"Do you truly believe anyone would dare oppose the new king's will?" I taunted, watching Angelo's face twist in rage. "Heather's crimes were written in blood long before Lionel took the throne. The elders you trusted? Replaced overnight by his elite assassins. The clans? Already sworn to him." I took a step closer, my voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Two nights ago, while you cowered here, Lionel spent every hour hunting traitors. So tell me—what good does keeping me prisoner do? Why not crawl to the palace and mourn your sister properly?"
"No—Heather can't be dead!" he bellowed, grief and fury tearing through his voice like a storm.
His glossy, silken brown hair whipped around his face as an invisible force shook the mansion. The massive dining table—three meters of polished oak—splintered with a deafening crack, sending crystal glasses and porcelain plates crashing to the floor in a glittering avalanche.
