Chapter 166: Murder
The hall felt frozen in time, the air thick with the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood. The crimson splatter painted the once-immaculate marble floor, and the sight of the headless knight sent a cold shiver down the spines of everyone present. Gasps and whispers of horror echoed around the hall, but all Thorne could hear was the furious pounding of his own heart, his focus honed razor-sharp.
With a flick of his hand, the fallen knight’s sword flew into Thorne’s grip, as though it belonged there. He didn’t hesitate. In one swift, merciless movement, he held the blade to the king’s throat, the edge biting dangerously into the royal skin. The king’s face twisted in disbelief and rage, but beneath the façade, there was a flicker of fear. The fear of a man who had never been this close to death, who had always believed himself untouchable.
"This is treason!" the king hissed, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and desperation. His green eyes bore into Thorne’s, trying to summon a fraction of the authority he had wielded his entire life. But his words, usually commanding, now sounded feeble and strained.
Thorne’s lips curled into a smile devoid of warmth. His grip on the sword did not waver.
"Treason?" he mocked, his voice cold and cutting. "No," he said, leaning in closer, his gaze as fierce as a storm.
"It’s not treason. I’m not your subject, your majesty. It’s more like murder." The word rolled off his tongue with a chilling finality, and for a moment, a shadow of genuine terror passed over the king’s face.
The king’s eyes flicked desperately to Noelle, seeking an ally, a sign of hope in the chaos. But Noelle only met his gaze with cold indifference. There was no sympathy, no fear, no loyalty to be found. Instead, a fleeting glimmer of amusement danced in Noelle’s familiar green eyes, a mocking light that made the king’s stomach drop. Noelle turned his head away, leaving the king to feel the full brunt of betrayal and helplessness.
"Thorne, that’s enough," Duke Remiro said, his voice calm yet edged with urgency, breaking through the suffocating tension. Thorne did not move, his jaw clenched tight, the sword still pressed against the king’s throat, his rage a living, palpable force that pulsed through the room.
"Thorne," Remiro called again, this time with a touch more insistence.
For a moment, Thorne’s grip tightened, his knuckles whitening. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath, unsure whether they were about to witness the death of a king. Finally, Thorne let out a deep, seething sigh, his eyes still locked with the king’s.