Mal appeared at their side in his emerald brocade suit. The three of them stood alone.
Mal looked at each of them. “Thank you,” he said, his voice dripping with gratitude.
He stepped forward, the magical lights of the throne room glistened across his beautiful face. Maeve couldn’t help but smile. Abraxas’s arm tightened in excitement, pulling her closer as Mal stepped onto the shining tiles and began his promenade down the hall towards his throne.
Every magical on Earth was invited. Not just Purebloods. Anyone with Magical blood was offered a place in the Dread Lands. Some dropped to their knees as he passed. Some dabbed their eyes. Some tossed flowers and tokens of magic at his feet. Children looked up at him, captivated by his princely stride.
Mal reached Ambrose near the throne and climbed the stone steps. At the top of the platform, he kneeled on a dark velvet pillow, his eyes stared above the crowd, not meeting any one particular gaze.
Ambrose placed the Dread Crown on his head with careful ease. Mal’s chest swelled noticeably as the silver serpents made contact with his skin. His eyes fluttered to a close. His fingers reached up and brushed along the crown.
“Arise,” said Ambrose, his voice echoing across the hall with power. “Malachite no longer his name. He is reborn as the Prince of Darkness. The Redeemer of Magic.”
The solid tapestries spanning the height and length of the hall burst to life with black sparks. Burned into them with dark smoke was the Dread Mark: the decaying skull and winding two-headed serpent that now decorated Maeve’s chest.
The Hall moved as one.
As one they bowed their heads to him.
As one they waited for his command to look up.
With an outstretched arm, he pulled their attention up. He smiled fully. And dropped his hand.
The hall erupted in thunderous cheers and exclamations. Applause rattled the very floor. Mal took his time accepting their accolades.
He looked to Ambrose. Who nodded once in approval. Mal took his seat on the throne. Maeve’s legs wobbled slightly at the sight.
“My turn, cousin,” said Abraxas, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
Abraxas dropped her arm and strode down the hall towards Mal. His suit was a deep shade of emerald, nearly black velvet. His blonde hair was styled back fashionably.
Abraxas stood before Mal. He bowed at the waist, a grand gesture of his adoration and allegiance to his new Prince of Darkness. He rose and placed his fist over his heart.
“Abraxas Flint Rosethorn,” said Mal. “I name you Hand of the Prince.”
On Abraxas’ chest appeared a silver broach. It was a serpent missing its twin. It’s mouth closed. One of the serpents of the Mal’s Dread Mark.
Mal motioned him forward, towards the throne.
He took his place to Mal’s left. He looked out and met his Mother’s eyes. His face beamed with pride. Her cousin had never looked so at ease, so perfectly in place.
It was Maeve’s turn.
She took a steadying breath and stepped forward into the hall.
Time froze. Her slow footsteps echoed across the Hall. Mal sat on his new throne with collected dignity. The perfect balance of confidence and humility. Like he knew he didn’t deserve to be there, but all the same, it was his.
The crown atop his head was designed for his perfect face. He looked older. More profound. With the slightest incline of his chin, that serpent crown gleamed across the hall, light bounced across the shining stone floor.
His magic found her a blink after. It stopped her in her tracks as it slithered up her legs and around her waist. Up to her chest and around her neck. Cold and deep magic.
He was more powerful.
The crown held Dread Magic. Just like the locket and the ring.
But more. Much more.
It was incredible. Threatening. Deadly. Alive.
