The first note blasted over the rooftops like a war cry. Every conversation in the square instantly died. The merchants fell silent. Mothers pulled their children close. Even the dogs stopped barking.
I froze. My blood went cold. “No,” I whispered. The last time I heard those trumpets, it was to herald Thorne’s presence at the Ryder residence.
The horns flared again, echoing down the main boulevard. The crowd parted as soldiers in crisp black and gold marched forward, steel glinting in the sun. They moved in perfect formation with helmets polished to a mirror shine. Between them was a palanquin carried by eight armored guards, and upon that throne of velvet and carved obsidian sat the man himself.
Prince Thorne. Or should I say—Emperor Thorne.
“Shit!” I hissed. Grabbing Maeve, we ducked behind a fruit stand and crouched between crates of oranges and bushels of dried figs. I pulled the hood of my cloak up to conceal my face.
He looked just as smug as I remembered. Draped in imperial robes with a golden circlet resting on his brow, Thorne wore his new authority like a second skin. The palanquin slowly rolled past as his herald rode ahead, voice magically booming through the city streets.
“Citizens of Elaria! Kneel before your new emperor—Thorne Drakonar! First of his name, protector of the realm, chosen sovereign of the Immortals!”
I almost gagged.
Around us, people began dropping to their knees like dominoes. It wasn’t reverence—it was fear. Confusion. A few exchanged uncertain glances, unsure what they were supposed to feel.
“He’s really doing it,” Maeve whispered, horror in her voice.
“Yeah,” I said bitterly. “He’s rewriting the narrative.”
Another round of trumpets followed and the herald continued, louder this time.
“By decree of the crown, any who refuse to kneel before your sovereign shall be deemed traitors to the realm.”
A low murmur rolled through the crowd like ripples in a pond.
And then—
“I refuse!”
The voice was loud. Clear. A man stepped into the street from the shadows of an alley, his hands raised. He was older, maybe in his fifties, with a greying beard and sun-wrinkled skin. A simple tunic clung to his frame and a worn leather satchel hung from his shoulder.
The entire market froze.
“That isnotour emperor!” the man bellowed, his eyes blazing. “I was at the valley! I saw what happened! The gods rejected him! Thunder without rain, life turning to death beneath his feet—do you not see? He was not chosen by the Immortals!”
Gasps rose like smoke. For a beat, even the guards seemed unsure.
Thorne’s expression didn’t change. He raised a single hand.
The nearest imperial guard moved forward.
“The Immortals have spoken!” the man cried as he stood his ground. “You follow a false sovereign! One who threatens our future!”
A sharp whistle cut the air.
Then came the arrow.
It pierced the man's chest with a sickening thunk. He staggered backward, blood blooming across his tunic like a dark rose. Cries of horror echoed around the square.
“By the Immortals!” Maeve whispered, smacking a hand over her mouth.
The man fell to his knees. Then to the stone.
Dead.
A stunned silence followed, broken only by the herald’s voice.
