Page 12 of The King's Man 3
I hand him the notes and the capsules—Casimiria’s antidote and a sample of her blood. “Give these to Mikros and Makarios. If anyone can create an alternative antidote, it’s them.”
Florentius hesitates, his gaze searching mine. “Cael . . .”
I laugh bitterly, the sound raw. “It’s all we have.”
In the morning, I wake to an empty gallery and find the courtyard alive with movement.
The prisoners work together, turning soil and watering the earth, and a wave of heat stings my eyes as I take them all in—the shapes, the movement, the quiet determination.
Everyone is here. Everyone.
“They’ve been waiting,” Casimiria says, approaching.
“For me?”
She laughs gently.
My chest swells.
The dreaded day comes.
I shrink back from the shore, my breath shallow and erratic. I can’t think. My mind is blank, yet a thousand thoughts claw at the edges of my consciousness.
Akilah catches my eye, her face a mask of quiet anguish. I look away.
That’s it. Our last exchange. No thank yous. No reassurances or whispered goodbyes.
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. How could I hate her, even fleetingly, for not being the one chosen to do this? How could I wish it were anyone but me?
The redcloaks arrive, their grip on my arms bruising. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Tomorrow, it won’t.
Did Florentius find a way?
He has to have found a way.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, holding back the sob clawing at my throat.
The palace feels colder than the stone walls should allow. They march Casimiria and me inside, and aklas sweep her away to prepare her.
My trembling hands clutch the fabric as I strip and redress in the ceremonial robes of an aklo. My grandfather’s books, my goodbye note for Akilah—they’re back on the island, left behind. Pieces of myself I can never reclaim.
But not the golden feather or the silver clasp. Those, I’ve hidden. My last ties to the ones I love.
Casimiria returns, radiant in her formal attire though her powdered face is drawn. She smells of roses, yet sorrow clings to her like a shadow.
The door swings open and Quin strides in, his presence as commanding as ever. His velvet cloak is deep blue and catches the light; a faint shimmer from his crown of spiritually infused violet oak casts a glow over the room.
“Mother,” he says gently. “It’s time.”
“There is no other way?” Casimiria’s voice cracks.
Her gaze lingers on him, her pain mirrored in his stoic expression.
Stop this,I want to shout.Please, find another way.
Casimiria is escorted out, her movements slow and reluctant. Quin’s eyes track her path, but the weight of his stare shifts to me.
Calm. Controlled.
