In the last moment before the tower collapsed, Malden’s luck had returned in trumps. The doorway that had been jammed shut by the demon’s bulk collapsed in front of him, its stones shattered by the creature’s thrashing. Suddenly the way back to the moonlit corridor was open—and he was given a chance at survival.

He had nearly squandered it. Because even as the tower was collapsing over his head, when the stone was shrieking and roaring and smashing all around him, he heard a voice calling him. A voice of authority that demanded respect. A voice that could have commanded nations.

Thief, the voice had said. And that was all. It had not been his ears that heard the voice, of that he was certain. Though it sounded exactly like someone shouting just behind him, he knew the voice was inside his head.

He turned away from escape and safety to see who had spoken. It was not the demon—the thing had no voice, and even if it could speak, it would not have sounded like that. It was a human voice. Which meant, absurd as it might sound, that it was the crown that spoke. The simple golden coronet of the Burgrave.

Malden’s childhood had been full of tales of statues that could speak, and of talking animals that were secretly men under the curses of dire sorcery. Those were simple tales, made to entertain. Yet magic was real enough. He was almost willing to accept that a crown could talk, even if he hadn’t heard it himself.

When it spoke again, all doubts flew away.

Thief, do not let me be entombed here.

Malden reached out then, heedless of the demon’s thrashing arms, and grabbed the crown out of the air. The fact that a slender tentacle was still wrapped around its other side did not matter. When that voice spoke, something inside Malden had no choice but to listen. He had grasped the crown, and then thrown himself clear of the collapsing tower, into the trapped palace corridor beyond. When the earth stopped shaking and the demon was crushed under a dozen tons of broken stone, Malden found himself lying on the floor dazed and bruised but with the fingers of one hand still clutching the crown.

He looked up to see the corridor transfixed. When the tower came down it must have shaken the entire palace like an earthquake. The vibrations had been enough to trigger every one of the traps in the corridor. The portcullises were all down, their spear points embedded in the floor. No matter how long he watched them, they did not retract—the delicate springs that controlled them must have snapped. He was trapped inside the corridor, between a massive pile of rock debris and a portcullis that looked uncomfortably like a set of prison bars.