Chapter 5
The Throne Room was already packed to the rafters when the heavy cedar doors groaned open.
A wave of sound hit me like physical blow—the murmur of hundreds of silk-clad courtiers, the rustle of brocade, the sharp, hostile gasps of ladies peering through painted ivory fans. They were packed onto the tiered galleries like vultures roosting on a cliffside, their jeweled collars and gilded chains winking in the pale winter light pouring through the high clerestory windows.
"Clear the aisle!" Varek bellowed, shoving me forward. "Make way for the Northern Butcher!"
The crowd parted with theatrical disgust, pulling back their velvet hems as if my shadow might stain them. I dragged my irons down the red runner, keeping my back straight, my chin lifted, meeting every sneering, perfumed gaze with cold, predatory amusement. Let them look. Let them see that their empire’s most hated monster wasn't weeping.
At the far end of the hall, rising atop seven marble steps, stood the Throne of Crows.
It was empty.
The massive seat of black iron and gilded oak—where Julian’s father had sat for forty years—sat vacant, draped in a ceremonial pall of purple cloth. The old Emperor was upstairs, drowning in whatever slow poison Alden’s apothecaries were spooning into his broth.
Standing to the right of the throne, on the highest dais, was Grand Duke Alden.
He looked fifty, though he moved with the predatory vigor of a man ten years younger. His hair was cropped close, silvering at the temples, and his mantle of silver fox fur was pinned with an enormous sapphire that had once belonged to the crown treasury. He leaned one hand casually on the pommel of a broadsword, looking down at the court as if every flagstone beneath our feet had been paid for with his own coin.
Which, judging by the palace rumors, it probably had been.
And standing to the left of the throne, a half-step lower than the Duke, was Julian.
My breath caught in my throat, though I didn't allow my eyes to linger for more than a fraction of a second.
He was transformed. The desperate, trembling young man who had wept against my chest in the dark eight hours ago was entirely gone. In his place stood Crown Prince Julian of Valenica, a figure carved of white marble and frozen water.
He wore the ceremonial uniform of the High Marshal: a high-collared doublet of midnight blue stitched with silver thread, an ermine-lined mantle draped over one shoulder, and the narrow silver coronet of the heir apparent resting across his brow. His pale hair was pulled back into a severe, perfect braid. His face was entirely devoid of color, his slate-grey eyes flat, lifeless, and staring straight ahead into the middle distance, as if the assembly before him were nothing more than painted puppets.
"Halt the prisoner," Alden's voice rolled across the vaulted chamber. It was deep, resonant, and entirely comfortable with absolute authority.
The guards wrenched my chains, forcing me to stop ten paces from the bottom of the dais. Varek kicked the back of my knee, trying to force me down, but I locked my joints and stood rigid, glaring up at the two men who held the kingdom in their fists.
"Rowan of the Iron Vanguard," Alden declared, his voice echoing off the carved ceiling. "Traitor to the crown, ravager of the northern march, and commander of cutthroats. You stand before the High Council to hear the judgment of your betters."
Alden turned slightly, his cold gaze sliding toward Julian. It was a subtle gesture, but saturated with malice. A wolf nudging a chained hound to perform.
"Your Highness," Alden murmured, his tone dripping with false deference. "The capture of this barbarian was your victory. It is only fitting that the Crown Prince deliver the state's decree."
Julian did not flinch. He didn't even look at Alden. He stepped forward to the edge of the marble dais, his boots clicking with terrifying precision on the stone.
When his eyes finally dropped to meet mine, the coldness in them was so absolute it nearly made me falter. There was no trace of the boy who had kissed me until my lips were bruised. There was only the ruthless heir of a dynasty that had conquered an empire with blood and fire.
"Rowan," Julian spoke, his voice cutting through the high hall like a razor drawn across silk. "For six years, you have spat upon imperial law. You have burned our depots, slaughtered our border guards, and defied the sovereignty of the Throne of Crows."
The courtiers murmured their enthusiastic approval.
"You thought the northern mountains would shield you from imperial reach," Julian continued, his cadence steady, rhythmic, devoid of any human warmth. "You thought the crown was too weak, too divided, to drag you from your wolf's den. You were wrong."
I narrowed my eyes, playing my part. I bared my teeth in a vicious, bloody grin. "You got lucky in the snow, your little Highness. A snowstorm and a dozen lances to pull down one man. Bring your court up to the Crags without your silver armor, and let's see how loud you talk."
A collective gasp rippled through the gallery. Several lords shouted for my tongue to be cut out on the spot.
Alden chuckled, a dry, grating sound. "Defiant to the end. Duke Cassian, have the executioner prepare the iron combs. A tongue that wags so freely will make a fine decoration for the outer gates."
"No," Julian interrupted.
The word fell like a heavy stone. The hall went dead quiet.
Julian didn't look at Alden. His gaze remained locked on mine, unwavering, merciless.
"The law of the realm demands order, not the frantic butcheries of a frontier outpost," Julian said coldly. "He will face the headsman on the grand scaffold before the people of Valenica. But he will do so under the full weight of imperial authority. The rites must be observed."
Julian turned to the side, where a page boy stood trembling, holding a velvet cushion. Resting upon the cushion was the heavy silver Signet of Justice—a heavy, ceremonial rod used by the reigning monarch to formally ratify a death sentence.
Julian picked it up. The silver gleamed under the torchlight.
"By the authority vested in my blood," Julian announced, walking down the marble steps, "I seal this traitor to his fate."
My heart hammered against my ribs. *What is he doing?*
Julian descended the seven steps, his blue velvet mantle sweeping the red carpet. The courtiers craned their necks. Alden watched him with narrowed, calculating eyes, his hand tightening around the hilt of his broadsword.
Julian stopped directly in front of me. Less than an arm's length away.
Up close, beneath the heavy white rice powder the court dressers had dusted over his face, I could see the terrifying strain. His jaw muscles were clenched so tightly they looked ready to snap. The pulse in his throat was fluttering like a trapped sparrow.
"You are a plague upon this land, mercenary," Julian whispered, loud enough for the front row of nobles to hear.
He raised the silver rod and pressed the cold, ornate metal hard against the center of my chest, directly over my sternum.
