Guttural, desperate shrieks ricochet through the hall as Andras slices through Grimshaw’s tongue. Blood splatters across the floor, and a dull thud radiates through the room as Andras drops the useless muscle onto the ground. Grimshaw falls to the floor, both hands hovering over his mouth as tears and gore stream down his face. Andras says nothing more as he grasps Grimshaw’s leg and drags him over to the viper pit. No triumphant words, no explanations or signs of regret for his gruesome actions. Andras simply pulls Grimshaw over to the viper pit and kicks him over the edge.
For a brief moment, Grimshaw’s terrified, unintelligible screams pierce the stunned silence of the crowd. Andras strides away from the pit’s edge, moving as calmly as if he doesn’t hear the sounds of Grimshaw’s demise. He stalks back to the platform where Helena sits pinned in her chair, and by the time he reaches his seat, Grimshaw is dead. The air brims with raw emotion as the king’s guests whisper in hushed, frightened tones.
“Well, it seems we have a winner,” Alaric stammers, feebly attempting to turn the attention of the crowd back to himself. Clenching his jaw when no one celebrates the victory, the king barks orders to the guards. “Clean up this mess and send the guests home.”
One of the men raises his hand, protesting, “But the feast has barely begun—”
Alaric lashes out at the man, kicking his legs out from under him. The poor guard sprawls across the stones under Alaric’s feet as the king stands dangerously close to his fingers. His heel grinds into the stone as if he’s imagining what it would feel like to crush the guard’s fingers under his boot. “I don’t care. I want this room cleared out right now. Is that a problem with you?”
Trembling, the poor man shakes his head, skittering away from the king. Alaric turns back to where Andras and Helena sit. The king’s mouth tightens into a furious, straight line as he stares at his guard.
Seemingly unperturbed by the king’s irritated expression, Andras turns to Helena and winks. “Don’t look so worried, Helena,” Andras whispers, turning away from Alaric completely, just to prove he’s not afraid of the king.
“He’s going to kill you,” Helena hisses, watching Alaric’s face redden at the outright insult from his guard.
“He won’t; trust me,” Andras whispers, leaning back to put his feet on the table. “Why don’t you get over here and remove the spike from Helena’s hand? There was no reason for that nonsense.”
Helena gasps, eyes wide as she holds her breath and waits for Alaric’s response.
“Remember who you’re talking to, Andras,” the king growls, his hands gripping the sword hilt at his waist.
“I could say the same thing to you, Alaric,” Andras replies, putting his hands behind his head as he reclines. He looks like someone who’s just eaten a huge meal and is settling down for a long, lazy nap. Not at all like a lowly guard who’s just insulted his king.
“I’m glad to be getting rid of you for a while,” Alaric grumbles, but to Helena’s astonishment, he does not reprimand Andras further. Instead, he waves his hand, and the spike he’d driven into Helena’s hand disappears. “It was an illusion, Helena. The spike was never actually in your skin.” Without another word, the king stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Helena raises her hand, marveling at the sudden change. All the agony she’d been feeling disappears as she stares at her unblemished skin. “I…I don’t understand,” she admits, waiting impatiently for Andras to explain.
“An illusion is when the mind is tricked into—”
“No, smart ass,” Helena interjects, struggling against the sudden urge to slap Andras in the back of the head. “I meant I don’t understand how you’re still alive. If anyone else had talked to Alaric the way you just did, they’d have found themselves in the viper pit before they could take another breath. So why didn’t the king kill you?”
“Fear,” Andras replies with a shrug, staring at the bloodstains on the stone floor.
“Alaric isn’t afraid of anything. Believe me, I’ve been searching for a weakness I could exploit for years,” Helena contradicts, trying to keep her eyes away from Grimshaw’s bloody tongue that the guards neglected to clear off. The muscle occasionally twitches as it dies, giving Helena the eerie feeling that Grimshaw is still trying to speak. Still desperately screaming, begging someone to save him. Helena shivers, turning her attention to Andras once more as she waits for his reply.
“Alaric’s big weakness is so obvious I’m surprised you never saw it. He’s afraid of dying, Helena,” Andras announces, his tone mimicking one of a teacher patronizingly explaining something easy to his pupil. “And since I am his most successful assassin, it gives me an edge, wouldn’t you say?” Before Helena can respond, Andras continues. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Alaric punishes me frequently for my indecorous attitude. He sends me on long journeys away from Déchets as a way of ‘cooling me off and making me grateful.’ At least that’s the way he sees it. So, any time I want to get away from the palace, I just flagrantly insult him. And he tolerates it because he knows that if I chose to use my skills on him, he’d be dead before sunrise.”
“Then why don’t you?” Helena demands, eagerly sketching out a half-baked plan. “You could slit his throat tonight, then travel with me before sunrise as planned.
