strength of Will, the cunning of Kayla, or the skill of Senke. They were sycophants, pure and simple, but he needed them now. He had little else.
Their news was grim. The assassination attempt on the king had failed. The men stationed at Connington’s had suffered horrible casualties, eventually setting fire to the mansion before frantically fleeing. Somehow, Madelyn Keenan had been found and rescued, along with the king’s advisor’s wife. His own son was missing, and some one-eyed woman was spreading rumors that she’d killed him and left him to die in the fire at Connington’s. Worst of all was his defeat at the Gemcroft estate.
“The priests of Karak have sworn no retribution for the acts of your son did against them,” one of the sycophants said. “At least Maynard died, and you kept your word to them.”
Thren shook his head.
“Get out,” he said. The men quickly obeyed. In silence, Thren brooded. His mystique, his prestige, his years and years of respect, had vanished in a single night. Every aspect of his plan had collapsed. Every single guild in the city had taken massive casualties. None would trust him. He’d have men poaching on his territory. The Trifect was already coming down hard, swarming the streets with their troops. Priests of Ashhur roamed as well, putting a halt to many of his enterprises.
Thren drew a sword and slashed his palm. He raised a clenched fist to the ceiling and bared his teeth.
“This isn’t over,” he swore. “Not now. Not ever. Not until every Lord and Lady of the Trifect lies rotting in their grave.”
He kissed his fist, tasting the blood on his lips. He had no son. No heir. Death would be his legacy.
T he man paced nervously before the wreckage. Despite the massive amount of ash and rubble, he felt certain some juicy remnants still hid within the remains of the Connington estate. The castle guards patrolled by every so often, but soon they’d switch shifts and he’d have his chance.
He backed away from the gate a bit, slinking further into the shadows. As he did he felt something sharp poke against his back.
“A Spider?” he heard a boy’s voice ask.
“Serpent,” the man said, his hand slowly dropping to his dagger.
“They are all one and the same.”
The man whirled but not fast enough. The dagger flew from his hand. Something sharp pierced his belly. As the pain doubled him over, pain slashed his face. Through the blood in his eyes, he saw a blurry image of a young boy standing before him, his face fully covered by a thin cloth of gray. Quiet, unmoving, the boy watched him die, then vanished into the night.
