Page 133 of The Serpent Prince

If Imani had been here, he might have been inclined to show more restraint.

But he was fresh out.

He disarmed his attacker with the swipe of his wand and wrapped a hand around his throat, shoving him against the wall. Then he removed the man’s fingers. One by one, he ripped them from the man’s hands. He grunted with the effort—pulling the tendons loose was hard work. But he listened to the lord scream, cry, and beg for mercy as he did it, and it was glorious.

There would be no mercy today.

The three pathetic noblemen had banded together in their betrayal and treason against him, so they would die, and he wanted this last one to suffer beyond recognition.

The horrendous screaming of pleas for forgiveness made him laugh more. It sounded perfect and fed a hunger in his soul.

“Forgiveness?” he roared at the crowd. “Ah. Yes, I’m familiar with the word, but now that I’m king, it’s not something I practice much—if at all.” He threw the man to the ground, facedown, bloody stubs scraping against the stone floor as the pathetic little shit tried to crawl away from him.

With a swift kick, he put his foot on the man’s back and stopped him. Then, reaching down, he grabbed his arm and pulled. Cutting them off with a sword would be too easy. Too merciful.

The sound of tearing flesh and, more beautiful, delicious screams filled the air. He laughed. It took at least a moment—and all of his strength—to rip both arms from the man. He flung them aside, the dead limbs hitting the floor with thumps. Kiran snaked his tongue out and licked the blood from one of his fingers as he looked down at the shaking, blubbering, ragged siren on the ground.

“Tell me who your king is.”

“Y-you … you. You are the—my king.”

“Swear your allegiance to me.”

“I swear it, Mm-My-My King. P-please, mercy!”

Kiran rolled his eyes. What a pathetic piece of shit.

“I don’t tolerate lying mouths. I shall make it so you can never tell another one.” He bent down, grabbed the siren by his hair, and yanked his head back. The man gasped in pain. Kiran then dug his fingers into the man’s mouth. He grasped the bottom of his jaw, feeling the writhing tongue against his hand, and digging his strong hands into the bone, once more, he yanked. The lying siren roared as gruesome sounds of bone detaching from bone echoed in the room. Blood poured from where his jaw used to be as it was ripped off his face.

Kiran sneered down at the weeping, bloody thing beneath him. When people had said he couldn’t do it when he’d said he wanted to do something big, they had laughed. Laughed that he wanted to get to the top, and he got hungry. And he was starving now.

He lifted his head and surveyed the open-mouthed crowd surrounding him. The crown was heavy on his head. “Do you think I care if he dies? Do you think I cannot simply replace one lord with another? Do you think I care if everyone here believes me mad?” He chuckled, baring his teeth. “Anyone who thinks I’m not the rightful king, know this: you are not strong enough to defeat me, and I will destroy anyone who comes against me.”

Utter silence fell.

The king moved to the front of the dais with that quiet, unyielding certainty that said he knew he owned the ground he walked on. He held the man’s bloodied, ragged jaw above his head. “A force the world has never seen will descend. And how wonderful its commander will be.”

His laughter was cruel as the crowd erupted into cheers and claps when he threw the remains into the mob. Then he sat on his throne lazily, like he hadn’t just blackened his soul more than ever.

A monarch needs to get their hands dirty sometimes, Kiran thought, and he knew his would be a mess before it all ended.

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