A gift, she calls it, as the word “magic” is dangerous, even this deep into the provinces of the Unseelie Kingdom. Though curse is a more fitting name for that silver lake that lets me borrow its spells when things get tight.
Mages are nearly extinct since the Elders unleashed the Hex upon our world and left us all to fend for ourselves. As soon as one is identified, it’s reported straight to the Unseelie Governor. Their fate after is unclear—they are either tossed into the deadly Nightfall Trials or taken to the Unseelie court for “training,” never to be seen again. At least the humans. Lost are the powerful spells of the old days when mages could split mountains, summon armies of spirits, move oceans, and create objects out of thin air. Fae and humans alike are left with some defensive and weapon-conjuring spells and the Blessed Light, the cruel gods’ only mercy. The couple of spells I wield are at the level of a village fair magician, but they grant me the element of surprise and have saved me more than once.
“Don’t worry, Myrtle. I bet his ego is too fragile, and he won’t tell anybody that he got beaten up by—how did he call us? Whoring thieves?”
Laughter is the best medicine, and we cackle like two mad witches over the unconscious merchant at our feet. If someone sees us right now, we’d certainly end up at the Gallows Hills.
“Come to my room, Talysse,” Myrtle pleas as we prepare to head out. “Then we will see.”
“The night is still young.” I peek out of the stable doors. The crescent of the moon is still high beyond the golden veil of protective light cupping the city. The warm breeze carries music and laughter from the Red Moon square. “The caravan is still here; think of all the possibilities. But you need to get back home, Myrtle. Clean that wound up.”
She tosses me a long, silent look, wiping the blood off her neck and cleavage with the hem of her skirt. “You’re right. I am done for tonight. Be careful, Talysse,” she says and slips into the night.
“You too. See you later,” I whisper back and retreat to the dark corner where I keep my belongings. Cold sweat trickles down my brow as I hurriedly change into my best clothes. The last thing I need now is for that psychopath to come back to his senses. The Elders are merciful because he is still out when I throw one last look from the door, and the planks around him are slightly charred—the telling sign of magic.
After splashing my face with cool water from the barrel left for the horses at the stables’ entrance, I braid my hair again. The need to see Tayna guides my steps in the opposite direction of Red Moon Square. Just one more hit—one big one—and we will be taking the next caravan to the Free Cities. Then this weasel can whine to the City Guard as much as he wants, and her calculating adoptive parents can find another kid to groom into the perfect bride to sell.
The Prince
The Secondborn
The serene golden face of my brother glitters in the light of the wax candles. The burial mask has recreated his features up to the smallest detail and matches his golden locks, draping the red silk of his coffin.
The Golden Prince. The throne heir. My older brother.
I reproach myself for not feeling anything but a terrifying void inside me. The heavy incense and the scent of the embalmed body sting my nose, and my eyes well up. A lonely tear drips over his golden mask, but I quickly get myself together. An Unseelie ruler is expected to be ruthless and have a heart of stone. Mourning is for those below me.
Some nobles faint and had to be carried to their chambers; others drop on their knees and pull their hair in perfectly faked mourning. Terror and despair have been sweeping the Unseelie court for weeks. The heir to the throne was poisoned at his coronation ceremony before the eyes of his family and his entire court.
Murders by poisoning are quite a common way to trigger shifts of power in the Unseelie Kingdom. And I know very well that too many fingers are pointing at me: the Captain of the Shadowblades, the elite spies and assassins legion taking orders only from me, the future king’s right hand. The court sees my men for what they are and fears them: powerful and loyal warriors able to summon blades of pure magic and dismiss them at will.
Slipping a poison into the prince’s drink is the easiest thing to do.
Good. Let them fear us.
My mother’s sobbing still lingers in the vast hall, but my father is strangely quiet. His eyes—narrowed, cruel, challenging—wanders the room and rests on me.
“Are you prepared to step into his shoes, secondborn?”
Secondborn. His cold words thunder under the lacy arches of the domes above. The crowd of courtiers freezes, like creatures sensing an approaching storm. Some cower, others ruffle their feathers and place their bets.
“I have asked you a question, secondborn.” His icy blue gaze penetrates my flesh, and I feel his grip on my mind. He hasn’t used my name since the rightful heir dropped his chalice, his face turned purple, and his last breath left his body with a painful hiss. Like the rest of the court, he probably thinks the throne heir’s death is my doing.
I emerge from the incense haze, shrouding my brother’s body, and stride to the throne. My steps echo over the polished black marble floor, each one growing heavier.
“You do understand that the burden to rule is now yours after the untimely passing of the true heir.”
The true heir.
He repeats all the messages he branded into my mind since I was a babe. Swallowing the humiliation, I halt at the feet of the throne, shaped from a crystal that fell from the stars. The wailing of the courtiers has ceased, and the crowd is watching us, claws drawn, teeth bared, like a beast waiting to pounce. Now, blades are secretly drawn, poison vials are opened, and loyalties are being tested.
The power shifts in the court of the Unseelie King happen fast and unannounced. The weak and kind ones are weeded out, and millennia of backstabbing and lust for more power have turned us into a race of ruthless murderers.
Subconsciously, I shift my weight, assuming an offensive stance. Years of ruthless military training have beaten it into my muscles. The silk and velvet carpets covering the steps to the throne swallow the sound of my move. The palace guards’ hands reach to the hilts of their swords, and their postures tense up. I can guess what’s on everyone’s minds right now. Will the arrogant, murdering prince go the last mile and kill his father in his lust for the crown?
The nobles let out a collective breath of relief as I drop to one knee and lower my chin. Those who placed their bets on me might not be happy, but a bloodbath between the palace guard and my Shadowblades with the whole court caught in the middle is not something I desire. Not right now.
“I understand, Father. And I am ready.” The words ring loud and clear. They’re true. There’s nothing I have desired more. I’m prepared.
