While Cassian believed that Valerion still held matters firmly in hand, Quincey could not claim he felt the same. Not that he doubted the strength of their kingdom, for in the end it had been they who ended the war and preserved peace for more than ten thousand years. Yet as not only the king’s soldier, but also his friend, he harbored unease.

During the morning’s training he had turned his nervousness into sharp, measured aggression, his strikes stronger and his parries swifter than ever before. So much so that he earned a nod of approval from Ser Blackthorne, which was no common thing.

Only now, however, did he find a moment of quiet. The stables were a place where he could clear his mind through the manual labor of tending to his horse. Everything there followed a rhythm, and that steadiness calmed him in turn. The scent of hay, the warmth of his horse’s hide beneath his palms, the firm ground beneath his boots, all of it was what he needed in that hour.

“Astrum,” he murmured to his stallion when the beast suddenly tossed his head. “Easy, lad.” He laid a hand upon the powerful neck and drew the reins to steady him. Yet it was not enough. Though he held the horse’s head, the chestnut stallion began to paw at the ground and snort.

“What is it?” Quincey asked, and all the unrest he had carried since his talk with the king the day before crept back into his voice.

Astrum gave no answer, yet the knight soon discovered it himself.

The first thing that struck him was the sharp scent of something burning. It was not the familiar smoke of the kitchens, as he realized when he drew a deeper breath and the horse began to panic even more fiercely.

“Fire.”

An unnatural stench of scorched stone and cloth drifted through the air, unsettling the horses within the stable. They battered their hooves against the wooden walls, their cries rising into a cacophony that clashed against the usual sounds of the royal courtyard.

Then came the final proof that something was terribly amiss.

First a scream rang out from the yard, and then... all hell broke loose. No longer did only smoke fill the air, but the cries of men and women as well, echoing from every side. It was the sound of pure, unbridled terror.

Quincey bolted from the stables, scanning the courtyard, and at last he not only smelled the smoke, but saw it rising. He was not alone in doing so, for in that very moment another sound rang out across the yard, adding to the already terrifying din.

The bell began to toll the alarm, proclaiming not only danger, but reminding Quincey that he could not stand idle. It was time to follow protocol, even if he did not yet know the full truth of what was unfolding.

With hurried steps he returned to the stable and at once began issuing orders to the grooms. “Release the horses! Lead them to the lower yard!”

Some of the stable boys were still in training, far younger than the knight, and had never faced such a moment. Now, however, was no time to stand rooted in fear. So, the brown-haired warrior sharpened his tone, while his hand moved to ensure the equally sharp sword was fastened at his hip.

“What are you waiting for? Your duty is to protect the horses. Will you wait until the stables burn?”

Only when the grooms caught the flash of Quincey’s blade did they shake themselves from their shock and obey.The knight could finally move on and learn what had befallen them.

Following protocol, he ran toward where he knew he would find his brothers in arms. Surely a rider had already been sent to determine whether the attack came from beyond the walls and to secure the gate if need be.

Yet before he could learn as much, he sensed something amiss.

The biting smoke was not alone in the air. Magic lingered there. Though the king’s soldier possessed no gift to name its nature, he knew enough to recognize its remnants. And the hue of the smoke told him this was no ordinary fire.

After the last reports brought by the messengers, Quincey needed no further proof to guess whence the assault had come.

He ran and ran, passing panicked people and glancing around, until someone suddenly slammed into him.

“My lord!” a young servant cried, and Quincey seized him by the shoulders to steady him. He meant to ask what the man had seen, yet the servant spoke first, his voice shaking. “They came from the shadows. Suddenly, they were just there!”

Quincey’s suspicion was confirmed.

“Where are they?” he asked before the servant could say more. Given the man's state, there was no doubt he could barely think, peering over the knight's shoulder for a way to escape.

“They appeared by the gate in the left wing.”

The blood in Quincey’s veins ran cold at those words. He did not even realize he had loosened his grip and let the servant flee. Not when he knew his friend was in peril. Protocol commanded him to remain and join the defense of the Crown, yet with screams echoing on every side, no man could fault the young knight for failing to think with reason alone. His heart cried out to save his closest friend.

Thus he changed course and ran toward the left wing, where the king’s study lay.

The closer he drew, the more his lungs burned, a searing confirmation that he was heading in the right direction. Soot drifted upon a rising wind that slowly turned fierce, no doubt the work of a mage, and though it stung his eyes and scorched his skin, he did not falter.

Quincey was the king’s shield, and he meant to fulfill that duty, even if it cost him his life.

When he finally reached the gate the young servant had named, he found he had come too late. Little remained of it. Though it had been wrought of the hardest timber and bound in iron to withstand even the assault of an army, it was now naught but ash and splinters. It still burned, and the violet hue of the flames, far from the common red and orange of fire, bore witness to the great power that had undone it.

Many might have quailed, standing face to face with magic while armed with nothing but a blade forged in mortal flame. Yet the King’s Messenger-at-Arms placed duty before fear.

Within the castle, the sounds mirrored the chaos outside. Screams mingled with the unmistakable clash of steel, making plain that the mages had not come alone, but had brought soldiers of their own.

The corridors reeked of charred wood and burnt flesh. Darkness from smoke did not swallow them, but rather a violet glow cast by unquenchable sorcerous fire. Tapestries fell from the walls, and the castle was turned into a battlefield. Still, Quincey felt no fear, only devotion.

The brown-haired knight did not hesitate to take up his guard. As he ran the corridors with clear purpose in mind, he struck down anyone who stood in his path.

“Quincey!”

The unnatural flames made the air blistering hot. His lack of armor left his arms bleeding in several places, though in the heat of battle he knew how to ignore such wounds. Yet the voice of his fellow knight reached him even through the cacophony.

“Malcolm!”

Relief washed through him at the sight of the man, though like Quincey, he wore only the light gear of training, and the blood staining his sleeves and pants told plainly he had been engaged with the enemy far longer than Quincey.

“What has happened? Where is the king?”

The brown-haired knight could not dwell on how the blood of enemies mingled with his friend’s own on his clothes, nor on the crackle of fire behind him and the cries that were not merely the groans of warriors, but the pleas of trapped servants.

“The study is cut off. King Cassian has guards with him, but none of us has been able to reach him,” the blond knight explained, struggling for breath stolen in the dance of blades.

Upon hearing of his king’s uncertain fate, Quincey tightened his grip upon his sword until his knuckles whitened. “I will reach him.”

The other knight seemed ready to protest, yet instead he nodded. “Take care. The Serpent-Kin are monsters. They rose from the shadows. One misstep and they will slit your throat.”

“You saw them?”

Malcolm nodded again and lifted his arm, revealing the back of his sleeve stained with blood so dark it seemed ink.

“Did you kill them?” the brown-haired knight asked, for it was known that the beings of Nivemare were not easily killed, hardy as serpents and venomous as poison.

“A few,” Malcolm answered with a curt nod. “But not all are of Nivemare.”

Quincey had already come to that conclusion; the bright crimson stains on his own sword were proof enough, though he did not yet wish to contemplate what that meant.

“I know.”

There was no time for more words. A deep thunder rolled through the palace, louder still within its heart, as something heavy crashed to the ground. The Serpent-Kin of Night were tearing the castle apart from within, and Quincey knew they must be stopped.