Finally, I coax my gaze up, bearing witness to the warders’ lifeless bodies and their sagging wings. I stare at Drex’s fingertips, watching a line of blood slide down his hand and land on the floor. It makes almost no sound, but I flinch like someone set off a cannon.

How did Atlas overpower them? Warders have special protection against Aphelion magic. We aren’t completely immune to it, but its effects are limited. Atlas’s magic isn’t the destructive sort, anyway. That’s what so much of this has been about.

He must have caught them by surprise. Used his intimate knowledge of their weaknesses to trick them. Or he had help. Which means I’ll have to add rooting out anyone loyal to him to my growing list of chores.

Blood stains the front of the warders’ armor, and I force myself to acknowledge the wound sliced through the shimmering tattoo on Syran’s throat—that binding mark imprinted on our skin that made us all prisoners.

One of the few rules governing the kings and queens of Aphelion is their oath to protect their warders. Given the complicated nature of our relationship, they are sworn to never lay a hand on our bodies. Atlas has already broken that rule many times, but murder goes beyond anything I thought him capable of.

How could Atlas do this? After the decades that they’ve served him. Lied for him and kept his secrets. How could Atlas do this? I’ve long questioned Atlas’s weak moral compass, but I shake my head, wondering why I had any faith left in him at all.

I still bear the scars of his torture. We all do. Why do I keep giving him the benefit of the doubt? Because I never wanted any of this to be true.

Finally, I look around, searching for clues about how he escaped or where he might have fled. Or maybe I’m stalling because the longer I stand here, the longer until I have to make the decision that’s squatting on my chest like a stone.

I bend down and pick up a feather that’s floated to the ground, one side smeared with golden blood. I haven’t cried in years, but tears press the back of my throat.

With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes and attempt to sift the pieces of myself into something that resembles a man who has any idea what to do next.

My feet carry me back up the stairs, an unwilling passenger on this ride, where I emerge to find Jareth and Rhyle, two more of my brothers. Their eyes widen as I emerge from the dungeon, clearly sensing my distress.

“What’s wrong?” Jareth asks, looking beyond me into the darkness of the stairwell.

“He’s gone,” I say. “He killed Drex and Syran, and then he fucking ran.” The words bruise my ears with the sagging weight of their impossibility.