Welbournehale’s drought outlasted its summer. Anders hunched over a desk like a scribe, furiously brainstorming solutions in ink on a sheet of vellum. Swamped with complaints from landowners and peasants alike, he could hardly hear himself think. 

He did, however, hear Gwynnyth shriek from the other end of the palace.

Anders dropped his quill and flew out the door. He followed her screams and a growing clamor of men’s voices. In the stairwell that led to Gwynnyth’s tower, a crowd of soldiers blocked his way. “What’s going on?” Anders demanded.

“Andre!” Gwynnyth cried. At the top of the stairs, a burly soldier had her restrained.

More men in armor appeared behind Anders and blocked the exit. They all wore the colors and crest of Welbournehale, yet they seized him. “I am your King! Unhand me!”

The soldier holding Gwynnyth shoved past him, dragging her down the stairs. “Andre!” It took three men just to hold Anders back from leaping after her.

“Treason,” Anders yelled, unable to struggle free. “Let go of your Queen!”

“The Queen is a monster,” said a voice. Courtiers and noblemen joined the soldiers in the stairwell, his former friends. They stared past Anders at the men who dragged the sobbing Queen out the door.

“She’s a demon,” said one, “and you’re nothing but her consort.”

“Devil’s whore,” yelled another. “We’ll have no witch on our throne!”

Anders strained with all his strength. “I am your King, and I command you to unhand me!”

To his despair, a sandy-haired man joined the conspirators in the doorway. “Take him to the throne room,” Duke Krystofyr ordered.