The ascent to the High Citadel was paved with dropped pikes and silk banners trampled into the slush.
Cassian’s palace guards, clad in ceremonial silver-leaf cuirasses that had never turned a battle-blade, scattered before the Vanguard like quail before a hunting hawk. Those who made a stand were swept aside by the disciplined fury of Lady Vespera’s marines, leaving a crimson trail leading directly up the grand marble staircase to the Great Hall of the First Emperors.
The bronze double doors, embossed with the triumphs of dynasties long dead, stood slightly ajar.
Aurelia did not touch them with her hands. A single wave of her gauntleted palm sent a concussive pulse of astral pressure forward, blowing the ten-foot leaves inward with a deafening crash that echoed off the vaulted ceilings.
Inside, the grand hall was swathed in the sickly warmth of three hundred scented beeswax candles.
At the far end of the velvet-carpeted nave, perched atop the Dais of White Granite, sat Regent Cassian. He wore the ancient Crown of Thorns, its black iron spikes tangled with freshly plucked red roses that were already beginning to wilt in the heat. Across his lap rested an ornate gilded rapier, his pale, manicured hands gripping the hilt so tightly his knuckles were white.
Surrounding the dais were thirty elite mercenaries of the Sunken Syndicate—brutal, heavily muscled corsairs armed with hooked sabres and hand-cannons, led by a scarred giant wearing the kraken-crested coat of an admiral.
"Stay back, apostate!" Cassian’s voice wavered, thin and shrill in the cavernous hall. He rose to his feet, the hem of his ermine-lined mantle dragging over the steps. "You were declared dead by edict of the Conclave! The crown belongs to the protector of the realm!"
Aurelia walked down the center aisle, her boots clicking with measured, merciless cadence upon the polished marble. She did not raise her blade. She did not need to. The six silver-violet marks burning along her throat and collarbone pulsed in visible, rhythmic dominance, casting long, predatory shadows against the gilded pillars.
"Protector?" Aurelia’s voice was smooth, quiet, and carried the weight of a descending guillotine. "You sold the Sea-Gates to pirates while the Vanguard bled in the ash. You stole the grain from the northern granaries to pay for your coronation banquet. You are not a protector, Cassian. You are a parasite."
The kraken-crested mercenary captain stepped forward, leveling a heavy, twin-barreled hand-cannon at her chest. "That's enough prattle, girl. One step more and I paint this hall with your brains."
Before the mercenary could pull the trigger, a dark shape blurred past Aurelia’s shoulder.
Malakor moved with terrifying, ungodly speed.
He closed the twenty paces in the space of a heartbeat. His left hand shot out, catching the twin barrels of the hand-cannon just as they discharged with an ear-splitting crack. The concussive blast of black powder shredded the sleeve of his dark tunic, but the molten iron and lead flattened harmlessly against his shadow-hardened gauntlet.
Without pausing, Malakor’s right hand whipped forward. His massive combat dagger punched straight through the captain's gorget, severing the man's windpipe and pinning him to the marble floor with a sickening wet crunch.
The remaining Syndicate mercenaries froze, their blood running cold at the effortless brutality of the kill.
"Anyone else?" Malakor straightened, his great sword whispering free of its scabbard, resting the broad, dark-steel flat against his shoulder. His amber eyes burned with lethal amusement as his gaze swept the mercenaries. "My empress came for the crown. I came to feed my blade."
The corsairs looked at the dead giant gurgling on the floor, then at the glowing, terrifying majesty of Aurelia stepping onto the dais, and then threw their weapons down with a clattering wave of iron and brass. They scattered toward the side colonnades, fleeing into the night.
Cassian was left alone atop the white steps, trembling so violently the gilded rapier slipped from his sweat-slicked fingers and clattered down the marble.
"Aurelia... cousin... please," Cassian whimpered, sinking to his knees on the velvet carpet, holding his hands up in frantic supplication. "The Conclave forced my hand. The Syndicate threatened to bombard the palace—"
"Quiet," Aurelia said softly, stepping onto the top tier of the dais.
She looked down at him, devoid of pity, devoid of hatred—only the cold, unyielding judgment of a true sovereign. She reached down, her slender, scarred fingers wrapping around the iron band of the Crown of Thorns, and lifted it from his brow.
A single petal of a wilted rose drifted down between them.
Aurelia turned to Malakor, who had stepped up beside her, his breath steady, his eyes locked onto hers with fierce, unvarnished devotion.
She extended the bloody, thorny crown toward him.
"What is the sentence for treason against the Veil, warlord?" she asked, her voice ringing clear in the vast hall.
Malakor’s scarred lips curled into a wolfish, predatory grin as he took the crown from her hands, tossing it onto the throne behind them before stepping directly into Cassian’s space.
"Death, Your Grace," Malakor rasped, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. "And I never leave an execution unfinished."