Page 16 of The King's Man 3
The liquid burns down my throat, searing heat spreading through my veins. My muscles seize, quivering uncontrollably as pain ignites every nerve.
I double over, gasping for air, my vision swimming. The crowd blurs, their faces melting into indistinct shapes.
With every ounce of will, I raise my head.
Quin is turning away.
His cane strikes the stone as he descends from the platform, his back to me, his figure a silhouette against the morning light.
The poison burns. But the ache of Quin turning away hurts more.
“Quin,” I croak, but it’s lost in the chaos of my own pain.
The world darkens.
He never looked back.
Ikick out a leg and open my eyes, still gripped by a terrifying dream. Falling. Into a cold abyss.
But the darkness around me is real, not imagined.
My breath immediately bounces back to me.
I shift my arms and feel something tightly woven—
Coffinweed.
Panic surges as I hit the lid; it bows inward under some external pressure, close to collapsing. I force myself to stay still. Soil. I’ve been buried. I fight the urge to flail—
Breathe in and out. Stay calm. Maximise the time I have.
Before I die.
Again.
My heart pounds and throbs in my throat. I croak out a desperate plea.
Maybe no one can come. Or maybe they just won’t.
Suddenly, a muffled voice, a sense of urgency so strong it leaks through the weave. “Hold on, Cael.” My ears tingle, searching for more, but there’s only the howl of wind.
The coffin lid bows deeper. Soil trickles over my face.
I cough violently, each convulsion sending more soil sifting in—
The winds quiet and a rhythmic scuffing follows. Quin’s familiar pain flows over me with the rich earthiness of soil. He must be close, bearing weight on his bad leg. For once, the scent of his pain brings me comfort. He’shere.
Darkness lightens a fraction; I glimpse the pattern of the weave enclosing me.
“Hold on.”
I slam my eyes shut. My throat is sore, my chest is on fire.
Brightness suddenly pours in around me, a stinging glare that makes my eyes water. I haul in fresh air, and cough roughly. Quin’s blurry figure looms above. Urgent hands snatch me against a warm, heaving chest.
As my vision settles, I find myself in the king’s lap, surrounded by towering shelves of soil. I blink at the blues of his cloak and his jewelled fastenings above, the mix of relief and distress in his expression. He smells of wind and earth; his chest rises and falls evenly against me. My own hectic breath tries to mimic his calmer one. His gaze scans my body, checking each hand, arm, knee, foot. I cough violently again, the soil irritating my lungs. I turn away from him but he pulls me back, drawing his cloak to my mouth. “Cough.”
The offer is too gentle from a king who ordered my ‘death,’ and my stomach knots. A part of me wants to shove him away, but another part... I claw his cloak closer and press the soft material to my mouth.
