Turik prowled the chamber like a wolf circling prey, his boots whispering against the stone as though savoring the silence before the strike. His eyes drank in every detail—Helga's forced calm, Reuben's clenched fists, the princesses pressed together with wide, pale eyes.
He sheathed his sword with deliberate slowness, the scrape of steel on scabbard shrill in the silence. "No… not yet. Steel is too merciful. I'd like to play a game first."
He snapped his fingers. The echo cracked like a whip. From the shadows, two armored knights emerged, dragging a gagged man between them. He thrashed in their grip, boots skidding across the flagstones, muffled cries strangled by cloth. They hurled him before the queen, his skull striking stone with a sickening thud that left a smear of blood on the floor.
Reuben's breath caught. "Jaspret!" But somehow, the prince was relieved it was not Espiyor.
