Helga did not fuss over the king's welfare out of love. No—her tender gestures were performance, a queen's mask carefully arranged for the nobles. Every outcry, every worried glance, was part of the stagecraft, meant to whisper devotion into the ears of the court, an a show of how caring a queen she was.
Had it not been her command that Heimdal should fall tonight? Whether he lingered in Balai Hamili or raised his goblet at the banquet, the knife's edge waited for him, and the outcome would be the same—death of a king!
...
The marble blurred under Heimdal's boots, his body half-dragged, half-guided by Odin and Percival through the palace's inner passage. Alderan followed close, his jaw set like stone, while one of the knights bore Prince Dakota in his arms—cradled as though he was a princess. They could not let him walk, he would drag them.
