The execution was set for dawn.

  Tarek Blackthorn, First of His Name, King of Lore and Keeper of the Bloodright, stood at the arched window of the royal chamber, watching the executioner prepare the block in the castle's inner courtyard. Six months had passed since he'd restored the Covenant and claimed his father's throne. Six months of uneasy peace built atop centuries of corruption and lies.

  Six months of feeling the Bloodright change him from within.

  "Your Majesty." Captain Frost's voice came from the doorway. "It's time."

  Tarek didn't turn. "Is it necessary for me to witness this, Captain? The court has already seen me pass the sentence."

  "The law is clear," Frost replied, his tone neutral. "The one who passes the sentence must witness its fulfillment."

  "An old law."

  "The best kind, Your Majesty."

  A muscle worked in Tarek's jaw as he finally faced the captain. The older man's weathered features betrayed nothing, but Tarek had learned to read the subtle signs of Frost's concern—the slight furrow between his brows, the careful neutrality of his stance.

  "You disapprove," Tarek said.

  "It's not my place to approve or disapprove." Frost's gaze was steady. "Lord Merren's treason is well-documented. The evidence undeniable."

  "But?"

  A moment of hesitation. "But executing a head of one of the Great Houses sets a precedent. The nobility is already uneasy with your... unconventional ascension."

  "You mean they're uneasy with a former street runner wearing the crown," Tarek said with a humorless smile. "A bastard made legitimate through desperate necessity."

  "They fear what they don't understand," Frost corrected. "And they understand you least of all."

  Tarek glanced down at his hands, turning them in the morning light. Beneath his skin, amber energy pulsed faintly—the visible manifestation of the Bloodright that had awakened in him during the battle for the Covenant. Power that had allowed him to restore the broken keystones and repair the magical boundary protecting Lore from the horrors beyond.

  Power that sometimes woke him in the night, burning through his veins like molten gold, demanding to be used.

  "They should fear me," he said softly, then looked up with a sharper gaze. "Merren conspired with the remnants of the Order to assassinate me. He would have plunged this kingdom back into civil war."

  "I don't dispute his guilt, Your Majesty. Only suggesting that mercy might—"

  "Mercy," Tarek interrupted, "is what allowed the Order of Whispers to corrupt this kingdom for generations. My father showed mercy, and look where it led." He strode to the door. "We go now."

  The journey to the execution ground was silent. Royal guards flanked their path, courtiers and servants pressing against the walls, bowing as he passed. Their eyes followed him—some with reverence, others with barely concealed fear or resentment. None with true loyalty. Not yet.

  The Great Houses had bent the knee after his father's death and his own extraordinary display of power. But bending and breaking were different things, and Tarek knew better than most how quickly allegiances could shift when advantage presented itself.

  The inner courtyard was already filled with witnesses—council members, noble representatives, the necessary officers of state. Tarek took his place on the raised platform, conscious of the weight of the crown on his brow. Not the ceremonial crown used for formal occasions, but the simple circlet of twisted silver and gold his father had worn daily—a reminder that rulership was service, not pageantry.

  Lord Merren knelt at the block, his once-proud frame diminished by weeks in the dungeons. His hands were bound before him, his expensive clothes exchanged for the simple gray tunic of the condemned. Still, there was defiance in his posture, in the set of his shoulders.

  From the corner of his eye, Tarek caught a flash of movement, a figure in midnight blue slipping into place among the noble ladies. Eliza Vantian. She hadn't told him she would attend.

  Their eyes met across the courtyard. Her face remained carefully neutral, the perfect mask of court etiquette, but her gaze held a question Tarek couldn't quite interpret. Concern? Judgment? Or something deeper, more complicated—the weight of their shared history, the secrets they carried together?

  The herald's voice broke the silence. "Let it be known that Lord Edric Merren, Head of House Merren, has been found guilty of high treason against the crown. Having conspired with enemies of the realm to overthrow the rightful king, he is sentenced to death by beheading."

  Lord Merren was given the opportunity for final words, as tradition demanded.

  "I regret nothing," the old man declared, his voice carrying across the hushed courtyard. "I served Lore, not the bastard son of a whore who seized power through trickery and dark magic." His eyes, bright with hatred, found Tarek's. "The Great Houses remember, false king. Your blood is tainted. Your reign is a mistake that will soon be corrected."

  Murmurs rippled through the assembly. Frost's hand moved to his sword hilt, but Tarek raised a hand to stay him.

  "Lord Merren," he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge that silenced the whispers. "Your service to Lore is acknowledged. Your treason, however, cannot be forgiven." He nodded to the executioner. "Proceed."

