Cassian’s coronation unfolded exactly as Quincey remembered it. The only difference was that this time the knight had not visited him beforehand, slipping into his chamber to wish him fortune and steady his nerves. He could not bring himself to do so now, when his last memory of him was…

Quincey stood by the wall among the other knights and lords who resided at the castle.

Since Cassian’s coronation followed the unexpected death of his father, it was no grand celebration gathering all the neighboring kingdoms, but rather an emergency transfer of power to ensure Valerion did not remain kingless.

The future king walked the aisle clad in black in sign of mourning. Just as Quincey remembered, Cassian bore his head high, betraying none of the unease that, in another life, only his closest friend had known of because he had chosen to visit him and calm him. That had not happened now.

Yet while Cassian was steady as stone, the room itself was restless. Not because of the change of rule, but because of what it signified. The peace had officially ended, and all knew that hard years lay ahead. Only Quincey knew how hard. Or so he believed.

When his gaze unexpectedly met the prince’s as he passed, he found neither confusion nor cruelty there. Nothing that hinted he remembered driving a sword through him and leaving him to die.

Even so, Quincey struggled to return the look. Cold flooded his chest where warmth had once lived in Cassian’s presence. It took all his strength not to let it show. Instead, he gave his longest friend a small nod, a silent sign that he believed he could handle the burden.

Cassian visibly eased, though perhaps only Quincey noticed it, for he had always known him well enough to discern the slightest change. At least, that was what he used to believe.

The coronation continued according to rites the knight knew by heart, so he need not give it his full attention. In truth, he could not, for his eyes were ever drawn toward the place where the younger prince stood.

Leander.

As the younger son, he stood nearest the throne, a sign that he acknowledged his brother as king. He was to place the scepter in Cassian’s hand, while the archbishop held the crown.

Though doubt still gnawed at Quincey over all that had passed, one truth remained—he was glad to see the long-haired man with raven-dark locks alive and whole.

It was a cruel irony that the brother to whom he had been less close was the one who had died in his arms and had not left him until the final breath, though it meant burning alive beside him.

It was a memory Quincey could not easily purge from his mind. The red of his skin, the stench of searing flesh, the screams that likely failed to measure the full depth of his suffering.

A wave of nausea hit him, but he could not let it show. Not here. Not before so many who would not understand. And besides… Cassian’s betrayal forced darker thoughts upon him. How many around him wore the mask of friendship, yet would not hesitate to drive a blade into him the moment they got the chance?

He struggled to stand still and sought some fixed point upon which to anchor his gaze, to escape reality if only for a breath. Yet in the end, his eyes returned to Leander.

It was a comfort to see his hair still the hue of raven feathers and not the blackened coal it had become beneath the pressure of enchanted flame that had consumed him from fingertip to soul.

He nearly looked away again, unable to ignore the parallels between now and what he still was not certain had not merely been a fevered vision, when he noticed something he had once overlooked.

Years ago, when Cassian had first been crowned—at least in Quincey’s reckoning—the knight had watched only him. Now his attention rested upon the younger brother, and he saw what once he had been blind to.

At first glance, Leander appeared steadfast and supportive. Yet as Quincey’s gaze sharpened, he caught the signs of inner turmoil—the way the prince bit at the inside of his cheek, the restless twitch of his fingers. Small gestures, yet enough to suggest that he felt anxiety rather than joy at seeing the crown placed upon his brother’s head.

Was it possible that the younger prince already knew then that something was wrong? 

Was this the reason Quincey had been returned to this very hour?

So many questions, and no answers.

Perhaps Quincey could confront Leander and demand the truth, yet he doubted he would receive it. Years had passed since they last spoke in honesty, and the younger prince knew him as his brother’s most loyal friend. Everyone knew Quincey’s devotion belonged to Cassian. Should any suspect the crown prince of treachery, they would likely deem the knight his accomplice.

The moment the archbishop lowered the crown upon Cassian’s head, triumphant cries filled the hall. At that same instant, the brown-haired knight’s gaze met that of the second-born prince.

Leander’s eyes held surprise, likely at Quincey’s lack of celebration, yet there was something more there. The knight had no chance to discern it as the prince raised a brow in silent question at the intensity of his stare, then was the first to look away.

“The king is dead. Long live the king!”

“Long live the king!” the hall echoed, and Quincey joined them by instinct.

“Long live the king!”

Cassian, now crowned and clad in an ermine mantle that stood in stark contrast to his dark attire, faced the final rite of coronation. He was no longer merely a grieving son; he bore the power to grant titles of his own.

“Quincey Acerbo.”

At the sound of the king’s voice, the crowd parted, forming a path that led straight to the throne.

In the hush that fell, each step of the knight’s armored boots rang clear, steel striking stone.

Quincey halted before the king and knelt upon one knee, head slightly bowed. Today, the gesture was more than respect—it was the symbol of loyalty that had earned royal favor.

“In times when enemies test our strength and seek our weakness, the crown requires not only a sword, but a shield. One who shall carry the voice of this realm where it is most needed. Quincey, son of Alaric Acerbo, your loyalty has walked beside me all my life, and as my reign begins this day, so too do your new duties.”

The words were spoken exactly as Quincey remembered.

Once, they had moved him. Now, they carried only cold.

“I name you my Messenger-at-Arms. Your word shall be my word. Your sword shall be my answer. Do you accept this responsibility?”

Quincey lifted his head and saw Cassian before him, unfastening a silver badge from his mantle and holding it out toward the knight as physical proof of his offer. Not that the warrior could refuse.

“My king. There is no greater honor than to serve at your side. I swear upon my honor that I shall not fail your trust, and that until my final breath I shall guard the crown. As did my father, and his before him. I accept this responsibility.”

Once, the vow had meant everything. Now Quincey wondered to whom it truly belonged—the boy he had grown beside and trusted without question, or the man who had betrayed him and left him to bleed rather than grant a merciful end.

“Rise, my Messenger-at-Arms.”

The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur. Quincey remembered where to stand, when to bow, how to answer the congratulations of fellow soldiers. Yet within, he questioned what this moment truly signified and whether this had been the hour when all had begun to unravel, though he had failed to see it.

The king was officially crowned.

Quincey officially knew not whom he could trust.

Only one thing was certain: he had two years before he would stand upon the same edge once more.

And this time, he would not die without answers.