Martine answered, her voice only a little shaky. “I see you’ve come to take my throne after all,” said the king of Lannth. “I always wondered when you might convince the Kalais bitch-queen that it was a good idea.” Their voices went on around me, but I had stopped caring. All I could do was stare into the vacant eyes of my friend’s severed head, silently apologizing over and over for all the mistakes I’d made. My hubris was gone, my confidence shattered, replaced only by a sort of sick sadness that seemed to live in my guts. There was a scuffle, someone cried out in pain. I knew not who it was, nor did it matter. An eternity passed as I knelt on the blood-soaked floor in silent torment, bitter rage and hatred shredding every ounce of identity I’d built over the past three years. Or was it my entire lifetime? It was impossible to be sure. My self-hatred was only broken for a moment when I saw the body of King Talavar the Ninth collapse to the ground in front of me, his hand gripping a thin-bladed rapier whose hilt was carved in the exact same style as Martine’s.
