The clash of steel rang through the palace like a thunderstorm ripping through the sky. Arrows flew across the high hallways. The rich crimson banners of the royal house were torn and bloodied, and the once-gleaming marble floors of the throne room were slick with blood.
Edric had already collapsed.
He lay on the ground near the base of the grand dais, unmoving, his sword still clutched loosely in his hand. The crown had fallen from his head in the scuffle. His breathing was shallow, his skin damp with sweat. Whatever force had taken him had not struck visibly—it left no wound, no blood—but it sapped his strength like venom.
No one noticed his fall at first—not his knights, too overwhelmed, nor his enemies, too bloodthirsty. He might've been mistaken for one of the dead.
Genevieve saw him fall.