  The headsman positioned Lord Merren's neck on the block. Tarek felt a strange stillness come over him, a calmness that seemed to exist outside his own emotions. The Bloodright stirred within, responding to his heightened state, sending amber light rippling beneath his skin.

  The executioner raised his blade.

  Something in Tarek shifted, a whisper in his blood urging him forward. Without conscious thought, he raised his hand. "Wait."

  The courtyard froze.

  "I will do it myself," Tarek heard himself say.

  Frost stiffened beside him. "Your Majesty—"

  But Tarek was already moving, descending the platform steps. The executioner bowed uncertainly and stepped aside, offering his blade. Tarek shook his head.

  "I need no steel," he said quietly.

  The Bloodright responded instantly, golden energy flowing into his right hand, coalescing into a blade of pure magical force. Gasps echoed across the courtyard as the nobles drew back. In their eyes, Tarek saw naked fear—not just of death, but of power they couldn't comprehend.

  Good. Let them fear. Fear would keep them loyal when respect could not.

  Lord Merren stared up at him, his defiance finally cracking. "What manner of demon are you?" he whispered.

  "I am what your actions made me," Tarek replied, raising the blade of light. "I am the king."

  The blow was swift and clean. Lord Merren's head fell with barely a sound, the magical blade cauterizing the wound instantly. No blood splattered the stones, no messy spectacle for the nobles to recoil from. Just cold, efficient justice.

  As Tarek turned, the amber blade dissipating from his hand, his eyes sought Eliza again. Her mask had slipped, just slightly—enough for him to see the conflict in her expression. Pride warred with concern, desire with wariness.

  She understood better than anyone the changes the Bloodright had wrought in him. Had been there when he'd first unleashed its full potential against the Order. Had helped him master its basic manifestations during those first chaotic weeks after his father's death.

  Had warmed his bed on the nights when the magic burned too fiercely for him to sleep alone.

  Yet lately, he'd sensed her pulling away. Watching him with eyes that assessed rather than adored. What did she see when she looked at him now? The street runner who'd won her heart? The reluctant prince she'd taught to navigate court politics? Or something else—something colder, harder, more dangerous?

  "The sentence has been carried out," Tarek announced to the assembly. "Let it be recorded that justice was done this day, not in vengeance, but in defense of the realm."

  As the courtiers bowed, he ascended the platform again. "Captain," he said quietly to Frost, "have House Merren's assets secured. Their lands and titles will remain intact for now, but under crown supervision until a suitable heir can be determined."

  "As you command." Frost's expression was carefully blank. "Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?"

  Tarek glanced once more at Eliza, who had already turned to leave with the other noble ladies. "No," he said. "That will be all."

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  Later, alone in his chambers, Tarek stood before the ornate mirror, studying his reflection. The face that looked back seemed both familiar and foreign—the same amber eyes and sharp features, but set in harder lines. The weight of the crown had carved new angles into his countenance, etched subtle changes that accumulated with each difficult decision, each compromise, each hard lesson in kingship.

  He flexed his hand, calling forth a thread of the Bloodright. Golden light danced between his fingers, beautiful and deadly. It came more easily each time, answering his will with increasing potency. What had once exhausted him now invigorated him. What had once frightened him now felt... natural.

  Necessary.

  A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

  "Enter," he called, extinguishing the magical display.

  The door opened to reveal Eliza, still dressed in the midnight blue gown from the execution. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it as she studied him with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing.

  "That was quite a display," she said, her tone deliberately light. "The nobles will be talking of nothing else for weeks."

  "Let them talk."

  "They already do." She moved into the room, her movements graceful despite the obvious tension in her shoulders. "They call you the Amber King. Some whisper you're possessed by ancient magic, that the Bloodright is changing you."

  "And what do you think?" He turned to face her directly. "Is it changing me, Eliza?"

  Her hesitation was answer enough. "You're... harder than you were," she admitted finally. "Colder, sometimes. When you executed Merren today—" She paused, gathering her thoughts. "It wasn't just justice I saw in your eyes. It was satisfaction."

  "He was a traitor."

  "He was. I don't dispute his guilt." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the jasmine oil she wore. "But the Tarek I knew six months ago would have swung the steel himself if duty demanded it—not conjured a blade of magic to make a statement of power."

  "Perhaps the Tarek you knew six months ago was too weak to rule effectively," he countered. "Too naive."

  "Or perhaps he understood something the King has forgotten." Her voice softened. "That power exercised without restraint becomes indistinguishable from tyranny."

  Her words stung, though he took care not to show it. "You think me a tyrant in the making?"

  "I think the Bloodright is more than just magic." She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw in a gesture both intimate and calculating. "I think it carries the echoes of every Blackthorn king who wielded it. Their strengths, their ambitions... their darkest impulses."

