“It was an eventful night.” Behind me, Jarek bites into a fresh apple.
“Where do you keep getting those?”
He pats a pouch by his leg.
“Whoring yourself and apple picking. Gosh, you have been busy,” I taunt.
“It’s not like I had a choice. The king ordered us to fill as many baskets as we could and deliver them to Freywich’s mortals. Dragged us out of slumber to do it,” he mutters.
Suddenly, Drakon’s comment about not wanting to see another apple makes sense. Zander must have had plans to raze that entire orchard last night. Did he already have them when I accused him of doing nothing for these people? Regardless, I smile with an overwhelming sense of relief—all that food did not turn to ash for the sake of punishing Danthrin.
We round the bend in the street, leading into Freywich’s main square, the gates ahead.
My smile falls off with a gasp.
A man is tied to a hastily erected wooden post, his wrists bound above his head, his throat slashed wide, blood spilled over his naked body.
An apple jammed in his mouth.
It’s Ambrose Villier.
Nine others are lined up alongside him in a similar predicament, in various states of dress—some in nightgowns, others wearing nothing—as if they were yanked from their beds. I recognize the men. “They’re the keepers who brought the tributaries last night.” And their wives, likely. They ran Freywich alongside Danthrin. Those prominent and unscrupulous ones who Zander accused of having houses full of hungry servants.
And now they’re all dead, waiting to greet Lord Danthrin when he returns.
Several guards lay in heaps where they fell to the Legion’s blades.
My mouth hangs as I take in the gruesome stage.
“As I said, it was an eventful night,” Jarek purrs in my ear.
When I demanded Zander do something, I wasn’t thinking this. This is … My heart pounds as I try to wrap my mind around such brutality.
This is precisely how an Islorian king sends a message that will spread through the lands. A warning to those who abuse their servants, and a promise to mortals that they still have a king who will fight for them.
I watch Zander’s stiff form, hoping to catch his gaze again, as we pass through the gates and speed up to a steady canter.
He never glances back.