It happened in a wave, green and silver blossoming out from the masts at the center ship, and then the ones to either side, on and on until the whole fleet was ready to sail.

It was a gift, thought Alucard, readying his weapons, pulling on the air with the remains of his strength as the first ship began to move.

Followed by a second.

And a third.

Alucard’s jaw went slack. The last of his strength faltered, died.

The wind dissolved, and he stood there, staring, a makeshift blade tumbling from his fingers, because the Veskan ships weren’t sailing toward Tanek and the Isle and the city of London.

They were sailing away.

The fleet’s formation dissolved as they pivoted back toward open sea.

One of the ships passed close enough for him to see the men aboard, and a Veskan soldier looked his way, broad face unreadable beneath his helm. Alucard lifted a hand in greeting. The man didn’t wave back. The ship continued on.

Alucard watched them go.

He waited for the waters to still, for the last colors to fade from the sky.

And then he folded to his knees on the deck.

X

Kell stared, numbly, at the bodies on the table.

His king and queen. His father and his mother …

He heard Holland say his name, felt Lila’s fingers curl around his arm. “We have to find Rhy.”

“He’s not here,” said a new voice.

It was Isra, the head of the city guard. Kell had taken the woman for a statue with her full armor and bowed head, had forgotten the rules of mourning—the dead were never left alone.

“Where?” he managed. “Where is he?”

“The palace, sir.”

Kell started for the doors that led back into the royal palace, when Isra stopped him.

“Not that one,” said the woman wearily. She pointed to the massive front doors of the Rose Hall, the ones that led out to the city street. “The other one. On the river.”

Kell’s pulse pounded madly in his chest.

The shadow palace.

His head spun.

How long had they been gone?

Three days?

No, four.

Four days, Rhy.

Then you can get yourself into trouble.

Four days, and the king and queen were dead, and Rhy hadn’t waited any longer.

“You just let him go?” snapped Lila, accosting the guard.

Isra bristled. “I had no choice.” She met Kell’s eyes. “As of today, Rhy Maresh is the king.”

The reality landed like a blow.

Rhy Maresh, young royal, flirtatious rake, resurrected prince.

The boy always looking for places to hide, who moved through his own life as if it were a piece of theatre.

His brother, who had once accepted a cursed amulet because it promised strength.

His brother, who now carved apologies into his skin and held his hands over candle flames to feel alive.

His brother was king.

And his first act?

To march straight into Osaron’s palace.

Kell wanted to wring his Rhy’s neck, but then he recalled the pain he’d felt, wave after wave rocking him in the boat, crashing through him even now, a current of suffering. Rhy. Kell’s feet carried him past Isra, past row after row of large stone basins to the doors of the Rose Hall and out into the thin London light.

He heard their steps behind him, Lila’s thief-soft and quick, Holland’s sure, but he didn’t look back, didn’t look down at the sea of spelled bodies lying in the street, kept his eyes trained on the river, and the impossible shadow stretching up against the sky.

Kell had always thought of the royal palace like a second sun caught in perpetual rise over the city. If that was true, Osaron’s palace was an eclipse, a piece of perfect darkness, only its edges rimmed with reflected light.

Somewhere behind him, Holland drew a weapon from a fallen man’s sheath, and Lila swore softly as she wove through the bodies, but neither strayed far from his side.

Together, the three Antari climbed the onyx incline of the palace bridge.

Together, they reached the polished black glass of the palace doors.

The handle gave under Kell’s touch, but Lila caught his wrist and held it firm.

“Is this really the best plan?” she asked.

“It’s the only one we have,” said Kell as Holland drew the Inheritor over his head and slipped the device into his pocket. He must have sensed Kell staring, because he looked up, met his gaze. One eye green and one black, and both as steady as a mask.

“One way or another,” said Holland, “this ends.”

Kell nodded. “It ends.”

They looked to Lila. She sighed, freeing Kell’s fingers.

Three silver rings caught the dying light—Lila’s and Kell’s the narrower echoes of Holland’s band—all of them singing with shared power as the door swung open, and the three Antari stepped through into the dark.

I

As Kell’s boot crossed the threshold, the pain flared in his chest. It was as if the walls of Osaron’s palace had muted the connection, and now, without the boundaries, the cord drew tight, and every step brought Kell closer to Rhy’s suffering.

Lila had two knives already out, but the palace was empty around them, the hall clear. Tieren’s magic had worked, stripped the monster of his many puppets, but Kell still felt Lila’s nervous tension in his own limbs, saw that same unease reflected again in Holland’s inscrutable face.

There was a wrongness to this place, as if they’d stepped out of London, out of time, out of life entirely, and into somewhere that didn’t quite exist. It was magic without balance, power without rule, and it was dying, every surface slowly taking on the glossy black pall of nature burned to nothing.