  Tarek caught her wrist, holding her hand against his cheek. "And what would you have me do? Reject the very power that saved this kingdom? That keeps our enemies at bay?"

  Something flickered in her eyes—concern, certainly, but beneath it, a heat he recognized. The undeniable pull between them hadn't diminished, despite the complications of crown and court.

  "I would have you remember who you are," she whispered. "Beneath the crown. Beneath the magic."

  He released her wrist, stepping back. The space between them felt charged, electric with unspoken truths and desires too dangerous to acknowledge.

  "The man you knew died when the crown passed to him," he said flatly. "I cannot afford to be what I was, Eliza. The kingdom needs strength, not sentiment."

  She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded once, as if confirming something to herself.

  "The execution has put fear into the Great Houses, as you intended," she said, her tone shifting to the practical advisor she often served as. "But fear is a double-edged sword, Your Majesty. It may prevent open rebellion, but it breeds conspiracy in shadows."

  "Then we will shine light into those shadows," Tarek replied. "Starting with House Solari. They've been suspiciously quiet since the Covenant's restoration."

  "Lord Chancellor Solari claims they're preoccupied with drought in the southern provinces."

  "Convenient." Tarek moved to the window, looking out over the sprawling city of Highcrest. "Have your network of informants found anything?"

  "Nothing substantial. But..." She hesitated. "There are rumors of strange magic in Sunspire. Boundary disturbances."

  The Bloodright pulsed in response to her words, a flash of heat that Tarek suppressed with effort. "What kind of disturbances?"

  "Reports are fragmented. Unauthorized keystone access, perhaps. Or..." She lowered her voice. "Whispers that the Order isn't as destroyed as we believed."

  Tarek's jaw tightened. The Order of Whispers—the secret society that had manipulated Lore's magic for generations, corrupting the Covenant for their own purposes. He'd believed them broken, their leadership executed or imprisoned after their failed attempt to seize the throne.

  "If any of the Order survived," he said coldly, "they will wish they hadn't. I'll send Captain Frost to investigate."

  "Perhaps a more subtle approach would be wiser," Eliza suggested. "Let me go. I have connections in Sunspire, people who would speak freely to me but close ranks before royal guards."

  Tarek shook his head. "Too dangerous. If there are Order remnants operating in the south—"

  "Then a King's Guard captain will send them deeper into hiding," she interrupted. "You need information before you need action, Tarek."

  The use of his name rather than his title—a rare slip in her careful court etiquette—betrayed her intensity. And she wasn't wrong. Eliza's political acumen had proven invaluable during his transition to power, her network of informants often providing intelligence that official channels missed.

  "Very well," he conceded. "But you'll take guards with you. Disguised, if necessary, but armed and alert."

  "Of course." She inclined her head in formal acknowledgment, the gesture deliberately putting distance between them again. "Will that be all, Your Majesty?"

  The formal address stung more than it should have. Once, she had whispered his name against his skin in the darkness. Now, she wielded his title like a shield, keeping him at arm's length even as she served his crown.

  "That will be all, Lady Vantian."

  She curtseyed and turned to leave. At the door, she paused, looking back at him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher.

  "The nobles fear you," she said quietly. "The common folk revere you. But neither truly knows you, Tarek. I wonder sometimes if anyone does anymore—including yourself."

  Before he could respond, she was gone, the soft click of the door leaving him alone with her words echoing in his mind.

  Tarek turned back to the window, watching as servants below cleared away the execution block. Lord Merren's body had already been removed, his head destined for display on the castle walls as warning to others who might contemplate treason.

  Harsh, yes. But necessary. The kingdom teetered on a knife's edge, recovering from generations of magical manipulation and corruption. Peace was an illusion, a fragile veneer over simmering tensions and ancient grudges.

  The Bloodright stirred again, responding to his darkening thoughts. Golden light traced the veins in his hands, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Each day, the magic grew stronger. Each day, it felt more a part of him—less a tool he wielded and more an extension of his will.

  And each day, he saw the wariness grow in Eliza's eyes.

  She feared what he was becoming. Perhaps she was right to fear. But fear would not secure Lore's future. Fear would not protect the realm from enemies within and threats beyond the boundary.

  Only power could do that. Power, and the will to use it without hesitation.

  Tarek let the Bloodright flow freely now, amber light casting his shadow long and sharp across the chamber floor. Whatever changes the magic wrought in him were the price of the crown he'd never sought but could no longer surrender.

  If that price included Eliza's love—the one bright certainty in his transformed life—then so be it.

  A king could not afford such luxuries. Not with blood already staining his throne and the whispers of rebellion growing louder beyond the castle walls.

  Not with fire in his veins and ruin on the horizon.