Page 22 of War Queen
Immediate objections rang through the hall, voices of disbelief and condemnation, calls for refusal, questions of intent. But Mikael sat firmly, unwavering.
Bhastian struck the floor with the butt of his spear again, bringing quiet back to the room.
“This is my decision,” Mikael boomed out.
“And we should so blindly follow?” Jarik challenged. “Kharav is already weakened against our enemies, and you would bring us closer to fall?”
“Even the lord commander didn’t support war,” another noble spoke up angrily. Lord Arminar—another member of Mikael’s Circle. It was true; Mikael had sought war after Norah fled Mercia, and Soren had spoken against it. In front of the nobles, it was the equivalent of denying him. And now the nobles knew of his blood right. As a bastard son, Soren held a weaker claim to the throne, but it was a claim nonetheless. And now he had the power to deny Mikael so much more than war—he had the power to deny him everything.
Mikael’s gaze shifted to Lord Arminar. “Circumstances have changed, and the lord commander’s not here.”
“You don’t know circumstances have changed,” Jarik challenged.
The nobles crowded closer, and from the corner of her eye, Norah saw Bhastian step closer too, his hand clenching his spear. The hair on her arms stood on end, and her breaths came faster.
The nobles couldn’t petition the Circle to override Mikael because the Circle couldn’t veto a regal decision like Mercia’s council. A noble could challenge him. Or they could collectively remove him. They would have to do it by force, and it was becoming increasingly likely they would try now.
Norah reached out and rested her hand on Mikael’s arm. The fight of rage radiated from his skin, but he needed to calm. Violence would solve nothing here. She desperately searched her mind for anything that could sway them to see this was the only way to strengthen Kharav. They needed to take back Mercia. The kingdoms needed to be united again.
“Once again,” Arminar said, still needling, “you put the North Queen before Kharav. And I see it comes on the heels of your decision to uproot our throne room at her whim.”
“Mythrone room. Yoursalara,” Mikael snarled as he rose. Norah still held on to him. “And would you rather our chairs parted?” he added. “As her hand on mine is the only thing keeping me from striking your head from your shoulders.”
Jarik’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. “You continue to threaten your nobles?”
“Warn,” Mikael corrected him.
Yasir stiffened. “A warning for you, Salar—when the lord commander returns, there will be much you’ll be held accountable for.”
Mikael laughed. “You’ll challenge me? You think you can so easily give my crown to another? You think you can take it from me?” He bared his teeth and ripped his arm from Norah’s grip as he pulled his sword. “If any man thinks he can, come forward!” he bellowed.
The hall fell silent, and all eyes were locked on Mikael. Then their gazes shifted to Jarik. In a challenge, the warlord was perhaps the only one who could rival Mikael; he was almost equal in size and covered in markings, noting his skill. If it would be a collective takedown, the nobles would look to Jarik to lead the effort.
Norah clenched her hands so tight her nails dug into her palms. Jarik pulled his sword, and Bhastian’s hand wrapped around her arm.
Just then, the ash wood doors of the throne room swung open, booming an echo through the hall. All heads jerked toward the sound. Norah’s heart leapt into her throat, and she staggered up from her chair.
Gods’ mercy.
Through the threshold stepped Soren, axe in one hand, his sword in the other.
Norah’s heartbeat pulsed loud in her ears, so loud she could hear nothing else. She glanced at Mikael, but he stood, unmoving. The muscle corded under his skin as he clutched his sword tighter—he was ready to use it.
The air hung thick with tension. The nobles on either side of the hall bounced their gazes between Jarik and Mikael, then Jarik and Soren. But no one spoke.
Soren’s gaze swept over the room. His eyes held the night, darker than she’d ever seen, and they locked on Mikael as he strode forward.
Heat pulsed through Soren’s veins. He kept his eyes on Mikael. He saw it now—the likeness between them. The same darkness. The same fire.
They had the same blood—the blood of salar.
The eyes of the nobles followed him down the center of the hall and toward the throne. They were eager to have him back, their disapproval of Mikael rich on their faces.
And they waited. They waited for him to make his claim. He had their support. His gaze shifted to Jarik, and their stares locked. The warlord had followed him into battle countless times. Jarik gave a small bow of his head. He’d follow Soren as salar.
But Soren wasn’t salar. Salar of war, yes. But there was only one true salar of Kharav, and Soren had returned to make sure it stayed that way. He’d kill every man in this room if he had to, and by the looks of how the nobles were armed, he might just have to. But first, a message for them…
He strode to the edge of the dais, where Mikael stood with his sword ready. And Soren dropped to his knees, his head hung low.
