The doors exploded inward with such force that both bronze handles slammed against the stone wall.
A gust of cold air swept into the ruined chamber, stirring the blood on the floor into thin dark streaks.
Queen Mireya rushed inside.
Her layered silver robes tangled around her ankles as she ran, jeweled crown crooked from haste, pale hands gripping the skirts to keep from falling. Her breath came in sharp, frightened bursts. Panic widened her painted eyes before she had even taken in the full scene.
Then she saw how the two high priests lay sprawled across the ground like discarded carcasses.
One had collapsed beside the altar, neck bent at an unnatural angle, ceremonial beads scattered from his torn robes.
The other lay face-first in a widening pool of blood, one hand still stretched toward the king as though begging for mercy even in death.
Incense still burned from overturned braziers, mixing the scent of sacred herbs with iron and slaughter.
