Jonas pressed the dagger to the guard’s throat. “I suggest you answer my questions if you don’t want your blood to be spilled tonight.”

“I’ll do more than bleed if the king learns I’ve done anything to help you.”

He was right—the crime of assisting a rebel would undoubtedly lead to torture or execution. Likely both. Though the king enjoyed making pretty speeches about the united kingdoms of Mytica with a broad smile on his handsome face, he did not receive the nickname “the King of Blood” by being fair and kind.

“One week ago, there was a rebel attack on the road camp east of here. Do you know about it?”

The guard held his gaze unflinchingly. “I heard the rebels died screaming.”

Jonas’s heart twisted. He clenched his hand into a fist, aching to make this guard suffer. A tremor shook through him at the memory of last week, but he tried to focus on the task at hand. Only the task at hand.

Rufus raked his fingers through his messy hair and paced back and forth in nervous lines.

“I need to know if any rebels were captured alive,” Jonas continued. “And I need to know where the king is holding them.”

“I have no idea.”

“I don’t believe you. Start talking or I promise I’ll cut your throat.”

There was no fear in the guard’s eyes, only a mocking edge. “I’ve heard so many fearsome rumors about the leader of the Paelsian rebels. But rumors aren’t facts, aren’t they? Perhaps you’re nothing more than a Paelsian peasant boy—not nearly ruthless enough to kill someone in cold blood. Not even your enemy.”

Jonas had killed before—enough that he’d lost count. In a foolish war that tricked Paelsians into allying with Limerians against Auranos. In the battle at the road camp. He’d only fought in order to strike down his enemies and bring justice to his friends, his family, and his fellow Paelsians. And to protect himself.

There had been meaning behind those deaths, even if that meaning had been jumbled and unclear. He fought for a purpose, believed in something.

He took no pleasure in taking lives, and he hoped he never would.

“Come on, Jonas. He’s useless,” Rufus said, his voice twisting with anxiety. “Let’s go while we still can.”

But Jonas didn’t budge, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He hadn’t come this far to give up now. “There was a girl who fought in the battle named Lysandra Barbas. I need to know if she’s still alive.”

The guard’s lips twisted into a cruel grin. “Ah, so this is why you’re so driven for answers. This girl belongs to you?”

It took Jonas a moment to understand his meaning. “She’s like a sister to me.”

“Jonas,” Rufus whined. “Lysandra’s gone. She’s dead. Obsessing about her is only going to get us killed, too!”

Jonas cast a glare at Rufus that made the boy wince, but it was enough to make him shut his stupid mouth.

Lysandra wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. She was an incredible fighter—skilled with a bow and arrow like no one Jonas had witnessed before.

Lysandra had also been opinionated, demanding, and incredibly annoying from the first moment he’d first met her. And if she still lived, Jonas would do anything to find her.

He needed her—both as a fellow rebel and as a friend.

“You must know something.” Jonas pressed the dagger closer to the guard’s throat. “And you’re going to tell me right now.”

No matter how high the stakes, Jonas would never give up. Not until his very last breath.

“This girl . . . ,” the guard said through clenched teeth, “is she worth your life?”

Jonas didn’t have to think twice. “Yes.”

“Then I’ve no doubt she’s every bit as dead as you are.” The guard smirked despite the trickle of blood now sliding down his throat. He raised his voice. “Over here!”

A crunch of dirt and a snap of branches were all that warned of the half-dozen Limerian guards that now burst into the small forest clearing. Their swords were drawn, and two of them carried torches.

“Drop your weapons, rebel!”

Rufus swung his fist at an approaching guard, but missed by a mile. “Jonas, do something!”

Rather than drop the dagger, Jonas sheathed it, then drew the sword he’d stolen from Prince Magnus last week before Jonas had managed to escape. He hoisted it up in time to block a blow aimed directly for his chest. Rufus tried to fight back, punching and kicking, but it wasn’t long before a guard grabbed hold of his hair, yanked him backward, and put a blade to his throat.

“I said,” the guard hissed, “drop your weapon. Or your friend dies.”

The world skidded to a stop as the memory of Tomas’s murder once again crashed into Jonas. It had happened so quickly—no time to save him, no time to fight or even beg for his life. And then Jonas recalled another memory that would be seared into his soul forever: that of his best friend Brion, slain by the same killer while Jonas watched, helpless.

With Jonas momentarily distracted, a guard took the opportunity to slam his fist into his face. As hot blood poured from his nose, another guard wrenched the blade from his grasp, nearly breaking his fingers. Another kicked the back of his knees and slammed him down to the ground.

The world spun and sparkled before his eyes as he fought to remain conscious.

He knew it would end now, that he’d been on borrowed time ever since his most recent brush with death. There was no magic here to save him this time. Death no longer scared him, but the timing was wrong. He had too much left to do.