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Tinom sputters a disbelieving laugh, but Lothar tenses at the same time. Enough to take me from suspicious to sure.
I whirl toward Tinom, who worked more closely with the former magic advisor than anyone else still living. “In all the years you were colleagues, did you ever see him use his gift? Did he ever say exactly what it is?”
Tinom halts, and his forehead furrows. “It was something to do with potions…”
Stavros’s eyebrows rise. “Potions don’t need a gift for a person to make them right, only knowledge of the ingredients and processes. Were any of his potions things no one could have made without some kind of magical intervention?”
“This is absurd,” Lothar snaps.
Tinom ignores him, his gaze gone distant in thought before it sharpens on the other man. “You know, I can’t think of any specifically that fit that criteria. I always took it for granted—but I can’t say I wasn’t wrong.”
My stomach twists. How awful must Lothar’s intentions have been all the way back when he was a twelve-year-old boy for his chosen godlen to reject a sacrifice so huge?
How awful would he have felt? How much more would his sense of morality have soured after such an immense and permanent rejection?
“Prove it, then,” I say in a terse voice that barely sounds like my own. “Tell us what your gift is and use it in front of us. There must be something you could direct it at.”
Lothar lifts his head to look down his nose at us. “I shouldn’t have to honor that ridiculous request with a response.”
Tinom shakes his head, some of the color drained from his face. “All those years… You lied to the king about everything about who you are. That job never should have been yours in the first place.”
“The job never should have been Hessild’s,” Lothar growls with a sudden flash of his eyes as he mentions the woman he had murdered. The woman who was once the chief magic advisor. “What was so wonderful about her power? What amazing things had she done? She and her whole family of snakes—the position should have been my father’s back in his day, but the Melchioreks always liked the Korinyas best—they fawned over them, they were nice.”
He bites off the last word with an acidic edge and then a clamping of his lips. But he’s already said enough.
Tinom chokes out a laugh. “You let bitterness infect you, and it cost you the gift you could have gained. At least Hessild honestly had magic.”
“I worked harder than you can possibly imagine for everything I’ve gained.”
“Yes,” I retort. “You’ve lied and manipulated children and murdered all kinds of people including the man you swore to serve. And you try to call me a monster.”
He spins toward me, his face reddening. “Why should a no one like you have limitless power because of some fluke of fate? You never even had to sacrifice.”
Anger flares in my chest alongside a lash of my magic. “You have no idea what I’ve lost. I never asked to be riven.”
Now his hostility toward me makes even more sense. It wasn’t just the standard hatred of the riven but bone-deep, venomous jealousy.
Tinom nudges me backward to step between us, his face hardened into a solemn mask. “None of this matters. No matter who wins the trials, you’re going to be arrested. This psychotic charade is over.”
Alek glances toward the front of the platform. “And it’s going to be Petra who wins. The final cleric just gave her his approval. All those people you tried to sway to your sick cause are rejoicing.”
The cheers and whoops of celebration filter past the jumble of equipment to reach our ears. I don’t doubt that Alek is right, even if I couldn’t see the declaration myself.
Petra has proven herself again and again—not just to be a strong, steady ruler, but to care about ensuring every person she rules over feels like a valued part of the kingdom.
Lothar will have made all the same observations I have. He was counting on Petra being dead and no longer an option, not on her actual failure.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows she’d be a better ruler than anyone he could put forth. He simply doesn’t care as long as the Melchioreks fall.
A strangled sound escapes him, and he barrels forward faster than I’d have expected a man of his size could move. With his single hand, he snatches the small crossbow one of the guards was carrying and whips it under his arm to brace it so he can fire.
Fire the loaded bolt at Petra where she’s standing at the front of the stage, unaware.
Stavros hurtles after him even faster. A guttural “No” bursts from his lips, and he heaves his sword through Lothar’s back.
Lothar staggers, the crossbow slipping from his grasp. “Fucking pompous prick,” he spits out with a gurgle of blood.
Stavros bears his teeth. “It’s nothing less than the vengeance my king deserved.”
