The power over water that ran through her father’s bloodline refused to ignite in her, just like she couldn’t even conjure a tiny breeze despite the storms her mother used to wield. If her father died, she’d be cast down, considered unfit to rule for the simple crime of being ordinary. Which might not be a bad thing. Most days, she didn’t really have any interest in wearing a crown.
There were others, however, obsessed with the idea of being king, and there was nothing that would make their reign harder than having a reminder of the past ruler hanging around. Would the other lords vying to rule leave her alone or come after her?
The Enclave didn’t suffer the weak—or those that might challenge their position. Her father had protected her as long as he could. If he died, everything would change.
The knife felt heavy against her as it swung in her pocket. She felt kind of foolish now that she’d left her room. The modern palace boasted a soft carpet underfoot, and it absorbed the sound of her steps as she made her way to her father’s quarters. He resided in a different corner suite with windows looking out over the city. An impressive city, the biggest in the world, or so she’d heard. It definitely was the largest on the continent. Although she’d heard the Marshland king was growing his at a rapid pace.
It occurred to her that the castle appeared awfully quiet even for this time of night. She didn’t encounter a single guard. Not even outside her father’s door.
A frown pinched her lips. Had something called them away? Or had someone removed them?
A soft tap received a surprisingly firm and strong, “Come in.”
Shereen entered to see her father pacing, looking more energetic than she recalled him being in a while. “Father? Are you all right? Where are your guards?”
He slashed a hand. “I sent them away. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust any of them.” His once benevolent features were creased in suspicion. Understandable given his situation.
“You seem to be feeling better.”
“I am.” He thumped his chest. “The medicine I had smuggled into the palace did the trick.”
“Smuggled? What have you done?”
“I foiled my enemies is what I’ve done,” he boasted. “I think the remedy cured the poison in me.”
Her expression brightened. “Really?”
“Yes, and I have the Marsh king to thank. Man’s got a bloody brilliant healer working for him. A woman called Sofia, former Ruby court citizen, or so I’ve heard. Makes the most remarkable potions.”
“This is wonderful news.” The best she’d had in a while.
“It is, and yet that’s not why you’ve come to visit me at this time of the night. Does something bother you, my child?” His piercing gaze fixed her.
Almost twenty-five years of age and he still treated her like she was a little girl. “I woke and was worried for you.”
“My dearest daughter.” He clasped her hands. “I was truly blessed when you were born.”
His only living daughter, she’d barely known the mother who died birthing a fourth child who didn’t survive. At times, Shereen found it hard to recall the brothers that all perished in freak accidents when they were still young.
“I am so glad you’re better.” Her voice thickened. With her father whole again, she could stop worrying.
“As am I,” he said with a wry chuckle. “But now I must move quickly before my enemies find out.”
“You mean the duke,” she spat. A man who had no limits when it came to his quest for power.
“That is who I suspect. He’s been eyeing my throne for years. But I’ll say it right now, he won’t take my crown.” The king lifted a finger in exclamation; however, it was the dagger suddenly punching into his chest that had her gasping.
“Father!” She couldn’t believe her eyes. There was something so inherently wrong about seeing a knife jutting from his torso.
Her father gazed down at the injury, not in rage or even disbelief but resignation. Then resolve. He raised his glance and barked, “Run.”
Run? How could she run when her limbs were like ice? “I am not leaving you. Let me help.” She reached for him, unsure of what she could do yet needing to do something. To not feel so useless.
Even injured, her father proved quicker thinking. “The assassin is still here!” he shouted as he shoved her away from him.
She fell, the jolt drawing her attention for but a moment. The clatter as another knife hit the floor made her realize it was meant for her.
Someone was trying to kill her. Her father did not take kindly to it.
The burst of power drew her attention. Her father’s expression was set in grim determination as he held out his hand. A stream of water rose from the tiny waterfall that trickled endlessly in his wall. When she was but a child, he’d entertained Shereen by pulling from the fluid and forming animal shapes that swam and walked.
No cute floppy-eared creatures tonight. The water droplets elongated and sharpened into bullets. They slammed into the assassin just as he drew his arm back to throw another dagger. The knife thrower half rose from his crouch on the balcony railing, making him a target for every watery bullet that struck him. For a moment, despite all the bloody holes, the assassin stood statue-like, the dagger seemingly forgotten in his grip. Then, his eyes wide and disbelieving, he teetered backwards and plummeted.
Shereen ran for the security pad by the balcony door. The force field was obviously not activated, and no amount of smashing of the buttons would turn it on.
“It’s broken,” she cried, fear coursing through her limbs. What if another assassin tried to come in through the balcony?
“Don’t worry about the door. You need to leave right now, Shereen.”
“You’re right. I should fetch you a doctor.” She tried not to sob at the sight of the blood bubbling at her father’s lips.
“Leave the castle. Don’t let them catch you.”
“But where would I go?” Her heart hammered in her chest. This was her home. She’d never gone much further. Her illness when on large bodies of water was legendary, meaning she stayed home.
“Anywhere. Get on a ship. Sail to the Islands.” Her father coughed, the red spittle hitting his fist. “You remember Uncle Petrov? He’s come to visit a few times. He’ll watch over you.”
A boisterous man who used to exclaim, “The spitting image of her mother.”
“I don’t want to leave you. Come with me.” She reached for her father and clutched his trembling hands.
He shook his head, the injury and his recent illness drawing attention to his age. Life had taken its toll. “The dagger was tipped in poison. I can feel it burning through my system. I’m going to die, and I won’t have you joining me. Go to your uncle’s island.”
“What about the offer from—” She never even got to finish her sentence.
“No!” he barked. “Do not even think of doing it. Promise me.”
Shereen pressed her lips. “But if it worked…it would solve everything.” Why did her father keep refusing a possible cure for her problem?
“It’s evil. And dangerous. I won’t have you trying it.” Her father shook his head and slashed a hand through the air, the motion enough to have him coughing and gasping.