And what if someone had spotted the assassin climbing the cliffs? Or fleeing the scene? His red belt would stand out like a beacon, one of the infamous members of the Crimson Daggers Guild of Assassins. And everyone knew they worked only for Finfalla.

He’s right…I will be blamed for this. I will be used as a bargaining chip. And my father…

As much as Tomas loved his father, he couldn’t trust him to put the life of his son first. Nor should he. His first priority should always be to the kingdom, and if that meant sacrificing his only son to his enemy, so be it.

Which meant Tomas needed to save himself.

“Goodbye, Mother,” he said, voice unwavering. He grabbed the rope, clinging to its solidarity between his fingers like a lifeline. Concentrated on nothing but the task at hand. He pulled himself up, muscles straining under his body weight. “I can do this,” he growled through clenched teeth. The rope was like a squirming snake, one he tried to corral with his ankles the way he’d seen the assassin do.

Instead, it only seemed to buck wildly. That’s when his hands slipped and he fell, landing hard on his behind with a groan. Something wet and sticky soaked through his clothes. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, it’s only water, nothing but a pool of water.

Nearby footfalls made him freeze. They were originating from one of the corridors, the same that Lord Stapleton had disappeared into. They were coming closer.

There was no time to dwell on the blood on his clothes, or his first failed attempt to climb to freedom—no time for anything but quick and decisive action. He leapt to his feet and threw himself onto the rope, which again began its swinging dance meant to dislodge him. He squeezed it with his hands and feet, waiting for a painfully long few seconds until it calmed. And all the while, those heavy footsteps echoed closer.

He started to climb, hand over hand, sliding his crossed feet behind him. He refused to look down, refused to do anything but focus on the repetition of his movements, the sound of his breathing, the pull of his muscles.

“Your Majesty, sorry to interrupt, but I’ve brought you your tea—”

Tomas heard the teacup shatter, heard the pounding of the large man’s running feet, heard his shout, “Someone help! Please, someone help!” heard the groaning of the throne room doors being dragged open by the guards who’d heard their lord’s cry. And then:

“He’s getting away! And for Narcissi’s sake, get a healer!”

Tomas didn’t look back, even as the rope jolted and wriggled. Someone else was climbing. Could he cut the rope? With what? His teeth? He didn’t have so much as a knife to do the job, for one of the requirements of his visit was that he enter Drouin unarmed.