The door opened right as he arrived, the wood ramming hard enough into him that he feared it might break his shoulder. Cyrus fell and rolled across the white stone, biting down a cry as his elbow and knees bruised. When he staggered to his feet, he found one of his guard captains, a woman named Nessa, blocking the doorway with her sword and shield drawn.

“I’m sorry, Cyrus,” the woman said. “Maybe they’ll spare you like they promised.”

“You’re a traitor.”

“You saw it, prince. Endarius is dead. They’re killing gods. What hope do we have? Now stand up. I will drag you if I must.”

Nessa suddenly jerked forward, her jaw opening and closing in a noiseless death scream. When she collapsed, Rayan stood over her body. Blood soaked his white armor and stained his flowing cloak. His hand outstretched for Cyrus to take.

“Come,” Rayan said. “We have little time.”

They ran through the hall to the stairs. Cyrus pretended not to see the bodies strewn across the blue carpet. Some were soldiers. Some were servants. The king and queen still lived, yet the people of Thanet were already tearing one another apart. Was this how quickly their nation would fall?

Once at the bottom of the stairs, Rayan guided him through rooms and ducked along slender servant corridors hidden behind curtains. During their flight, treacherous Thanet soldiers ordered them to halt twice, and twice Rayan cut them down with an expert swing of his sword. Cyrus stepped over their bodies without truly seeing them. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. The entire world seemed unreal, a cruel dream no amount of biting his tongue allowed him to awake from.

Within minutes they were running down a lengthy corridor that connected a portion of the western wall to the castle proper. The corridor ran parallel to the courtyard, and at the first door they passed, Cyrus spotted the enormous gathering of soldiers surrounding Magus of Eldrid.

“I had feared the worst,” Magus shouted as Cyrus continued. “Come before me, and kneel. I would hear your names.”

Cyrus skidded to a halt at the next doorway. He pressed his chest against the cold stone and peered around the edge. It couldn’t be. His parents, they were meant to escape like him. They had their own royal guard. Their own protectors. Yet there they stood before the Imperator, flanked on either side by blood-soaked traitors. His father was the first to bow his head and address their conqueror. With each proclamation, the empire’s soldiers cheered and clattered their swords against their shields.

“Cleon Lythan,” said his father. “King of Thanet.”

“Berniss Lythan,” said his mother. “Queen of Thanet.”