Niklas' expression was tortured. “It doesn't matter. Don't you understand, Ren? The king is dead. Halvard has Thais. He can do whatever he wants and blame whomever he wants.”

“But why? Killing me won't make a difference. Killing Thais won't make Halvard king of Frayne. He can't keep Thais hostage in the inner chambers forever.” Ren's voice trembled.

“Niklas,” Berin called quietly.

“We're out of time,” Niklas said, offering Ren an apologetic expression as he reached out to squeeze his hand.

“I need to get out of here,” Ren said, swallowing against the returning feeling of nausea.

Niklas nodded. “We're working on it. Berin's going to find a way to get the guards away from the courtyard and the battlements. Be ready before dawn. We'll come get you.”

“But where do I go?” Ren asked, panic rising inside him. Niklas was already climbing back down the wall.

“I'm sorry, Ren. I have to go – someone will notice if we're gone too long. Be ready before dawn,” Niklas whispered as loudly as he could before he and Berin slipped away into the shadows. In the very next second, the guards returned from their rounds.

* * *

Time had never before passed so slowly.

Hours before dawn, Ren was ready to go. He filled his travel bag with clothes, a pair of extra boots, and a knife, and put on his dark hunting jacket with the deep hood that would help conceal his appearance.

Opening his desk drawer, he pushed aside notes and papers before finding what he was searching for at the bottom.

He drew out the small filigree key, closing his hand around it with a new ache in his chest.

His mother had given him that key only a few days before she died.

Closing the drawer, Ren sat down on the edge of his bed, fingertips tracing the delicate metal swirls. It calmed him.

He could remember the day she had given it to him, the two of them sitting with their legs drawn up on her bed, the infant Thais, only a day old, asleep in a crib by the window. “For when you need to escape,” she had said, pressing the key against his palm. Her eyes had been wide, brow furrowed by a worry Ren hadn't understood then – and still didn't.

Six years old, he had run up and down the hallways of the castle and tried the key in all the locks, but it hadn't fit any of them. After that, he had tried the stables, the barracks, even the city gates, but to no avail. Three days later, his mother, the queen, was dead and Ren had tossed the key into the drawer. A key meant for escape was no use if it didn't work on any doors.

Flipping the key over, he closed his hand around it. He needed to escape now. He slipped the key into his pocket.