The Queen of Corvalith fell like a petal cut from its stem as an arrow hit her.
The arrow was buried deep, her blood pooling fast into the dust, turning it into red clay. She trembled, hand lifting weakly to graze her husband's face, a touch that never landed. Her arm slipped down, lifeless.
Dead.
The King of Corvalith's wail split the arena. Not merely grief, it was a raw, primeval cry of fury, echoing through the arena's walls. His broad shoulders curled protectively over her, but it was too late. His Queen lay still in his arms.
Leroy had frozen, sword slack in his grip, an arrow streaking past him unnoticed. Dust swirled around his boots. He did not even raise his guard, did not seem to remember he was a target. Lorraine's chest hollowed out. For one aching heartbeat, he looked like a boy again, not a prince or a warrior, but a boy robbed of certainty, staring at death too close to home.
Another war would come. It had to.
