Nyka glared, her grip tightening around her sword. She made a move to step forward but someone tossed his sword to the ground next to her.
“Saviour,” he said and he slipped to his knees.
“Father?” Nyka questioned the man, stunned. “What are you—”
“The Heir of the Lost Throne!” He bowed. “Finally.”
More and more people tossed their swords to the ground and soon enough the chanting of saviour filled the air. With a glare, Nyka sheathed her sword and turned away.
Everyone else might be foolish and desperate enough to believe the words of this “saviour” but she wasn’t. There was something about him that didn't put her at ease.
Something about him that didn't feel right.
She would find out what that thing was and put an end to this madness.
That was a promise.
