“Excuse me, Your Majesty.” There was a soft creak of the iron door before a guard stepped inside. “What is it?” my father demanded, barely taking his eyes off me long enough to look at him. “They have asked for you in the war room. It is urgent.” I barely registered the words. I was still gasping for breath, still trembling. Then the guard stepped into the light. Micah. The breath froze in my lungs. He stood rigid, dressed in the crisp uniform of the King’s Guard, every crease and seam sharp and precise. The crest of my father’s rule was stitched into the breast of his jacket, gleaming like
...more
