Typical. In the Gaheas kingdoms, the royal bloodlines played musical chairs with thrones, and whoever was left standing when the music stopped usually died.

“Two people escaped that massacre,” Nycati continued. “The first was the king’s nephew, the youngest son of his second brother. He was only two years old. The boy was smuggled out by one of the rebels secretly loyal to the king.”

And I knew just who that boy was.

“The second was Artonnda, the king’s third consort. He had been entrusted with a priceless treasure of the royal line. The Wrath of Fire, a weapon and a crown, genetically linked to Krolli’s line. When His Majesty realized that the palace was lost, he tore the Wrath from his head, thrust it at his consort, and pushed Artonnda into an escape shuttle, instructing him to keep the crown safe at any cost. His Majesty remained behind with his family while Artonnda escaped to the Dominion. There he offered the crown to the Sovereign in exchange for safe haven.”

The arena was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

Nycati’s voice rang out. “Today I ask the Dominion to return the Wrath of Fire to me.”

Silence stretched for a long, torturous breath.

“Your request is granted,” the Sovereign announced.

Resven rose, holding a carved wooden box in his hands.

Sean formed a stairway between the stage and the throne crag. Nycati marched up the stairs, each step a resolute statement. Resven met him halfway.

The screens zoomed in, capturing every minute movement in great detail.

Nycati opened the box and took out a circlet. It was a delicate half-moon of pale metal, two arms of twisted metal branches with fine leaves linked by a thin chain in the back. In the middle, where the branches met over the wearer’s forehead, a large jewel glinted with white fire. Something one of Tolkien’s High Elves might have seen in a dream.

Gingerly, Nycati raised the circlet in front of him and looked at it.

“Why is he hesitating?” Karat murmured.

“It will kill an imposter,” Caldenia said. “The Wrath of Fire will accept him only if he belongs to the bloodline.”

Nycati’s entire life culminated in this moment. If it were me up there, standing with the crown of the family I never knew in my hands, I would be wondering if the people who had raised me had been lying to me all along. There would be no do-overs.

Nycati took a deep breath and placed the circlet on his head.

The jewel flashed with red, as if a miniature volcano erupted in its depths. Nycati’s body jerked back, rigid. His arms flexed, his hands clamped into fists. He raised his head to the sky and screamed, his eyes swirling with gem fire.

A surge of magic shot from him, straight up, like a banner being raised, so intense my teeth rattled in my jaw.