Creed stood at the edge of the hallway, a storm of armored knights awaiting them, stretching from wall to wall like a human blockade forged from steel and blind obedience.
Black and red glints shimmered down the corridor, and each helmet gleamed with unnatural light, their faceless visors all reflecting one target—him.
A breath escaped him like smoke.
He wasn't angry that Nicholas had made the smart move. No. Truthfully, if he were in Nicholas' shoes—armed with the floor control key, already ahead in the throne race—he'd have done the exact same thing.
Set up a defensive line. Send in troops to delay the competition. Stall until the throne locked into his name.
So no. He didn't blame Nicholas.
But he was still angry.
Angry at the mountain in his chest. At the clock ticking above his head. At the hundred knights trying to stand between him and victory when he was this close!
"Nicholas," Creed muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "You clever bastard."
