“You don’t have to go in,” Tristan said, hand closing on my elbow.

“Yes, he does,” Anaïs responded, but I was already picking my way through the rubble, down the battered staircase to where my uncle, the King of Trollus, stood next to a still form draped in a black cloth. The area around them was untouched by the blast of magic, the podium I’d only recently stood on pristine and unmarked. Instinctively, I knew my father had protected the half-bloods around him from the blast, and judging from the lack of bodies, they’d escaped.

I realized then that I’d stopped in my tracks, my feet unwilling to take me closer. Until I saw the body’s face, it wouldn’t be real. My father wouldn’t be dead. My mother wouldn’t be…

Swallowing hard, I willed myself forward. The King silently watched me approach, then took a step back to give me space. I knelt down, and with one quick jerk, pulled back the cloth.

My father’s eyes stared up at me, sightless. Dead.

My stomach clenched, and I turned away just in time to heave my guts out onto the ground, my body feeling like it was trying to wrench itself apart.

Then I looked back.

My father was untouched by injury, only the faint coating of dust on his skin marking that he’d been in the blast at all. His arms lay limply by his sides, hands encased with black gloves. I didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to feel the lifelessness. But I needed to know.

With shaking hands, I peeled back the leather of his glove, praying to the stars, the fates, and the human gods for some small mercy.

His bonding marks were black as ink. Black as iron rot. Black as death.

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe, but it felt like a vice was wrapped around my chest. Mother.

Then, through the fog of pain, I felt a troll with power move off to my left. Not Tristan. Not Anaïs. Not the King.

Him.

I lunged, intent on ripping Angoulême apart, but the King’s hand closed on the fabric of my cloak, hauling me back. “Control him,” he snarled at Tristan.

My cousin only crossed his arms. “No.”

Not that his defiance mattered. The King’s magic clamped down on me, and he said, “If the Duke killed your father, he will be sentenced and executed for it. Not before. And not by you.”

Which meant there would be no justice, because Angoulême hadn’t killed my father. At least, not directly. My father had burned out his magic, taking my mother along with him. All to protect me.

“You will answer for what happened here, Angoulême,” the King said, turning to the stairs. “And you’ll answer for it now.”

The Duke’s fist gripped the handle of his cane, eyes blank and unreadable. There was not so much as a speck of dust on him, the magic he perpetually coated himself in having protected him from the blast. “Of course, Your Majesty.”