The room was beginning to brighten, the sky finally welcoming the sun again as a new day began, and as deadly dawn approached.

And yet, even with the brighter sky and the dramatic nature, it wasn't nearly as incredible as Archer thought it would be. He wasn't sure what he'd expected—the silence of an entire crowd or the stillness of the expansive ocean, perhaps—but there was no one there but Archer and Silta. No one to silence, no one to impress.

The King looked down at his chest. A perfect shot, a mercy shot. Straight to the heart.

Silta took the final steps towards him, pushing the dying man against his throne. Blood seeped from under his golden clothes as she threaded her fingers around his neck.

"I hope it hurts," she said, her head tilted and her golden eyes full of hate and disgust. " I hope wherever you end up, you can still see me. I hope you're forced to watch as I take your entire kingdom and burn it to the ground. I hope you watch."

Archer picked up the King's longknife.

"I hope you suffer," she said, knocking the King's head against the marble throne. "I hope you find my mother somehow. I hope she gives you the rest of what you deserve."

The King gurgled blood, his hands useless to stop his draining life.

"I hope you burn in hell," she whispered, her voice hissing the words like a snake would to its next meal, her mouth so close to his ear, her eyes so close to his.

The King slumped under her, his grand body sliding down the throne, leaving a long and shining trail of patchy crimson blood. His head hit the marble with a crack, and his crown rolled off his head, spinning a few times before it came to a stop. The sound echoed in the expansive room.

And it was just them.

He had her now, all his. Bardarian was gone, and Archer could pick up the pieces. He could let her mourn until she turned around and realized that he'd always been the better option. She and Archer could go back to the Avourienne. He would be her strategist, and she would be his captain.

Didn't it all sound so easy? So simple, so certain? Wouldn't it be so lovely to have the advantage of the immoral?

Silta looked down at her father, as if ensuring he was dead, watching to make sure his eyes didn't burst open once again and come back for more. Her golden eyes retained no sadness nor regret; she appeared to be simply watching. Archer watched her watch.

"Were you bluffing?" he asked, his voice loud in the silent room. "About the throne?"

"No." She didn't look away from her father, her back to Archer.

He could stay with her. Pick up the pieces. Learn to be a killer. One day, she might tell him she loved him. Archer could be the king himself if he loved her right. That's what he should do. Claw and fight his way to power, the advantage of the immoral. The power of the villain.

Archer turned, his heart crawling into his throat and begging to get out. It didn't want to be his anymore, didn't want to associate with his dark thoughts. He swallowed it down, forced it to stay there. Forced himself to breathe.

He lifted the King's blade and sunk it deep into Silta's back, where it came through just under the ribs. Because Archer was no villain, and he did not get the advantage of the immoral. He got this, the hell of the moral.

He'd hit the ground. He'd been falling for days, out of control and flailing. Racing time and racing morality and racing his life. Desperate to find something, even if it was the deadly ground below. So he found it, here, with all this death. It barrelled into him and tore the breath from his lungs and sent stars spiralling into his vision at all ends. It tore him apart. It ruined him, but it didn't kill him. Not like he thought it would, not like he wanted it to.

The irony of that razor-sharp blade was not lost on him. The ability of it to do so much damage with so little effort, the ability of it to provide deadly injuries to the deadliest woman, simply because she turned her back on the wrong person. It slid through so easily, severing all those vessels and the smooth linings of all the important things one needed to survive. He rested his hand on her ribs, careful not to press the blade back into his finger, the methodical thought was out of place in his scrambling mind.

Her voice came out startled and panicked, "Kingsley?" Her hands fumbled for him, finding the blade on the other side with her deft fingers. Archer turned her around so he could see her. He didn't want to look, but it was only fair.

She shook her head a little, then glanced up at him. Like it wasn't an issue. Like it could be fixed. No one could fix this. Maybe a Siren could heal from this kind of thing, but they wouldn't be able to run back to the gates before this island was set aflame. They wouldn't be able to escape.

She stumbled forward a few steps. Archer steadied her and helped her to the ground as carefully as he could. She wouldn't peel her gaze from the blade. She lifted her hands, and they came away crimson red. "Love?" she whispered, examining her hands. "Kingsley?" She exhaled slowly, air catching on the cracks and shaking through to the end of the breath. Archer felt the warmth of the sigh on his jaw.

She slowly lifted her gaze, from her hands to the blade, to his chin, to his eyes. She liked his eyes. Archer never believed eyes to be windows to the soul, or any of the other poetic nonsense the people of Orphano spouted. He thought they were just eyes, but there was something different about them now. Colours were different now. Right and wrong were different now.

