The boy they’d once called gutterling was king of the whole citadel. His arms spread wide, embracing the applause. The cane—held aloft, like a scepter—was glossy with blood. I couldn’t even smile. My wrist was limp in the grasp of his hand. Over our heads, Edward VII, the Bloody King, looked down with frozen eyes. The hint of lip beneath his beard seemed to smile. But with a leader like Jaxon Hall, I foresee only blood and revelry—and in the end, destruction. He was the King of Wands, the one Liss had predicted.
