William blinked and he was in the dining hall. He did not remember walking there, nor sitting down. Had he slept? Had he said goodbye to Arable at all? His doublet was fastened, but he had no memory of dressing. There was mutton and a horn of ale in front of him that appeared to be his. His monsters were all-consuming. They’d invaded his every waking moment, he could barely even track his own movements now. It would be better after the funeral, he repeated to himself.

It would be better after the wedding.

Allies and enemies.

The hair on William’s arm suddenly stood on edge, alerting him to something else he had been too preoccupied to notice. The hour was late, but there should have been at least a few young Guardsmen cleaning up. But even the uneven firelight of the room’s sconces could not hide its emptiness, nor the curious lack of sounds that might normally creep in from the surrounding hallways. A more hopeful man might assume he was dreaming, but the dread that seized William’s bones was too real, and too familiar.

Near the south entrance, two silhouettes rested comfortably at one of the long tables. One played idly with a longsword, its point buried in the table’s surface, tall enough that its hilt was above the man’s head. Instinct drew William’s hand to his own belt, but he no longer carried his blade. His purple-stained doublet had embroidery rather than plating, and his soft new shoes couldn’t conceal a knife like his old boots could. He was a politician now, and politicians were compelled to dress in a manner that made them easiest to murder.

“I’m told you’re the Sheriff,” came a voice from the unarmed man, soft and disinterested.

“I’m told the same thing,” William returned. “Do I ask who you are now?”

“I’m told I’m the prince,” was the reply, and then William died.

He wasn’t certain how he died, but it was undoubtedly spiteful, bloody, and hopefully creative. He would be disappointed if, after everything he’d been through, he was killed in some unimaginative stabbing. Once his exhausted mind caught up with his brutalized body he’d learn more about his death, but for now it was still watching Prince John lounge his way closer through the tables.

“They could be lying to me,” said the prince, still in some unthinkable world where William had not yet been murdered. “If I really were the prince, I feel like you ought to be bowing to me, which you’re not.”

William squinted to make out the man’s face. He looked young, carried himself well. His head was a bloom of dark black rimmed in a crisp red fire. William only knew Prince John through Richard’s descriptions of him—the insolent little brother whose only successes were in the magnitude of his failures.