But Audric still had to move quickly.

From under the hood of his cloak, he watched the shadows, his fighters tense behind him. At the far end of the entrance hall, the great polished doors of the Hall of the Saints stood closed. A dozen guards flanked the doors. Two dozen more were stationed around the entrance hall.

Audric frowned, recalling Miren’s encoded instructions. He will be in the Hall of the Saints, she had written. I will get him there and keep him there.

But with so many soldiers surrounding the doors? Miren had assured him they would be lightly guarded, and the sight of three dozen watchful fighters left Audric feeling uneasy. Had Miren’s messages been intercepted? Had their spies betrayed them?

Nerves buzzed under his skin; he itched to move. A light flashed softly across the mezzanine—three times in rapid succession—marking the arrival of Sloane’s group. Another set of flashes, then a third—Evyline’s and Kamayin’s groups. The guards below looked up, drawing their blades.

Audric hissed a command to his fighters, and they rushed down the stairs, the other three groups doing the same across the room. Audric did not draw Illumenor. Merovec’s guards may have suspected he was somewhere in this fight, but he would keep them wondering for as long as he could.

As they charged the Sauvillier soldiers, he braced himself for the slam and burn of magic—but none came.

He watched in shock as his people easily dispatched three dozen soldiers. There were no elementals among them, he realized. Miren’s letters had told him of Merovec’s new fear of magic, how he suspected all elementals to be secret allies of Rielle. But to protect himself with guards who stood no chance against attackers who would of course fight with magic seemed a foolishness too astonishing to believe.

Kamayin and her elementals blasted the soldiers with wind and water—moisture drawn from the air, wind held waiting in their palms. Sloane’s scepter slashed blue light, summoning shadow-wolves that sent the soldiers cowering. Evyline and the Sun Guard blazed a path toward the Hall of the Saints. They were a fierce storm, pouring all their fury and grief into the blows of their swords. Evyline let out a ferocious guttural yell and cut down the last of Merovec’s guards.

She turned and found Audric across the hall. Bodies littered the floor. Some of the soldiers groaned, clutching their wounds. But most were still.

Breathing heavily, Evyline bowed her head. “I tried my best to spare them, my king, but when someone runs at you with a sword, you do what you must.” She paused. “When they saw what Merovec was doing, they could have fled. They could have defied him.”

Audric stepped over a body at his feet.

“Not all of them could have,” he said quietly. “He could have held their families prisoner. He could have threatened them with torture. I don’t blame them, and I grieve each of their deaths.”

Then, his people behind him, their castings and swords raised and ready, Audric pushed open the doors and entered the Hall of the Saints.

Inside the massive room, shadows reigned. The only light came from the prayer torches affixed to the base of each enormous stone saint. Queen Genoveve’s and King Bastien’s empty thrones sat on the dais at the far end of the room. Above them curved a wide loft in which rows of polished wooden chairs awaited the Grand Magisters, the royal councils and advisers, and invited nobility. Beyond the loft, elaborate stained glass depicted the saints in peacetime, the Angelic Wars far behind them. And towering between the loft and the thrones was the statue of Saint Katell on her white mare, her head crowned with a polished halo of gold.

Here, Audric’s father had questioned Rielle after the Boon Chase. Here, the Archon had crowned her Sun Queen, and Ludivine had come back from the dead. The weight of the room’s past pressed against Audric’s skin.

He glanced around quickly as he strode past the watching saints. A dozen Sauvillier archers stood in the loft, their arrows trained on him. Around the room, swords raised and arrows nocked, were more soldiers, each of them tracking his people as they followed him inside.

And standing on the dais was Merovec Sauvillier himself, resplendent in the mail and armor of his house—a sash of russet, silver tassels, a fine tabard of thick wool dyed midnight blue. His blond hair fell in waves to his shoulders, and his eyes were as sweet a blue as Ludivine’s. Save for his jaw, which was firm and square where Ludivine’s was soft, the resemblance was uncanny.

In his arms, he held Queen Genoveve. Her back was to his front, a thin silver blade at her throat.

“Come closer, and I will cut her throat,” Merovec called out, his voice booming in the empty room.

Audric stopped, gesturing for the others behind him to do the same. It should have terrified him to see his mother held so cruelly. Instead, a calm fell over him, leaving his mind sharp and clear.

“You’re already a traitor and a criminal, Merovec,” Audric said. “You would add murder of your own aunt to that list?”

“My traitor aunt.” Merovec wrenched Genoveve’s head closer to his own, his hand wrapped in her hair. “She insisted I stay here rather than go out with my soldiers to meet the Mazabatian army. First Bastien is killed, then her son disappears, and her niece. She said she couldn’t bear to lose me too.” He hissed against her ear, “Do you think I am unaware of where you’ve been sneaking off to of late, dearest aunt?”

Genoveve did not flinch in Merovec’s grip. Her graying auburn hair gleamed copper in the torchlight. Her eyes were twin coins of steel.

“I think you are unaware of many things,” she replied evenly.

“Red Crown, they call themselves. House Courverie loyalists.” Merovec spat on the floor. “My own people, plotting behind my back as I work to keep them safe, as I undo the evil their own prince allowed into their country.”

Audric locked eyes with his mother, took a single step forward. In the shadows atop the loft, the archers shifted but did not loose their arrows.

“And what have you done to keep them safe?” he asked. “I saw no bolstered defenses at the city borders, no additional watchtowers constructed in the mountains. I have heard of no education given to the people about angels or how to strengthen their minds. Nor do I hear talk of Merovec Sauvillier forging alliances with Borsvall or Kirvaya.”

“Borsvall and Kirvaya.” Merovec’s handsome face twisted. “One without a king, and the other without a queen. Both of them fled into the night, leaving their countries in chaos. I want nothing to do with them.”

Audric took another step. “I heard what you did to Ilmaire Lysleva. He was a guest in your own home, and you beat him, imprisoned him.” Another step, each one measured and careful. “I would say you should be ashamed, but I know you have no capacity for it.”

Merovec barked out a laugh. “Ilmaire? He was weak. A sop of a king who wanted us to open our arms to Rielle, let her do as she wishes. Forcing Rielle to choose between good or bad, light or blood, is folly, he said. It will be our undoing. I see why you like him. He’s as big a fool as you are. He didn’t want the crown, anyway. I did him a favor.”