The betrayal. The perfidy. The shattered trust in as many pieces as his heart. It was all there, each emotion taking up a little corner of her irises. There was no show to put on now, no reason to hide all of those things she was feeling.

"I'm going to die," she whispered, clear panic in her voice. "I can't believe I'm going to die." The words fell from her mouth like she couldn't control them, like the blood that she couldn't stop from flowing. She looked back down at the blade, then back up at him.

"I didn't think that you would—" She cut off, her voice cracking.

Archer wanted to tell her to stop. To stop trying to speak and to just stop.

"I have to," he whispered, as though it were something he were about to do rather than the irreversible action he'd already carried out.

"You can't live, Novari," he said. He felt the unbearable sting of tears behind his sinuses. He felt his heart claw its way back up into his throat, slashing around inside of him and tearing at the thin walls. He felt his teeth begin to chatter for some reason. Like he was cold—he didn't have the right to feel cold. He didn't have the right to feel anything. He was a killer and a traitor. He felt the dull ache of his bones fracturing.

"You can't live," he said again, convincing himself more than her. "I can't let you live." She'd ruin those innocent people's lives. She'd lead in residual anger and practiced mercilessness. She would be far, far worse than her father. And even though Kerian was alive, she'd been right before. She was the firstborn, the next claim to the throne unless Kerian was willing to fight her for it. It was not a fight he'd win.

She reached out to touch his face, and he didn't know why. It was soft—not intended to cause damage. She began to breathe slower, her pulse sluggish under Archer's touch.

"My mother was right," she whispered.

"Stop," Archer begged. "Stop." The tears streamed down his face now, falling onto her hands and spilling to the floor, mixing with the maroon blood to create a river of loss.

"It's my fault—" she started. Blood ran down the side of her mouth, over her chin.

He shook his head, his teeth gritted in silent and intolerable agony.

"I trusted—" she started again.

He laid her back against the creamy wall, steadying her shoulder. In one smooth movement, he pulled the blade back out and tossed it away. The metal clanged against the floor and flung droplets of blood onto its surroundings.

She took a shuddering breath, her fingers trembling.

"But I loved you, Kingsley."

Archer felt the sob come from the back of his throat, his heart stuttering. Why couldn't she have said it before? Would it have changed anything? Did she mean it? Or was she trying to convince him to pick her up, carry her back to Miller?

She gazed at him like she didn't get it, like she didn't understand. Like she'd finally discovered the one thing in the world her brilliant mind couldn't figure it out. The one thing that gave her trouble and perplexed her to an endless degree.

"Rule number five, Kingsley," she whispered. "I need Miller. Bring me to Miller."

Archer brushed a strand of hair out of her mouth, shaking his head. He didn't like that it was still an option, that she could still be saved by him and only him. "I can't, Novari. I'm sorry." The words came out bland and meaningless. He wanted to say a thousand things to express himself. He wanted her to know how much this destroyed him, how much it broke him, how he felt he would never recover. He wanted her to know, but he couldn't find the words. He scrambled around for them blindly in the brightening room. They weren't there.

"Rule number five, Kingsley," she whispered again. He wasn't bringing her back to Miller, and she knew it.

"I'm so sorry," he said. He took a step back, tripping over his own feet. Her eyes were cloudy and yet somehow still focused. Focused on him.

He knew it was almost dawn. He knew he had to get out. He had to leave her here to die. He wanted to shoot her; he wanted to end it all and watch her die quickly, but there were no pistols or bullets left. There was nothing left. Just an impossible mess of death and dying.

"It's my fault," she whispered, looking down at the blood that was pouring from her. She wouldn't bleed out, not in time. That dynamite would take pity on her.

Archer took another step back. He watched her double over, blood trickling down the side of her mouth and dripping onto the floor. Her hands hit the ground hard, staining the white tile with handprints of blood. He watched her lean forward and reach out to those tiles as if she were trying to crawl away. Trying to struggle away from all the blood, like she could outrun it with sheer determination and will.

There was nowhere to go, a prison of her own making. She'd never make it to the gates. She could try; she could make it to the window, but then again, she'd be blown up by her own brilliant plan.

But she would try, of course. She wouldn't be her if she didn't. She would crawl hand over hand behind him, fingernails biting into the stone as she dragged her body somewhere, anywhere. When the explosives went off, Novari Silta would be fighting tooth and nail for her life. Until the very last minute. That's what champions did.

"I love you," he whispered, because she never once let him say it, and he thought he deserved to.

He backed away, to the door.

And he left her there.