The pounding of iron-shod boots echoed through the corridors and though both floor and walls were splattered with blood, neither side seemed willing to yield. Thankfully, the nearer the knight came to the king’s study, the more of his own men he saw, and hope stirred that they might yet prevail.

That hope was swiftly smothered when he saw that the flames consuming the halls were no longer only violet, but common orange as well, choking the air with heat and devouring all in their path.

It seemed someone had overturned the candelabras, and the crash he had heard before must have been wooden beams splintering, now lying upon the floor in charred fragments turning to coal.

Time was running short and though the flames licked at him and each swallow carried the taste of blood upon his tongue, Quincey pressed on, carving his way through the entrails of foes who dared stand before him.

When he finally glimpsed the doors to the king’s study in the distance, he realized he was not the only one heading for them, pushing through the fighting men and using them as shields to reach his goal undetected.

The figure in the dark cloak moved with elegance, slipping through the throng like a shadow—never caught, never slowed. Yet Quincey had no mind to let him escape.

The clash of steel and the cries of battle rang about him on every side, and still the brown-haired warrior pressed relentlessly forward, never taking his eyes off the mysterious figure in black. The man, as he judged, was no common knight. It was plain he bore a higher charge, and Quincey feared the worst.

The cloaked man held the advantage and stood far closer to the door that led to the study, though several of the king’s personal guards barred his path. The Messenger-at-Arms, however, had no thought of yielding. Before he could close the distance entirely, he loosed a dagger from his belt and, with a precision undisturbed by the chaos around him, hurled it at the man. With grim satisfaction he watched it sink into the man’s shoulder from behind.

The sudden pain halted him, and before he could grasp the handle, he doubled over. Yet it was clear he was no amateur; his shock was brief, and he began at once to seek some means of wrenching the dagger free, though it lay at an ill angle, beyond easy reach.

For a heartbeat Quincey held the advantage and drew near unseen. Or so he believed.

The moment he came within reach, the brown-haired knight sprang forward, heedless of the burning in his lungs wrought by the flames that crept ever nearer, and swung his blade in a wide arc meant for the man’s back.

But the cloaked stranger knew of his presence—and of the peril it bore. It was plain when he whirled about with unnatural swiftness. Though his face lay veiled beneath the hood, the sudden motion cast it back for the briefest instant, and his gaze met the knight’s.

The eyes that fixed upon Quincey were not human. The man clearly belonged to the Serpent-Kin of Night. His dark eyes, with their narrow pupils set within a vivid ring of yellow—like light kindled in the dark—were proof enough.

Yet what struck the knight most was the absence of fear within them. As in his own, there shone resolve and a purpose higher than either of them.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the knight spat bitterly, and though his former stroke had missed, he swung again with renewed force. The mysterious man was ready and slipped aside, letting the sword’s tip rend the heavy cloth of his cloak.

Quincey would not relent, striking again and again and again. Strangely, the man spent more effort evading than fighting back, even though he held a sword of his own—one that looked razor-sharp and ready to spill blood.

The knight with the scar upon his chin, driving forward with relentless blows, and the cloaked stranger retreating before him, drifted ever farther from the other battling soldiers, until it seemed they had become as cat and mouse.

Their pursuit ended abruptly when another beam gave a thunderous crack and fell between them. The flames devoured it, stealing its strength, and the heavy crash as it struck the floor proved distraction enough for the mysterious man to make his escape.

But Quincey did not give chase. Instead, with lungs aflame, legs weary, and hands slick with blood, he turned and ran toward the study that had been his aim all along. He gained entrance, shielded by the remaining soldiers, and seeing that the door yet stood unbroken, he took it for a good sign.

“Cassian?” he called once the door had closed behind him, and at first glance saw no one within. Malcolm’s words had convinced him his judgment was sound and that the king was here, but it seemed he had been misinformed.

“Quincey.”

The knight started at the sound of his name, and from the shadowed corner a figure stepped forth. Yet there was no cause for dread, for a single look upon his face told him this was the man he most longed to see alive.

“Thank God you live.” He breathed out the words of relief. His gaze swept over every part of the king’s form, assuring himself he was unharmed, and in his heart he gave thanks to Alatar, who had plainly found time enough to spirit the king here and hide him before the enemy could lay hands upon him.

“The Nivemare men are everywhere. We must get you out of here,” the knight continued, as the long-haired king drew nearer, his expression unreadable. A sword rested in his hand, clearly ready for battle, yet Quincey was certain he could bear him to safety without its need. For that, he was prepared to lay down his own life.

“Cassian…” he addressed him again when the man stood directly before him, but those were the last words to escape his lips before he felt a sharp, piercing pain in his gut.

“What…?” He lowered his head in disbelief, staring at the place where the king’s sword had run him through.

“Always so loyal, Quincey,” Cassian spoke, and his tone bore none of the warmth and calm the knight had known—least of all in this chamber, where they might speak as friends without fear of eavesdropping ears.

“It is a pity it must end this way,” the king went on, while Quincey watched the blade stain red with his own blood and felt the unnatural chill of steel spreading within him.

At this moment, he could not yet feel the pain. Not when the sense of betrayal and confusion was far stronger, paralyzing all his senses.

“Why…?” He tried to say more, but his voice was strangely raspy and a metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He managed at least to lift his head and see with his own eyes that his mind did not deceive him—that the man who had struck him was indeed his oldest friend.

“It is nothing personal, Quincey,” Cassian told him, and still his expression did not change. There was no sorrow upon his face, only a cold mask, and his eyes filled with a cruelty Quincey had never seen there before.

“You are too valuable to them. I could not let them win.” Those were the last words that reached the knight’s ears before he felt nothing but the pain that flooded him as Cassian wrenched the sword from his body.

The cold was replaced by an unbearable burning, and he fell to his knees with a cry. His hands instinctively fumbled for the wound, feeling the hot liquid pooling beneath his clothes—his own blood, spilled by the one he trusted most.

“Ca–” He knew not what was failing him more, his voice or his consciousness, as he lost blood and the shock he endured did little to help him strive for survival.

“Farewell, Quincey. You were a good friend.”

He could not turn to look once more into the eyes of the man from whom he would never have expected treachery. Instead he heard the door open behind him and the tread of iron-shod boots—proof enough that he had been left there to choke upon his own blood.

Quincey pressed his hand hard against the wound from which the blood poured, though it made the cloth cling to his flesh. He knew not what more he might do. Not when deadly flames crept along the corridor beyond, and the clash of battle made plain that should he step outside, it would be the last thing he ever did.

No…

He could not end like this.

A knight’s place lies where danger is thickest, not where the hearth burns warmest. His father’s words rang in his ears. He could not dwell upon Cassian’s betrayal while his realm yet suffered and his duty bound him to it—not to the king alone. Their lives were in his hands, and he refused to die without falling directly on the battlefield.

He braced his hands against the floor, though it was no easy task, for his blood-slick palms slid upon the stone and gave him little purchase. Yet after a few labored moments he forced himself upright.

Ignoring the bloody trail he left behind, with one hand still clutched to his wound and the other holding his sword—though he could barely control it as it slipped in his grip and he lacked the strength to lift it properly—he used the wall for support to return to the corridor and sought out the nearest soldier with his gaze.

“The king?” His voice did not sound like his own, which was evident from the look the armored man gave him. However, there was no time for questions or worry; the soldier only inclined his head and gestured aside.

The direction he showed was the same where Quincey had parted from the mysterious stranger before. It seemed a double danger awaited him there, but now, the brown-haired knight had nothing left to lose.