The knights protecting the corridor leading to the royal chamber fight bravely, but there're too many of us. I smash my sword on the shield of one of them, stab another in the side as he wields his sword at me, then parry the blow from the first one. Grunts and shouts and the clashing of steel fill the narrow corridor. Our opponents are better swordsmen than we are, but our sheer numbers and the rage of our attack level the chances. Dead and wounded add up on the floor as the door at the end of the corridor grows nearer. Finally, I find myself in front of it, panting, sweat burning my good eye.

'Go for the king,' Oliver had said to me before we parted. 'I'll take care of Ferox. Go and do what you always wanted to do. Destroy the bastard.'

It sounded like music to my ears.

We slam the door open and barge inside. I have never been to the royal chamber before, and it looks huge, even compared to that of Hadrian. I only have time to notice a high canopy bed by the far wall and a few people surrounding it, before two more guards rush at us, wielding their swords.

It doesn't take us long to overpower them.

Mortimer is bending over the bed. He pays no attention to the crowd invading the room, but then Hadrian appears from behind him, and heads towards us. He steps down from the low dais on which the bed stands, looking pale but determined, a sword his hand. His eyes dart from one face to another until they stop on me and turn into two angry slits.

"You, dirty..." In a flash, he raises his sword and brings it down at an angle, aiming at my throat.

I parry his blade and stumble back from the force of the impact. From the corner of my eye, I see others raise their swords, and I bark, "No! He's mine!"

He forces me back, dealing one quick blow after another. I manage to parry them, but his skills are clearly above mine, and it takes all my mastery just to meet his blows, let alone try to counter-attack. People move out of our way, giving us space, as he keeps pressing me back. He must know the crowd will tear him to pieces once I'm down, but he seems intent to take me with him anyway.

"It's over." Mortimer's strong voice carries over the clanging of steel. "His majesty has passed away."

It makes Hadrian pause for just a tiny second, and I make use of that momentary distraction. My sword hits his hand. The blow lands on a steel plated glove he's donned for the hunt, and although it prevents his hand from being cut off, the force of the blow sends his sword flying away. The next moment, men swarm over him and bring him down to the floor.

"Savages!" Mortimer rumbles. His chin held high, he steps from the dais. "How dare you come here?" Behind him I see Philto's skinny figure crouching by the bed, looking with horror at the approaching crowd. "How dare you desecrate this place at an hour when your ruler is –"

Before he can finish his sentence, Grumio steps forward and buries a dagger in Mortimer's chest. I catch my breath in surprise. Mortimer's eyes open wide and his hands grab at the hole that has opened in his chest as the blood begins to soak his white garments. He croaks and coughs and then drops to the floor, his hands still pressed to his wound. Standing over his twitching body, Grumio looks back and gives me a smile. Then he turns around and walks to the bed, and others follow.

Philto drops to his knees at our approach.

"Please," he mutters. "I yield, I yield! I'm just a scholar. Don't kill me."

I look at the man lying on the bed. The king's face is pale and distorted in a grimace of pain, but there's no life in him anymore. His hands seem frozen in their last motion, gripping at the sheets at his sides. One of the men reaches out to check his neck, then looks up.

"He's dead," he says and then repeats, louder, "The king is dead!"

The room fills with shouts of triumph, while I stand there, watching the dead man with mixed feelings. I wanted him dead but not like this. I wanted him to know for what sins he was being executed. I wanted for the names of my parents and Grandpa to be the last words that he would hear. I wanted for him to suffer.

Instead, he just...passed away. I see no wounds and no blood on his body. I remember the guards writhing on the floor in the gatehouse. No wounds there, too. Poison?

They say that poison is women's weapon of choice.

"What about him?" someone says, and I turn around. A couple of men are holding Hadrian with his hands behind his back. He's bending down, his hair falling on his face, his clothes bloodied. The man who asked the question stands next to him, pressing a dagger to his throat. "Should I finish him, or do you want to? You lost your eye because of him."

Becoming aware once again of the sword in my hand, I turn and walk to them. There would be nothing easier now than to bury my blade in his chest. I could tell him the names. I could make him pay for the sins of his father.

I grab him by the hair, force his face up, and look into his green eyes full of animosity, desperation and, surprisingly, tears ready to spill.

I try to summon the hatred that had been pushing me for so long, but I feel nothing. I hated the king, and Ferox, and those who kill innocents on their behalf. I don't like Hadrian, sure, but do I hate him? If anything, I feel sadness witnessing the downfall of someone who was given so much and chose to make so little of it.

"Take him to the throne room," I say. "Let Oliver deal with him."

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