Another twenty men kneel to stain my dress, but for the first time, I’m proud to have my white dress bloodied. With each man who looks me in the eye, pledging their oath to my son, the memory of the throning—the cleansing—grows more and more hazy and undefined. The men who watched and participated in those vile ceremonies didn’t know me, and I hadn’t yet realized how strangled their hearts were by Ashby’s rule. There could be no greater proof of Rufus Ashby’s failed kingship than the knowledge he hadn’t snuffed everything good out of his own men. I just hope I can keep finding more of it.
