“Enough of this,” the King muttered, and the air around me seemed to compress as magic surged across the room, crashing against Tristan’s opposing force like a thunderclap. I struggled to breathe – the air was burning hot, searing my lungs with every gasp I dragged in. My body twitched and jerked, my fingers clutching at the blankets in a feeble attempt to drag myself off the bed to find a weapon. Something, anything, that could help. Tristan fell to his knees, his face twisting, while his father wasn’t even winded.

I watched in terror as the King, never removing his gaze from Tristan, pulled a knife from his belt and threw it at me.

“No!” Tristan screamed. The knife clattered against a wall of magic, dropping harmlessly to the bed. But the damage was done. I sobbed in terror and pain as the King’s magic pinned Tristan against the wall. He gasped soundlessly, his fingers clawing futilely at the magic choking his throat.

“Pathetic,” the King sneered. “Just like your little army dying out in the streets against their wills.”

Tristan slumped against his father’s magic. Pain filled his eyes as they locked with mine, his mouth moving soundlessly to form the words, “I’m sorry.”

Sucking in a mouthful of the burning air, I screamed. The sound was shrill and terrified, like a dying animal.

Then Anaïs was there. Dressed in boy’s clothes, she smashed through the glass-paned doors like a warrior maiden of legend. She rolled to her feet, the force of her magic sending the King staggering into the corner. Tristan fell away from the wall, his chest heaving as he sucked in precious air. The air in the room compressed again as their joint power dueled with the King.

It did not take long. As Angoulême had said, Anaïs was military trained. And unlike Tristan, she was utterly ruthless.

“Got him,” Anaïs shouted with triumph, and my ears popped as the battle ended. The King slumped to his knees, holding up one hand in apparent defeat.

“Now it is your turn to do what I say,” Tristan said, striding across the room. “You’ll let us bring help for Cécile. You won’t interfere or threaten her life anymore. And I want your word on it.”

“And if I refuse?”

Tristan’s face hardened. “Then you die.”

Thibault cowered before his son. “You won’t kill your own father,” he pleaded. “That would make you a monster – not the sort of man your dear wife wants you to be.”

Tristan’s face turned in my direction. I saw the King reach for something on the floor and shouted a garbled warning. The lights flashed out, including mine, and all I could hear was the crash of something heavy hitting the floor, a wet thud, and a soft cry of pain. One orb of light flickered back into existence: the King’s. Tristan lay on the floor, conscious, but bound with cords that glowed when he fought against them. Anaïs lay against the far wall, a sluag spear embedded in her chest.