Crowned in Crimson Cinders

Chapter 9: The Assassin

My mind replayed Darian's rescue, a constant loop. The worst part? He knew it was me. Uttering his name had been a mistake. The odds of him not bringing it up in the morning felt slim. Why him? Anyone else would have been preferable. This resentment felt misplaced; he saved me. Was my initial judgment of Darian wrong? His eyes held genuine concern in that moment. Concern for me?

But Darian was a fleeting worry compared to Brock's revelation. Powers. I'd dismissed it as fanciful until Amora's attack in the hallway. If Darian hadn't intervened, that raw, untamed energy within me might have erupted, possibly killing Amora. I had no control, not yet.

I sought oblivion in sleep, a silent prayer answered by a jarring bang on my door. Too early. Who could it be?

"Your Highness," a gruff voice rumbled from beyond the threshold.

Two guards stood there when I opened it. "Yes?" I began, but before the word fully left my lips, one seized my wrist, dragging me into the dim corridor.

"What's happening?" Panic laced my voice. I struggled against his iron grip, but resistance proved futile. They offered no explanation as they steered me through the pre-dawn gloom, torchlight casting long, dancing shadows. Recognition dawned halfway there: the throne room. A cold dread washed over me, memories of the last tense gathering resurfacing. Was I in trouble? Had Darian spoken of last night?

The throne room was already occupied. Even Darian stood apart. I flickered a glance his way before focusing on my siblings. Relief washed over me seeing Brylee, Breya, and Amora in their nightgowns, like me. We'd all been summoned abruptly. It would have been mortifying to be the only one in sleepwear.

Seeing them like this was strange. Dresses and formal attire were their usual presentation. This felt like glimpsing a hidden facet of them, despite a lifetime together. My gaze snagged on Brock. He stood slightly apart, his clothes stained crimson. His hands and face bore splatters of blood. My initial fear was for him. As the guards released me, I rushed into his arms.

"Oh my god, Brock! Are you alright?" I held him tightly, searching for injuries. His shirt was soaked, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air. Even his hair and fingernails were tainted. What had happened?

"Yes," he reassured, returning my embrace. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine, Brock. What... what happened to you?" I stared at his bloodied clothes.

"Someone snuck into my room this morning. I don't know how, but I woke just as they held a knife to my throat."

The words took a moment to register. Someone tried to kill him? Brock's composure was unnerving. He acted as if it were a minor inconvenience. Shock, perhaps? I wouldn't have stood a chance. His training had saved him.

"They were trying to kill you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Yes," he replied somberly. "But don't worry, the blood isn't mine." A faint smile touched his lips as he gestured to his clothes. "I subdued him, dragged him down here, and had the guards watch him while I alerted Mother and Father."

"Oh my god," I repeated, hugging him again. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"You too."

I then noticed the others huddled against the walls – members of the court, some familiar, many not. Whispers rippled through the room. Fear and confusion were etched on their faces. Bri's father offered a small, tight nod.

"Why are they here?" I murmured to Brock.

"Witnesses to the interrogation." His eyes flickered towards a door in the corner, behind the thrones.