had to be the king, even if she couldn’t see over the towering heads of Nytes.

It had begun.

Everyone stood up in reverence to the king’s glory. Evangeline was so shaken that Vane had to haul her onto her feet.

King Calais walked gracefully to take his rightful place on the throne. He wore many layers of clothes in a show of class. A thick white fur coat settled on top of a purple silk jacket that outlined his black vest. Like the other Peredians in the room, he wore a multitude of gold chains around his neck. His white, slender fingers were adorned with multiple bands of jewels as they gripped the arms of his throne. His silver gaze swept the room, demanding for his presence to be known. Evangeline’s entire body froze when his eyes loomed in her general direction. And paused on her.

For the second time since she’d ever known the king, he smiled at her, and her throat plummeted to her stomach.

“You may sit,” he boomed, his eyes leaving hers. The crowd sat. The king began his speech, his voice rumbling like a stampede of hooves on cobblestone. “Today, I present to you…”

A shift in the crowd had Evangeline’s eyes moving. And her heart stuttered at the sight. Four Royal Guards accompanied Ceven with fake-Sehn at the lead. Her friend looked more polished than previous criminals she’d seen executed. His hair was dark, from a shower maybe, and slicked back. His firm jaw was clean-shaven, and he stared straight at the king with a stubborn defiance. He was in a dark purple satin robe, to symbolize his royalty, on top of a dark silk, collared shirt, outlined in gold threading that matched his trousers. His wings had been cut and groomed to shimmer. If it weren’t for his hands being cuffed in front of his body, she never would’ve guessed it was his execution she was attending.

He looked more like a prince while walking to his own funeral than he ever had.

“. . . charged with the murder of our esteemed advisor, Ryker Ardonis, the former prince, Ceven LuRogue, will face his punishment: the executioner’s ax.”

Nobody said a word, but if they did, Evangeline wasn’t sure if she’d be able to hear it over the rushing in her skull.

Her fingers touched the gun at her side between the folds of her dress. Watching the two Royal Guards drag Ceven in front of the throne and force him to his knees, his head leveled with the ax . . . She wouldn’t let Ceven die for her mistakes. Even if her bullets missed, she’d fight to protect him. Or die trying.

Fake-Sehn bowed before the king, their squeaking boots echoing in the silent throne room. Nytes shifted out of the way as their false prince stood next to her. The smell of metal and fire was stronger than ever; Aimee’s perfume of vanilla and daises was not enough to cover the overwhelming scent of magic. Surely others had to notice, but everyone’s attention had turned back to the king. Evangeline tightened her grip on her gun.

The king didn’t bother to look at Ceven as they forced him to sit on his knees. A yellow-winged Royal Guard, whom she recognized as Troy, pressed his hand against Ceven’s back while another with a long red beard held down his shoulders. “And for this momentous day, we will also be eliminating another threat to our kingdom. A traitor charged with assault, thievery, and conspiring to murder your king. As punishment, this traitor will also seek death by the executioner’s ax.” King Calais raised his hands. “Bring forth the Caster, Raiythlen Quincara!”

A rejoicing cheer shook the crowd. It was so loud, Evangeline had to stop herself from covering her ears. It seemed everyone was scared to cheer for their former prince’s death, but not a Caster’s.

The doors to the throne room opened, and everyone turned to see the criminal dragged down the hall in chains. Raiythlen looked much more the part than Ceven.

He was dressed in all white, as Evangeline expected. It was a tradition that had been put in place long before King Calais was throned, so that the blood was more vibrantly displayed when the head was severed. Ceven’s rare case must have been an exception, an act of respect that seemed out of place and ironic to Evangeline.

Raiythlen’s hair was unkempt, waves of its curls falling over his face, a face that had seen the back sides of a few hands, bruises and cuts littering his temple and cheeks. His hands were chained behind his back, a connecting chain wrapping around his neck and to his feet, where another metal band was in place to keep his feet close together. Judging by the number of cuffs and restrictive bands, it looked as if the king was more scared of Raiythlen than Ceven. Then again, like herself, Peredians didn’t truly understand magic, as much as they pretended otherwise.

The shock of seeing Raiythlen, his head down, his body slumped in on itself, made Evangeline’s gut twist. With him looking so helpless, it almost felt wrong. Even if he had gotten all of them into this mess.

