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The palace is in chaos.
Guards in armor move through the halls with bodies in their arms, slaves and guards from Damianos’ household that were accused of treason and cut down. Blood still drips on the marble floors, soaking Nikandros’ sandals.
Damianos is dead.
He keeps hearing them say this but the words won’t register. It can’t be true. Damianos his Prince—Damen his friend can’t be dead. He can’t be.
When he reaches them, Damen’s chambers show signs of a struggle. Nikandros takes in the bloodied couches and abandoned swords with the pragmatism of a soldier. Whatever happened here, Damen fought it. His guard has been punished, their lives cut short as Damen’s was.
Nikandros finds what he is looking for on the ground. The glint of gold draws his eye to a thick puddle of blood, inside which rests Damen’s lion pin. He picks it up, fingers gingerly wiping the blood off the curled tail. His fist closes around it, tightly, and Nikandros bows his head.
Damianos is dead.
His shoulders tremble with a combination of sorrow and rage. King Theomedes’ death was expected; he was old and ill and none of the physicians remedies were helping. Damen was young and healthy and poised to accept the throne he had been born for.
It isn’t fair, Nikandros thinks. It isn’t fair that Damen isn’t here, beside him, where they can mourn the loss of Damen’s father—their King—together.
It isn’t fair that Damen was taken from this world before he could show it what a great King he could be.
Nikandros opens his eyes. The time for mourning will come later. Now, he needs to leave. If he is caught here, in this room, with Damen’s pin in his hand, he will be slain like the rest of Damen’s friends, his staff, his teachers.
He tucks the pin into his chiton, the gold warmed by his fist and resting against his heart as he turns to stride from the room. No one stops him. No one notices a sad, lone figure walking the blood soaked halls of the palace.
Nikandros places his hand over the pin, over his heart.
Damianos is dead.
Nikandros will never forget him.