CHAPTER ONE
SMOKE ROSE IN the wake of each step Dorian took.
His fire form threatened to surface with every shortened breath.
Entire body trembling with the reality around him.
His sister was dead. His kingdom was about to be pulled into flames. And his mentor, his King, was about to...
Dorian shook away the thoughts and continued up the winding staircase.
He couldn’t stop seeing the flames that had engulfed Aydra against their own mother’s tree. He couldn’t stop hearing Nyssa’s screams and feeling her writhing against him in anguish as they were forced to watch. Nor could he stop the pounding in his head and his heart as he ascended the steps to the great tower.
He half expected to be met with a legion of Belwarks as he and his Second, Corbin Ashember, moved through the castle as Ash, the Dreamer Captain, had seen Dorian take Draven’s horn from the lockup.
Reaching the top, Corbin stood outside as a precaution while Dorian entered. Dorian emerged into the tower and found the Venari King—his King, Draven Greenwood, sitting against the opposite wall, knees pulled into his chest.
“You’re late,” Draven grunted.
Dorian paused at the threshold and stared at Draven. “Would you like me to go back?” he snapped, unable to stop himself. “I can wait and show up another night.”
A flicker of amusement danced in Draven’s eyes, but he didn’t comment. He pushed to his feet as Dorian crossed the room. “Thank you,” he said upon Dorian’s handing him the horn and a pail of water.
“Get your sister and get out of here,” Draven told him. “Hide below the Belwark Temple and do not come out until sunrise. They will not know the difference between friend and foe.”
Dorian nodded, unsure that if he spoke, it would be audible. “What will you do?” he forced himself to say.
Draven’s gaze pushed past his shoulder to the open doorway to the Edge, as they called it, and his fist clenched around the horn. “Burn it to the ground.”
But Dorian couldn’t move. He knew what Draven intended to do. The entire plan, including what he would do once the kingdom was in ruins.
And he wasn’t sure he was ready to give him up, too.
He watched Draven move the bucket to the center of the room and then stare at the horn in his hand. Draven’s eyes poured over the object as though it held in it some cause for this predicament.
“You don’t have to do this,” Dorian managed, voice sticking in his throat. “I mean. You don’t have to... Go.”
Because he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“Burn the kingdom,” Dorian continued. “But don’t...” Dorian blinked back burning tears. “Don’t go.”
Draven rubbed his neck, face softening and eyes reddening. “You don’t need me, Prince,” he said softly.
“I do—“
“You don’t,” Draven argued.
“Who will teach me to be a King if not you?” Dorian practically begged. “Who will help me find my voice and speak up? To take care of people who don’t even love me? How to be better than previous Promised Kings? Who will—” His chest heaved, and Dorian tried to take a breath, his hands pressed to his hips, eyes downcast and waiting on Draven to say something.
Anything.
Finally, he met the Venari King’s eyes and managed, through a cracking voice, “How will I know if what I’m doing is the right thing?”
“You won’t,” Draven said simply. “And having me around to look over your shoulder as you make those decisions won’t help you. You have to do this on your own. You have to fight for what you want your reign to stand for. No one can do it for you.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You will.”
