the ends of the earth.

Damian was hollow.

The world spun around him, yet he remained in the center of the storm. People rushed in and out of the makeshift operations room—a drawing room on the fifth floor of the Palace—but their words were garbled to his ears. They were speaking Sidralian, probably, but he didn't comprehend their meaning.

He stared at the cup of tea on the table, his haunted face reflected back at him.

My father is dead.

That singular statement was the truth—he had witnessed it with his own eyes. But it didn't make sense.

He had prepared himself for this day, but it had always seemed so far away—a distant disaster awaiting on the horizon. Even when Gunther told him the cancer was progressing, they'd had a year—twelve months.

The king was meant to fight bravely until his spirit was exhausted, and then the Angel would take his soul back to the Great Flame.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He didn't know how long had passed since he'd arrived back at the Palace. 

Perhaps half an hour, maybe longer. He was vaguely aware of Gunther and Leon moving him into the drawing room; and then others had piled into the room, gathering around a large table. Aides and staff and Priests of the Flameguard. Lynn was there too, but nobody came to speak with Damian.

He simply sat at the edge of the room, alone in the void of his own thoughts. 

My father was murdered.

Taken from me.

Damian's hands curled into tight fists, and indignant rage boiled in the pit of his stomach. The King of Sidralis had been robbed of what little remained of his life; his body desecrated and his dignity trampled.

"They will pay."

Damian's voice didn't sound like his own. The noise he made was low, and the words came from deep in his chest, fueled by the type of burning anger he'd felt only once before—when his mother had died ten years ago. 

When a child had lost a parent and been thrust into a world of darkness.

Only now, his anger burned so brightly that it illuminated that darkness. A boy of ten had grown into a man of twenty, and this time, he was not as powerless as he'd once been.

Damian stood abruptly, and the room's occupants turned to face him.

"Damian…" Leon said slowly, his expression still wracked with grief. "You don't need to—"

"I do, and I will." 

Damian's reply was short and sharp. 

This was the only way he knew how to deal with his grief. 

I will not cry.

He would take every ounce of sorrow and feed it to the bellows inside his soul. And he would make them pay.

"The King of Sidralis is dead." 

Damian made the announcement, the words falling from his lips like leaden weights. 

"The King is dead. He has been murdered. Our enemies made their way to our very gates, and they have declared war upon the Crown. We will find who did this, and we will bring them to justice, with fire and blood. That is how we shall avenge my father, or we are unfit to call ourselves his subjects."

From somewhere in the room, a particularly energetic person snapped out an eager salute. "Yes, Your Majesty!"

"No!" Damian shouted. He pointed a finger at the group, barely realizing the volume of his own voice. "No. I am no king. Not yet. For now, I am still the Crown Prince of Sidralis. Until my father is avenged, the Crown shall remain unclaimed. Then, and only then, shall I be your king."

"S-sorry, Your M—Your Highness," the aide said, mollified.

Leon raised his voice and clapped his hands together, taking charge of the situation as only the spymaster could.

"All right, you heard the prince. We've got an enemy to find, and no time to lose. Flameguard, send word to the Order—I want the city locked down. Nobody gets in or out without my permission. Find the guests from last night—I want them all in one place, ready for questioning. Somebody get a message down to Tenebrae's High Table—I want answers, and I want them now."

Damian finally shifted his gaze to his uncle. He took a step forward and leaned in close enough to smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke on his uncle's breath.

"Are you sure this is wise, Uncle?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"You saw the b—you saw my father. He was attacked by both types of Angelic Blessings."

Unbidden, the image of his father's body returned to Damian's mind. The King of Sidralis, pinned against the glass windows, impaled by spears of shadow blacker than night, his belly torn open by a flaming wound.

"You think both churches are involved? Even one church is heresy enough; but for them to work in concert…?"

"I don't know."

Damian whispered back, shaking his head. He glanced over Leon's shoulder, to Lynn Brightwell, to the Priests of the Flameguard. They were all busy talking to each other, sending messengers in and out of the drawing room. None seemed to be acting suspiciously, but even so…

"I don't know who we should trust or suspect," Damian continued. "So until we know for sure, everyone is an enemy. Understood?"

"Understood… Firstly, we should move you to a safe house. It might not be what you want to hear, but right now, you are heir apparent. If the Crown has enemies after us, you're the next logical target."

Damian wet his lips. He hadn't considered that, but of course, the spymaster was already thinking several moves ahead. There was a very long list of people who would profit in their own small ways from a change of leadership. Perhaps those people would not be satisfied with just Xavier's death.

"If you should fall, Damian, then I would become king in your place. Your cousins are only girls, after all. And if I should fall—"

"—No, don't say it. Besides, you have the Blessing of the Deep. Between the two of us, I think you stand a better chance against any assassins, even if they are from the Collective."

"Perhaps that's true," Leon murmured. He placed a familial hand on Damian's shoulder and squeezed tightly. 

