I will be a king.
The king that would change everything in this wretched world.
The king and the queen will withdraw to their summer palace after my coronation. The long centuries of rule have taken their toll on my father, and his enemies whisper that he’s softened lately.
A mistake I would never make.
But how do I rule over a court of vipers and backstabbers? How do I keep the countless cousins, uncles, and nobles with great ambitions and large armies in their place?
By making them reveal their intentions. By forcing them to take the first step and strike.
Pushing to my feet, I turn around to face the court crowd. Turning your back to the king and the queen is already an offense punishable by death. Still, everyone knows very well that my father, my old, angry, and wary father, his frame already distorted by the weight of his long life, would never follow through and kill his only heir.
I stalk the herd of nobles, and a thin smile curls my lips when I notice how they flinch. Fearful gazes drop to my empty right hand. They know that I can summon my Shadowblade in the blink of an eye. And no usual weapon is a match for it.
The Wildling they call me behind my back, referring to my many ventures into the Wastelands beyond the protective halo and the thick walls of the capital.
My steel studded boots are still crusted with the black soil of the desolate lands, and my travel clothes bear the faint scent of the wild, of tainted blood and ashes. Relishing in their fear, I ignore the old king’s angry calling.
Nobody would risk challenging me openly; that much is clear. And it is not a duel invitation or an army at our gates that I worry about. It is the drops of poison in my food; the dagger slipped into the hand of someone I trust.
I open my arms in a dramatic gesture and let them take in my tall frame, the crimson stains on my leather armor, and the speckles of black blood over my face and hair. Let them see who they will be challenging should they decide to take over what is mine.
“Father, Mother, I am ready to rule.” I pace along the line of courtiers and halt before Aernysse Stargaze, the court mage, then dip my chin in a sign of respect. She straightens her bony shoulders and bows, sensing that I am speaking the truth. “And as you seem to be having doubts, I would like to prove myself worthy of the crown. I ask for permission to participate in the coming Nightfall Trials.”
How do you make those who plot against you in secret reveal themselves?
By giving them the perfect opportunity to strike.
The courtiers hold their breath, and I clearly hear my mother gasp behind my back. The ancient black eyes of the court mage narrow and dart to the throne dais. I resist the urge to turn around and see my parents’ reaction. My mother’s eyes are probably wide in terror that she will lose another son, and my father’s knuckles are white from clutching the armrests of the star crystal throne.
If he refuses to let me participate, he will show weakness and admit that his last living son, the Captain of the Shadowblades, is not strong enough to handle the deadly Trials.
“Prince Aeidas, you are granted permission to participate in the Nightfall Trials. May your deeds please the Elders!” the king finally declares.
A deafening cheer erupts beneath the arched vaults of the throne hall, contrasting oddly with the stillness of my brother’s cold body and the mourning priestesses at his side. My gaze sweeps over the crowd and I spot some of my Shadowblades scattered among the courtiers, all blending in, dressed in mourning red. They carefully watch the reaction of the crowd: some of the nobles are already plotting my demise.
Perfect.
Since the Seelie Fae are gone, the Nightfall Trials are all about hunting humans and keeping their magic in check. Humans breed like pests, and if we allow every human mage to survive, soon hundreds of magic-protected human settlements will sprout across the Wastelands, triggering rebellions and wars for resources. The Nightfall Trials are a great chance for young Fae nobles to hunt and thin their numbers; it is cruel but necessary.
But this year, they will be hunting a prince.
Talysse
Tayna
Ihave never seen the stars. Only a few have—travelers and adventurers who dared to venture deep into the Wastelands, far beyond the safety of the Beacons. I’ve devoured every story about the outside world in the Temple library, but my mind still struggles to imagine how a sky filled with countless flickering lights would look. The shapes they create—the constellations—are said to have once guided the priests of old, allowing them to foretell the future by the movements of these celestial wonders. It’s a concept so fascinating and alien in a world perpetually bathed in a golden magical shimmer.
The soft light of the Beacon veils the city and its fields in its gentle halo. Dozens of crystals, strategically placed throughout the city, reflect and amplify the spell. Magic is life. Light is life. Beyond the city walls and the protected fields, everything has succumbed to the Taint. Shadowfeeders prowl the darkness, their howls echoing over the walls, haunting the townsfolk’s dreams during the long nights. Everything living in their path is either torn apart and consumed or corrupted, doomed to become one of their thralls—the Tainted Ones.
The narrow back-alley reeks of urine and cheap sour wine. A couple of rats scurry behind the moldy crates lined along the walls. There is no living soul on the streets anymore, and the lights in the windows go out one by one. Those who are not at Red Moon Square are saying their prayers, hoping that the sun will rise in the morning. The Beacon glows like a golden torch at the heart of Tenebris. Light burns in the narrow window beneath the amplifying crystals on top. Mage Eloysse will stay awake all night with the help of some potions, she’ll be working her spells, sending magic words into the crystals, and keeping the city safe. Elders help us all if she falls asleep or exhausts her gift. Rumor has it that the Unseelie Governor has rejected Magister Deepwell’s pleas for another mage. The old man in charge of Tenebris is a fool. Even the children know that you can’t expect mercy from a Fae.
The growl of two brawling stray cats startles me, and I wipe the sweat off my brow, hastening my step. The night is hot and young, and the festivities will continue for a few more hours until everyone drops, exhausted. There’ll be enough time to browse the merchants’ stalls and make some money after seeing Tayna.
The streets are getting broader, the pavement beneath the thin soles of my worn-out slippers—smoother. The houses on both sides of the road are painted bright, cheerful garnet red. They are so tall that they pierce the golden haze of the halo. Some roofs sport miniature star crystals, which capture and amplify the light of the Beacon—extra protection for the wealthy inhabitants.
The light is getting thicker—it looks like a glittering net of magic that is nearly palpable. Flowers in pots and even trees—a luxury in a world where nights might last weeks, are on every street corner. I love this neighborhood not only because it reminds me of my parents’ mansion but because of all the colors—blots of happiness in a world of gray and white.
