“I won’t lie to you. Not anymore. You need to be prepared for what’s coming. We should start with the treasury. I fear I’ve spent far too much from the royal coffers these last several years.”

“I don’t want to hear about the treasury. Have your scribes write it down. Now you need to rest.”

“Stop fretting over me like a godsdamn nursemaid!” the king roared, slamming his fist down once more. And promptly launched into a series of violent coughs again; this time specks of blood flew from his mouth and splattered the floor before his feet. “This is important. You need to understand the gravity of the situation. The treasury is depleted, Lostwood grows at an unnatural rate, the Kinkallians smell blood in the water, and you don’t. Have. A. Godsdamn. Heir.”

Tomas was about to call for assistance from the healers, who were surely more experienced at dealing with his father’s belligerence, but before he could, one of the tall, arched windows exploded inwards in a spray of shattered glass shards.

“What the—” Tomas uttered, instinctively stepping forward to place his own body between that of his father and the masked, dark-clothed form that landed before him, sword raised and at the ready.

The form that sprang forward with incredible speed and shoved him aside with ease. As he sprawled down the steps, he looked back, eyes wide with fear, to watch as the king tried to stand, but failed, falling back into his throne. “A life for a life,” the assassin said, and then stabbed him through the heart.

Tomas was back on his feet in an instant, boots crunching and slipping on broken glass, rushing back up the steps, reaching to grab the killer but missing as he leapt away, running for the broken window.

Having heard the sounds, the throne room doors lurched open and a dozen palace guards spilled inside just as the assassin dove through to freedom. “Go after him!” Tomas commanded, before turning his attention back to his father, whose shirt was already soaked with his own blood. “No,” Tomas said. “Not you, too. Not you. Not now. I can’t…I can’t do this alone.”

“You will,” his father rasped. “You must. Find a wife. Create an heir. Do better than I did. Promise me you won’t fail me.”

“Father, I—” Whatever protests he had planned faltered on his tongue, for he could no longer deny the truth of his father’s mortality. “I promise,” he said.

And then, with a final shudder, his father died in his arms.

Tomas didn’t shed a tear, or curse the gods, or fall back in shock. He did none of those things because his mind was already spinning, trying to wrap itself around the one truth that had presented itself during the second assassination he’d witnessed in almost as many days: