There were only three tasks left.

Confront King Rycard.

Make him suffer.

Return with the coward's head.

Blood-and-ash sky glinted off Frederick's sword as he stalked past another window. Sweat poured down his temples and neck, gathering beneath his armor. Even his fingertips were drenched within his leather gloves, but he kept a firm hold around the handle. He would not lower his weapon for anything as he cleared hallway after hallway.

Nothing.

Irritation crawled under his skin. If the previous battles were any indication of how this fight should have ended, then he should have won well before this moment. For Thescan. But something had changed. Hendlemark's forces proved to be formidable in the final hours, carving through the Thescan army with renewed ferocity.

He lost thousands of men on the battlefield in the last two days alone.

There was no time to revise strategies, agonize over maps, or blame himself. That would have to come later—he would have to answer his king later. He was running out of options and decisions to make. Soldiers to spare. So against his father's orders, he entered the enemy's stronghold with three objectives to finish it all.

Confront King Rycard. Make him suffer. Return with the coward's head.

Every part of his body throbbed, worsening with each step. It would hurt when he took his boots off, but he couldn't think about that now. He couldn't think about the growing wet patch under the left side of his ribs or the fatigue gnawing at the edge of his consciousness either.

He made his ascent up another staircase and checked every room on the next level but continued to find them empty. The servants had the time to flee before his battalion arrived, so Rycard would have had time to escape also, but it was still worth seeing with his own eyes.

Reducing his castle to ash would not be enough. A statement was not enough. Not even if it meant obeying his father's orders to stand back and let the castle burn.

Confront King Rycard ...

His jaw locked, the back of his neck tugging. The ringing threatened to split his head into a thousand pieces, the horrid sound unlike anything he'd ever heard. His left arm twitched and tingled within the armor. Adrenaline was turning into a monster of a different sort, something that pained him more and more with every breath.

The view of the red-washed hallway began to thin. He had not rested in days, and it would cost him now. He'd spent the lead up to this moment obsessing over this final confrontation. He would sleep once this was over, and something told him he may never wake up.

Make him suffer ...

He finally reached the top of the castle, his breath wheezing out of him as he struggled to turn the next handle. Damn the thing. He was running out of time, and he shouted as he lunged, the wood breaking against his shoulder.

Nothing.

The next door—also nothing.

It wouldn't be much longer now. Two more doors, both sent into splinters with impatience—

Someone whirled from the fireplace. King Rycard.

His thin frame trembled as his dark gaze found Frederick, his sallow skin slicked with stress. This war had taken its toll on them worse than anything ever had, but a decade of fighting was about to come to an end.

Irrationality pricked the back of Frederick's eyes and threatened to ruin it all.

I'm going home.

Before him sat a peculiar man. A man who hadn't turned to acknowledge their intruder yet, but he did not matter. If he was a part of Rycard's court, he would be overcome easily like the rest.

Rycard's knees hit the floor, both his shaking hands coming up to beg. He said things—words that Frederick couldn't hear as the shrill noise in his head became a roar.

The stranger began to turn, and for a moment he was all Frederick could think about.

But he would not remember more about the man than the metal spikes that jutted from the shoulder of his armor, the long hair, the flash of white teeth. He would remember nothing about his eyes other than they were horrific in their amusement as they assessed him, waiting to see what he would do.

He would be dealt with next.

Return with the coward's head.

Each step became heavier and heavier as Frederick aimed for Rycard. He raised his weapon, pain spearing up his arm until he could no longer hold it. He cried out as the sword clattered to the ground, and Rycard seized the opportunity to scramble for it.

But it would not end like this.

A kick into Rycard's head sent the bastard spitting. With ragged breaths, Frederick lifted the sword but couldn't grip it properly. Something final sped through him: he wouldn't be able to last much longer. It had to be now.

There would be no prolonging this, no slow torture where Rycard would beg for death. He dreamed of making him pay for years, but this moment would lack the gore and satisfaction he craved.

It had to be now.

Take the head back to Thescan.

"Don't," Rycard said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Beatrice!"

And just like that, Frederick's senses razored into rage.

He tugged his gloves from his hands before yanking Rycard by his collar. He wanted to feel some of it. All of it. Feel blood heating his cold hands as he watched the life seep out of his enemy. "I've waited a decade to give you this."

"Don't—please—"

The stranger remained on the settee, the coolness of his observation surveying the scene. He would not interfere, and Frederick positioned the sword against Rycard's throat.

It has to be now. Take the head back to Thescan.

It took one smooth stroke.

Warmth drenched Frederick's fingers, and he would savor the sound of Rycard's pathetic gurgling for years to come. But there was one more thing to do, and he let Rycard's body fall to the floor with a thud. Frederick would be quick about killing the stranger, then return to hack at Rycard's neck with whatever strength he had in his body.

"Surrender," Frederick said, addressing the last man in the room.

The faceless man laughed. What would it take for you to be happy?

"Nothing you can offer me." He wiped his sword with his cape to hide the fact that his hands were the worst they had ever been. "Surrender or die. Those are your options."

Laughter filled Frederick's ears and the room was no more.

He returned to consciousness later, struggling to remember anything of before. He found himself headed toward a great smoking archway. Hendlemark. He knew where he was because there was something important to do here.

Confront King Rycard. Make him suffer. Return with the coward's head.

Something wasn't right.

His shudder shook his armor as he continued through the empty halls, his eyes flitting over the debris but seeing nothing of import, a bloody sword rattling against his side.

Smoke obscured the view of the path ahead but beyond it—he remembered fire. That his father and their forces had started those fires, but it seemed as though they were putting it out now. He prayed they were putting them out because he couldn't bring himself to stop or change direction. He would walk straight into that smoke, and though his mind screamed for him to halt it was impossible to do. His body continued to bring him closer and closer.

A somnambulist stuck in a dream.

He neared the thick gray cloud and closed his eyes, holding his breath as he crossed the threshold. Particles of ash seared his cheeks. The heat almost more than he could stand. Shouts sounded all around him, but still, he kept his eyes closed.

There is a man up there coming to kill us all.

He felt himself being shaken with such force that his teeth knocked. "Why did you do it, Frederick?" his father demanded. "Why?"

I wanted to kill him.

I found something worse.

"Did you see him?" his father asked. "Was he there?"

Frederick coughed, the smoke burning his eyes and throat. "He was there."

"Is he dead? Did he—"

Frederick could not say. Could not control the movement in his pulsing hand as he raised the sword above his head ...

And sent it plunging through his own stomach.