I Bought the exiled king (by Natalie Winter) novel Chapter 155

Chapter 155

Valencia

“Nina, you are going to tend to the injured and hold the doors closed until we return.”

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The Crone’s words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through the women gathered in the hall. The air itself seemed to pause.

Nina’s face drained of color, then flushed an angry crimson. “You cannot leave me behind like some novice girl. I am a senior priestess. My place is with you.”

Her voice was shrill, teetering on desperation, but the Crone did not so much as blink. She only turned her head slightly, the lines of her face set in iron.

“Your place,” the Crone said, slow and deliberate, “is where I assign you. And right now, that is with the wounded.”

Nina’s mouth opened and closed, her lips trembling. I could see the war in her eyes and the hunger to follow, to cling to power, warring against the terror she was too proud to name. She finally folded her arms across her chest and hissed, “Fine. But if you think she“-her gaze darted venomously to me-“is more deserving of your trust than I am, then you are as blind as the rest of them.”

Her words were meant to pierce, but they slid off me like dull blades. I had no strength left to waste on her bitterness. Killian’s face, bloodied and bound in the dungeon, rose in my mind like a brand seared into flesh. I had no room for Nina.

The Crone, however, did not let her venom pass unremarked. Her staff tapped once against the floor, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in the cavern. “If you had spent half as much energy tending to your sisters as you do sharpening your tongue, Nina, perhaps Sarah’s arm would not bear your mark.”

The Crone’s eyes, sharp as talons, pinned her in place. Nina flinched but quickly dropped her gaze, pretending to busy herself with the wounded women around her. I was surprised by the Crone’s resilience to see the King with her own eyes before labeling Nina as the culprit. Despite my claims, she relied on seeing an actual proof before taking any action against her.

Though I could feel that Nina was damaging her image on her own without me having to do anything.

While I was lost in thoughts, the Crone turned her back on her without another word. Elder Amara, who had remained silent all this time, now stepped closer and pressed a firm hand to my shoulder. “Come, child. We

cannot waste time.”

The three of us moved quickly, skirts swishing across the stone as we made for the narrow back corridor. My legs felt like lead, but fear lent me speed. Every step farther from Killian gnawed at me, yet every step toward the King felt like tightening a noose I couldn’t see.

“Do you even know where he is?” I asked breathlessly as we turned down a torchlit hall I had never seen before. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist, the sconces casting uneasy shapes across the wall.

The Crone did not hesitate or falter. Her gnarled hand brushed the wall, fingers tracing grooves I hadn’t noticed before. “The castle was carved from more than stone and gold,” she said, voice low but steady. “It

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Chapter 155

remembers its makers. And I remember their passages.”

日

That didn’t answer my question, not really, but the way she moved decisively and in a sure–footed way told me that arguing with her was useless. “You mean to tell me you know every secret path in this fortress?”

The Crone’s mouth curved in something like a smile, though it held no warmth. “Enough to keep those alive

who matter.”

Her words made my chest ache. Did I matter? Did Killian? Or was she only saving the King because the weight of the crown demanded it?

The corridor narrowed, walls pressing close until I could feel the cold stone brushing my arms. The smell of herbs grew faint behind us, replaced by a heavier musk of damp stone and old smoke. My torch sputtered in

the stale air.

“Careful,” Elder Amara whispered as the floor sloped downward. “These steps are treacherous.”

My foot slipped on slick moss and my heart lurched, but Amara caught my elbow, steadying me. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

I wanted to thank her, but my throat was too tight. The silence between us filled with the echo of my thoughts instead–Killian’s ragged breathing, the way his eyes had burned with anger even through pain, the way his voice had broken when he told me to leave him.

What if this was the last time I’d ever see him? What if, while I wandered these tunnels, he bled out alone in

the dark?

I blinked furiously, forcing back tears. No. I couldn’t think like that. He was alive. He had to be.

We passed a junction, two branching paths yawning like open jaws. I froze. Left or right?

Before panic could overtake me, I heard his voice again in memory, fierce and steady: Left when in doubt

I swallowed hard and turned left.

The Crone gave me a sideways glance, as if weighing my choice, but she didn’t correct me. That small flicker of approval steadied my trembling legs.

The tunnel grew colder. The air tasted metallic, like rust and old blood. My skin prickled with unease.

And then, at last, we emerged into a low chamber.

It was smaller than I recalled but the royal furniture and curtains told me he had stayed in this room, hidden from incoming attackers all this while.

The King.

He was slumped against the wall, his once–fine robes torn and smeared with dirt. Though some color had returned to his face. Even if his crown was nowhere to be seen. Though I didn’t think he was worried about his crown right now.

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His breathing evened out a little, but still shallow, every inhale scraping like gravel dragged across stone.

Relief surged through me so violently that I nearly collapsed. I had left him here, praying he would still be alive when help came. And he was alive. Barely.

“Your majesty!” Amara breathed, rushing to kneel beside him. She pressed a hand to his chest, lips moving in quiet prayer.

The Crone stepped forward too, her sharp eyes scanning his body. “He has held longer than I thought.”

I sank to my knees at his other side, fumbling for his hand. His skin was cold, papery. He stirred faintly at my touch, lids fluttering.

“Valencia,” he rasped, so faint I almost thought I imagined it.

Tears stung my eyes. “I’m here. I brought help.”

The Crone knelt slowly, setting her staff aside. “Not enough help. He is hanging by a thread.”

She placed both hands over his chest, her voice slipping into an incantation I didn’t recognize. The air thickened, humming faintly as if the stone walls themselves were listening.

But then the King’s body jerked, back arching as if something inside him fought to break free. His mouth opened in a strangled cry, and for a heartbeat his eyes glowed. Not gold and neither silver, but a deep, oily black.

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