Chapter 442: Chapter 442: Out of Time

[Just know that I’m sorry. Warning: gore.]

Killian watched the princess cling to the returning soldiers with the fierce, shameless affection only children were allowed to show in palaces.

Arion gave a crisp little salute to Dominic, formal in the way Otto’s eldest could be formal when he chose, and then, as if the world hadn’t just reminded him what blood and duty looked like, he turned right back to the only urgent matter in his life.

The ball.

Boreas and the small victories of a child of his age.

The returning team began to drift toward the side entrance that led to the changing wing, their boots dragging slightly now that the adrenaline had somewhere to go, their shoulders loosening gradually, and their laughter muted and tired.

Dominic surrendered Gregoriana to a nanny who appeared as if summoned by the sheer force of Minerva’s maternal security protocol. The princess protested, of course, but she let herself be carried after Dominic promised he wasn’t going anywhere without saying goodbye properly.

Killian remained where he was, hands clasped loosely behind his back, expression composed.

Hale shifted at his side.

His communication buzzed once.

Then again.

Hale glanced down, and his face changed in that immediate, resigned way of a man who knew exactly who was calling and exactly what kind of chaos it would be.

“Rowan,” Hale muttered.

Killian didn’t look at him. “Of course.”

Hale answered, turning slightly away. His voice dropped, clipped and professional. “Yes… understood… send the route.”

He listened for a moment, eyes narrowing, then gave a single nod like agreement was a physical thing.

“Copy,” Hale said. “We’ll be ready.”

He ended the call and exhaled. “They’re coming in soon.”

Killian’s gaze stayed on the garden, but the air around him sharpened by a degree. “All the team of our king?”

“Yes.” Hale hesitated, then added, almost like he couldn’t help it, “Alive.”

Killian’s mouth twitched faintly. “That’s the minimum requirement.”

Hale took a step back already, comm still in his hand. “I need to go coordinate the corridor and the inner gate.”

“Go,” Killian said.

Hale didn’t argue. He peeled away toward the palace doors at a quick pace, shoulders squared as if he could personally hold the building together with logistics.

Killian stayed.

His eyes tracked Arion instead.

The boy had resumed playing as if joy were a duty too—tossing the ball toward Boreas, laughing when the puppy overshot it, and sprinting to retrieve it when it rolled into the hedge line.

Gregoriana’s laughter echoed from somewhere nearer the nannies and benches now, still bright, still unbothered by the fact that the adults around her were made of tension.

Killian watched Arion’s small, determined movements and felt something in his chest ease in a way he didn’t usually allow.

Nero would play like that soon enough.

In Saha’s gardens. In their wings. Tossing a ball with sticky hands, laughing like the world had never asked him to inherit anything heavy.

The thought landed with a warmth so quiet Killian didn’t bother acknowledging it.

Killian’s senses caught a change in the air the way they always did when something was wrong: like a hair lifting on the back of the neck, like oxygen becoming slightly too thin.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t change expression.

But his attention snapped sharp.

One of the soldiers had lingered behind the returning team.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing immediately suspicious. Just… slower than the others, head angled as if listening to something nobody else heard. A woman, helmet under her arm, uniform dust-streaked, boots scuffed.

She stood near the garden’s edge, half-shadowed by the archway.

Her gaze was fixated on Arion.

She stepped forward.

Boreas barked, tail wagging: friendly, stupid, and trusting.

Arion’s ball rolled toward the woman’s feet.

The woman smiled faintly and bent as if to pick it up, as if she were only being helpful.

Killian moved.

He took one step that placed him between her and the children, as naturally as a shadow sliding across the sun.

The woman straightened with the ball in her hand, still smiling, still calm.

“I’ll get it, Your Highness,” she said, her voice pleasant, her eyes still glued onto Arion.

Killian’s eyes lifted to her face.

And the world sharpened into a single point.

Her eyes.

Dirty golden.

Dirty. Clouded. Wrong… as if something crawled behind the iris and smeared itself there.

Corruption.

Killian didn’t inhale. He didn’t blink.

His voice, when he spoke, remained polite enough to pass as court etiquette.

“Stop,” Killian said softly.

The woman paused, just a fraction too long.

Then her smile widened.

It was a grotesque pulling of flesh, a parody of human expression that didn’t reach her clouded, golden eyes.

The pleasant facade shattered, replaced by a raw, predatory hunger.

Arion, seeing the woman still holding his ball, took a hesitant step forward. “My ball…”

Killian moved and placed himself more firmly between the soldier and the prince, his body a solid wall. “Step back, Your Highness.”

The boy’s eyes, wide and innocent, flickered from Killian’s tense face to the woman’s unsettling smile. He didn’t understand the danger, but he understood the tone.

He took a small step back, and his hand went instinctively to the pocket of his coat.

It was a habit, born of a life lived in the shadow of a father who was a living weapon. Even as a child, Arion had been taught that certain alarms were for moments like this, moments he didn’t fully understand. His fingers closed around a small, smooth device.

He pressed the button.

There was no siren in the garden, but a silent high-priority pulse fired into the palace’s secure security network.

IMMINENT THREAT.

SUBJECT: ARION.

LOCATION: IMPERIAL GARDEN.

Somewhere deep inside the palace, control panels lit up. Comms chirped. Doors locked. Cameras snapped to the garden. A rapid response team broke into a run before anyone had to say the words out loud.

The Alamina forces were terrifyingly fast.

The woman laughed once.

A sharp, ugly sound like glass breaking.

Her fingers, still curled as if they’d meant to hold the ball, twitched and contorted. Skin split with wet, tearing sounds as claws forced their way out, slick with fresh blood, erupting from her nail beds in less than a second.

The ball dropped into the grass, forgotten.

Killian didn’t hesitate.

He lunged, his arms open to grapple, to restrain, to do anything to stop the creature from getting past him.

He was too slow.

She flowed around his outstretched arms, a blur of corrupted flesh and blood-soaked uniform. Before Killian could register her movement, she pushed her clawed hand forward.

Killian grunted, a choked sound of shock and pain, as her blood-stained fist pierced his abdomen. The force of it lifted him slightly onto his toes. The pain was blinding, like a white-hot fire that took away his breath. Despite the agony, his training screamed at him. Don’t let her through.

He used the last of his strength to twist his body while her arm impaled him, throwing his weight sideways. It was a desperate, last act of defiance. He shoved the woman, knocking her aim off by mere inches.

It was enough.

Her claws, intended for Arion’s face or throat, instead raked across his left cheek. Four thin, bloody lines appeared on the boy’s pale skin.

Arion’s mind froze for a split second, unable to process the sight of Killian, a man of unwavering strength, with an arm buried in his stomach.

Then the pain hit. The shock.

The sight of his own blood on his fingers as he touched his face.

He screamed.

It was a high, piercing scream of pure horror.

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