A Royal Guard tagged him on both sides, holding a chain that was attached to his neck, pulling him forward towards the king. They didn’t give Raiythlen any mercy as they yanked on his restraints harshly, dragging him off his feet.

The guards halted before the throne with Raiythlen in tow. As if this were another day, the king stared at them, his face apathetic.

“The criminal, Your Majesty.” They bowed.

The king motioned with his hand, and an older Aerian woman slowly approached the throne, her movement hindered by a limp. She wore a simple purple robe and leaned heavily on a golden cane. Her wrinkled hand reached into her pocket to pull out a small book. Licking one singular finger, she opened the book to a specific page and began chanting.

She had begun her prayer, preparing Raiythlen’s soul to ascend with the God of all Gods.

Evangeline’s mind was racing. Aimee had said to strike right before the king beheaded Ceven, and for some foolish reason, she’d believed Ceven would go first. That she would make her move before anybody was killed. She’s been to more executions than she cared to admit—mostly in the city’s plaza. She hated them, but she had become numb to it. Just kept her head down, pretending the screams and cries were a woman in labor, or someone getting their wounds tended to . . . not the screams of the dying.

But could she do the same knowing it was Raiythlen? Sure, she’d wanted to kill the Caster a hundred times over, but now that it was happening . . . she wasn’t sure anymore.

The lady’s voice droned on, and Evangeline glanced at Aimee. They looked ever the confident and cool part. No sign of remorse for their previous agent. No regret at watching Raiythlen’s head roll from his shoulders. But maybe they were going to change their mind? Give Evangeline some sign to strike now? Aimee couldn’t seriously sit by and watch King Calais decapitate Raiythlen.

The prayer ended. The chains attached to Raiythlen rattled caustically as the guards shoved him to his knees in front of the king, next to Ceven. They didn’t look at each other, the Royal Guard at both of their necks, forcing their heads down. But standing this close, Evangeline noticed Ceven’s mouth twitch. Her chest swelled. Did he have a plan? How?

Heels clicked behind her, and Evangeline, along with other heads, turned. Her blood boiled at the sight of the slim Caster woman weaving through the crowd.

Avana, like every other Nyte attending, dressed in silks and heavy fabrics. Unlike her usual slim, simple dresses, today the tight bodice gave her petite form curves, the neckline scooped low, threaded with silver ribbon. Unlike the rest of the female Aerians in the room, her blue hoop skirt was short in the front, showing off several Castanian runes that slithered down her toned legs into the silver heels. It was a bold statement, reminding everyone she was a Caster, despite the horns that curled around her face. For all Evangeline knew, the trailing skirt behind her housed several knives, the clip in her hair magicked with some sort of spell.

And all Evangeline had was a gun that she could barely wield and an unknown, wild animal caged inside her.

Avana’s heels clicked up the platform to stand before the king, the traitors, and the surrounding Royal Guard. She gave a graceful curtsy. The king’s eyes narrowed, but he conceded a nod. Evangeline thought she saw Raiythlen tense up.

“I stand before you”—she swept her hand out at the crowd—“to formally apologize for the actions of this Caster, whom I’m ashamed to call brother.” There was a collective gasp.

“But it was your idea—” Raiythlen squeaked out before the Royal Guard knocked his skull, his head swinging down.

Avana turned to look at her brother. It was an expression Evangeline hadn’t seen on Avana before. It was ruthless. Terrifying. It reminded her of Aimee when they’d revealed their scarred face and the hatred they had toward Evangeline.

“To show my loyalty to the king and atone for the misdeeds of my blood, I will perform this execution myself.”

Raiythlen didn’t react, not that he could, being held down physically and wrapped in chains. Ceven didn’t move either.

“But first.” She bent down and picked up the tin bucket beside the king. Evangeline had thought it was to collect the heads, but she heard the slosh of water inside it. Avana dumped the contents over Raiythlen. He flinched, but that was all he did as the water soaked his white uniform, the cotton molding to his chest, droplets falling from his black curls.

The king said nothing. He’d expected this, but Evangeline didn’t, nor did the crowd, judging by the whispers and—

“What did she do?”

“How bizarre.”

“Some Caster tradition?”

The murmurs rose until the king raised his hand. Everyone hushed.

