Page 119 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“You’re terrified,” she observes quietly.

I am.

But admitting it would make it real.

“Everything will be fine. Garrett will defeat the queen’s champion.” I hear myself say. “He’ll win and become king. House Clayborne will take the throne.”

Kitty shakes her head slowly. “Is that what he wants? To be king?”

I think about Garrett’s late-night confessions over wine. His dreams of running away from court, from expectations, from the weight of his father’s ambitions. The way he lights up when he talks about simple things like a good meal and the sunset.

He wants peace, not a crown.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“You should find out,” Kitty says.

She reaches up and touches my face just once. Her hand is warm against my cheek. The gesture is so unexpected and gentle that I freeze.

“Be careful, Wolf,” she whispers. “You’re in deeper than you think.”

Then she pulls her hood lower and slips back into the crowd. I watch her disappear like the wind. I’m left standing in the alley with the weight of her words pressing down on me.

King Garrett.

The title sounds too heavy and formal for someone who laughs so easily.

I try to picture it. Garrett in formal robes, sitting on a throne, making decrees. The image won’t form. It’s like trying to imagine the sun rising in the west.

But the alternative is worse. Garrett dead on the arena floor or fighting a desperate last stand as Wiolant forces storm the keep.

None of the options are good. I lean against the alley wall and let myself have this moment to feel the full weight of it.

The mission is protection. If Garrett dies tomorrow, the contract fails. I go to the crypts. But that doesn’t matter anymore. It stopped mattering weeks ago, the moment Garrett smiled at me in that tavern.

The crypts can have me. I don’t care.

I just need Garrett to survive this.

I find Lord Clayborne in Garrett’s study, pacing restlessly.

The study is a mess. Papers are scattered across the desk, and a half-empty decanter of wine sits next to an untouched glass.

Lord Clayborne doesn’t notice me at first. He’s muttering to himself, wearing a groove in the expensive rug as he walks the same path over and over.

I’ve never seen him like this. The Lord Clayborne I’ve observed from a distance has always been composed and dignified. The Aldarelf looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

He’s an older version of his son with the same bone structure, the same golden hair but more weathered. The easy warmth that Garrett inherited is still there, buried deep beneath layers of political calculation.

But right now there’s no calculation in his face, only fear.

I clear my throat.

He spins instinctively. The noble who knows how to fight even if he rarely does anymore.

“You,” he calls me, like I’m a tool he’s remembered he owns.

He doesn’t seem pleased to see me. “Where is my son?”