THEY DRESSED A CONDEMNED WOMAN AS THE PRINCESS—AND SENT HER TO DIE AT THE ROYAL WEDDING

Before Sera could formulate a response, a soaring, celestial choir rose in the gallery above, their voices echoing off the cold stone walls.

At that exact, split second, Rhys’s reflexes took over. With brutal, calculated speed, he grabbed Sera by the waist and pulled her hard against his armored chest.

Thwack.

An arrow, driven by massive mechanical force, passed straight through the delicate lace of her veil and buried itself deep into the stone of the altar where her heart had been a millisecond before.

Silence shattered.

The guests in the front pews screamed, scrambling backward over wooden benches in a frantic wave of panic. Heavy iron boots slammed against the stone floor as royal guards flooded the aisles, sealing the massive cathedral doors from the inside with deafening thuds.

Sera pressed herself against Rhys, trembling violently as she stared at the black-feathered shaft protruding from the altar.

Across the nave, bathed in the dim light of stained glass, Regent Malrec remained seated in his velvet chair.

He did not look surprised. He did not duck, nor did he look around in fear.

Rhys released her just enough to draw a dagger from his belt, slice the feathers off the embedded arrow, and pry a tiny, tightly rolled strip of black paper from beneath the fletching.

His eyes scanned the words written inside. The message contained only one sentence:

THE FALSE PRINCESS DIES AT THE ALTAR. THE REAL ONE DIES AT MIDNIGHT.

Rhys slowly turned his head, showing the menacing message directly to Sera.

“Did your regent tell you there would be an assassination?” he asked, his voice low and lethal.

“No,” Sera breathed, her blood running ice cold.

“He never intended to pardon you,” Rhys stated flatly. “You were never meant to survive this wedding. You were a disposable decoy designed to draw the first blood.”

Across the cathedral, through the chaos of screaming nobles and shouting guards, Regent Malrec slowly raised a jeweled cup in Sera’s direction.

He was celebrating. He was toasting her murder, believing the arrow had found its mark.

Rhys didn’t hesitate. He drew his massive, rune-etched broadsword with a ring of steel and planted himself firmly between Sera and the stained-glass windows where the archers had fired.

“You have less than six hours,” Rhys told her, his eyes locked on the distant doors where Malrec’s guards were beginning to gather. “Tell me your real name.”

“Sera Rowe.”

“And why were you condemned?”

“For protecting a girl no nobleman considered worth saving.”

Something shifted deep within Rhys’s dark expression—a flicker of profound recognition, as if he recognized the exact brand of stubborn defiance burning in her eyes.

“Then let us see whether Princess Amara is worth saving to you.”

Before Sera could answer, before she could ask what he meant, a heavy, somber sound echoed across the capital city.

The cathedral bells began ringing.