Avana set the bucket down, a smile on her painted lips. A crimson red. How fitting, Evangeline thought as her lip curled.

“I was ensuring that this traitor had no additional tricks up his sleeve.” Avana bent down again, but it was to grip Raiythlen’s chin. She jerked it side to side, then—none too gently—yanked down the collar of his shirt, then lifted it up before examining his legs and back. “Just to make sure there are no Caster symbols I missed.”

Evangeline blinked. Finding the Caster’s mark and rubbing a little salt on it should do the trick. Avana’s words from the ball echoed in her ears. The bucket had been filled with salt water. She jerked to Raiythlen and wondered if he was feeling the same horror she felt. But it was probably worse.

Avana stepped away from Raiythlen and reached for the ax. The ax, whose head was more than half the size of Avana’s length, was sheathed in the bejeweled case next to the king with a handle made of pure gold. Ryker had told Evangeline it had been passed down for generations. She wondered if the afterlife was real, if Ryker was smiling at her current situation.

If he were still alive, none of this would’ve happened.

Seeing Avana next to the ax was almost comical. There was no way she could lift that. Not when the thing was almost the same height as her, even with her heels. The crowd felt the same, judging by the snickers and blatant words of disbelief. Avana proved everyone wrong when she lifted the heavy ax with ease, but Evangeline was more enthralled by the glow on her legs as the swirling runes lit up in blue. Avana was using magic to wield the ax, and she was doing it on purpose. To prove that she was just as powerful as an Aerian and to incite further fear that rippled in the crowd. Or maybe earn the king’s respect, since she no longer had Ryker as a partner.

Evangeline’s lips curled into an unpleasant smile. If Avana was putting on this performance, she had to be feeling quite vulnerable. Good.

“Any last words?” Avana asked her brother.

Raiythlen managed to look condescending as he gazed up at her, the barest hint of a smile grazing his lips. He whispered something, but Evangeline didn’t hear it.

Pink dusted Avana’s cheeks, but her eyes remained focused, her temperament controlled, exacting. Avana gripped the ax, sliding its sharp edge against the back of Raiythlen’s neck, to draw out the fear and suspense for not only the crowd, but the victim.

Evangeline stared at Raiythlen. He had to have a plan. He had to. It was Raiythlen; he always had a plan, but the look on his face told her he wasn’t all that powerful, that even he had his limits. And he was going to die because of it.

Avana raised the ax higher, the metal glinting in the rays shining through the patterned glass windows. Raiythlen titled his head, and Evangeline stilled. He did have a plan.

He shouted at Avana, something in Castanian. Evangeline didn’t know if it was a spell or if he was trying to convince her not to kill him. Avana paused, lowering the ax and leaning closer to her brother. Evangeline thought maybe it had worked, but judging by Avana’s face, it didn’t. That was his ace card, his trick up his sleeve. Whatever he said, it didn’t work, and the fear on his face spoke volumes.

Avana raised the ax again, her dress kicking back from the movement, her legs glowing. If she wanted respect, or fear, in that moment she got it. She looked like a force to be reckoned with.

The tip dangled high in the air, and in that fraction of a moment, Evangeline came to the shattering realization—if she didn’t do something this instant, Raiythlen was going to die.

The weight of the moment built up before propelling her to action, beyond her coherent control. She didn’t think, she just had to do something, anything, to stop this.

Evangeline stood so fast that even Aimee jumped next to her in surprise. “Stop!”

Avana’s stare shot to her at the same moment the ax swung down, missing its mark. The heavy blade cut into Raiythlen’s arm instead, lodging itself halfway into his bicep, nearly slicing it off. Raiythlen roared in pain, blood spurting from his arm, rivers of crimson liquid staining the white cotton like a morbid explosion of color.

Evangeline covered her mouth at the same time the crowd turned to stare at her in utter horror. Hundreds of eyes settled on hers, but Ceven’s shocked one was the only one that stole her attention.

“You fool!” Aimee snapped at her at the same time metal clanged. Ceven had broke free of his cuffs, his fist already flying at Troy, who had been holding him down. Aimee cursed and raised her hand, her index finger crossing her palm.

The stained-glass windows along the border of the room shattered, and black-clad Casters flooded in.

The throne room erupted into chaos.