Chapter 15

The blood on the floor has dried in thin, rust-colored veins by the time he finally speaks. We are alone again. The guards dragged the last rebel body away, the torches have been trimmed, the incense replaced. Only the iron tang in the air says this room was a slaughterhouse an hour ago. Kian sits where the throne should be, but this is no audience hall. It’s a windowless chamber carved deep into the palace rock, lit by hanging lamps in hammered gold. The walls are painted with suns and moons,...