"Listen, you need to get away from the Palace. I know we can't trust everyone, but you will need allies. You should choose at least one guard and a servant, preferably somebody you trust unconditionally. Or failing that, somebody you think you could overpower, should your judgment be wrong."

Damian cast his eyes over the room, his mind spinning.

Gunther stood at the back of the hall, his face twisted in grief, but still directing people around all the same. Although he had mainly served Damian in the capacity of a butler, he was ultimately the Chief of Staff and responsible for commanding all the residence's aides.

Gunther has always been loyal to the family.

The old man had served since he was but a boy himself; there was nobody else in the Palace who could make such a claim. Gunther commanded great respect—taking him away would potentially throw Rossheim's operations into chaos.

Lynn was at the center edge of the drawing room's table, locked in argument with two other Priests. Her face was still pale, but here, commanding her troops, she looked every bit the leader that her station demanded. 

I haven't known her for long, but she's trustworthy.

When he had fought Titus, Lynn had been worried only for his safety—she had even risked intervening in the duel. Those were not the actions of a traitor, nor one hiding in disguise. Lynn was honest and wore her emotions on her sleeve—she probably wasn't even capable of deception.

Dominic stood by the doorway, inspecting everyone who came and went. The tall man met Damian's gaze, and he gave a single nod. Little emotion crossed the bodyguard's face—he was, as ever, a sturdy rock in the midst of a raging river.

Dom would lay down his life for me.

Damian had always known that Dominic was a loyal servant of the crown, possessed of the single-minded duty to put his own body on the line. That type of blind devotion would be all the more important in the days to come.

Damian's eyes drifted over the room, and then suddenly, a shock of blonde hair caught his attention. 

Deftly weaving her way between the various aides, staff, and Priests, was the maid called Tia Alessia. She dutifully placed trays of food, pitchers of water, and cups of tea and coffee on the table. The operation room was now in full swing, and keeping several dozen people fed and watered was, strangely enough, one of the most crucial elements to maintaining order.

Stunned, Damian found himself walking towards the young maid.

"Oh! Dami—er, I mean, Your Highness!" 

Tia dropped into a quick curtsy. Her expression crumpled a moment later, and she added, "I—I am terribly sorry for your loss. I… I can't even imagine what you're feeling, Your Highness."

Damian opened and closed his mouth. When he finally found his voice, all he said was—

"Speaking formally really doesn't suit you. Permission to speak informally—indefinitely."

Tia's eyes widened, and then, she giggled.

The noise was slight. Barely audible, really. But somehow, in a room where the tension was so thick it felt like miasma was leeching out of the walls, that singular laugh sliced through all the grief and misery and pain in an instant.

Half the room turned to look at the blonde-haired maid, and she blushed wildly, her face turning beet-red.

"Uh—uh," she stammered, shrinking back like a frightened mouse.

Damian looked across the room to Gunther, who gave a small, apologetic shake of his head. No wonder. Damian had only left the Palace just after nine, and returned at midday. Gunther had likely planned to give Tia the traditional "send off" package in the afternoon—but with everything that had happened, there'd been no time.

And now—now, Damian found himself somehow grateful.

A single, unintended laugh, from a strange girl with manners more befitting the slums than the royal halls. But right then, amidst the maelstrom that was threatening to tear Damian apart, an innocent smile and a giggle was enough to bring the tiniest bit of life back to his frozen soul.

"You're coming with me," Damian said. 

His decision was made on the spot, devoid of any rhyme or reason. There was just the knowledge that having someone who could laugh, somebody so carefree and bright—somebody like Tia Alessia—would be as vital as any sword or shield.

Tia stammered something that Damian didn't hear. He'd already turned back to Leon, who was leaning over a map stretched out across the table.

"Leon, let's get going. Lynn Brightwell, Dominic Clay, Tia Alessia. Those three are with me."

Leon glanced at his nephew, and nodded. If he questioned Damian's choices, he said nothing. He only stood upright and put both hands on Damian's shoulders, staring his nephew right in the eye.

"Damian, know that I love you. And that I trust you to do what's best for the country, for your people…and for yourself."

Heat pressed against the back of Damian's eyes, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. He sniffed and forced the emotions back. He would not cry here, not when everyone was counting on him, and him alone, to keep the hopes of King Xavier alive.

"Come find me when things have calmed down, Uncle." 

He briefly embraced his uncle, then broke away a moment later. Leon snapped his fingers and called together Damian's unlikely group of protectors.

Leon explained the situation to them all, but Damian wasn't listening. 

He had drifted over to the tall glass windows, which, from this particular room, looked eastward across Rosweiss and the River Rose. He could see the Cathedral of the Order, and tucked away around the river's bend, the beginning of Tenebrae's low sprawl.

Somewhere in this city is the person who killed my father.

Damian clenched his teeth together until his jaw hurt. He pressed one hand against the glass and made a solemn vow, etching his fury into his soul with the type of fervor he'd never once shown the Angel.

I will find you, and I will kill you.

Thus, he swore, and unbeknownst to Damian Roswald, that vow would bind him far tighter than he could ever imagine.