In the dark, I tripped over an uneven floorboard, hands catching the shelves as I tipped forward. They tore from the wall with a resounding crack, and the shatter of breaking glass rang through the dim space.
Stairs creaked behind me. Someone was descending from the upstairs apartment.
I scrambled for the unbroken medicines, cutting my fingers on broken glass as I did. I swung my pack over my shoulders, bloodying the straps, and darted for the door.
I did not dare look back as my feet found the smoothened cobblestone street.
A great wrenching tore me backwards, and I struggled to maintain my balance as I turned. My eyes caught on the hand gripping my pack. A whimper left me, involuntarily, as I noted the dagger in Mr. Carmentis's other hand.
The shop owner was a healer, but one willing to fight to protect his livelihood.
“Thief!” He growled, dragging me into the dim light of the flickering streetlamp.
Mr. Carmentis stared in a mix of anger and shocked recognition.
I knew the look in my eyes must be pleading. I willed the healer to let me go—to let me save my sister—but the man raised his dagger in one hand as flame burst forth from the other.
“Mr. Carmentis, please,” I gasped. “My sister is dying,please!”
“Nothing comes free, child.” He shook his head in resignation. The healer would kill the boy who was once his patient.
“No!” I shouted, too loud in the empty street.
As the flame roared bright, reaching its licking tongue toward me in slow motion, I pulled desperately at my own mágik.
It flowed through me, stronger than it ever had before, and the calm breeze suddenly ripped into a frenzy. The tangle of wind wrapped lovingly around the flames then redirected them with violent passion. Fire burned brighter—hotter, more wildly—engulfing the healer in a searing cocoon of his own mágik.
The screams should have been enough to remind me to let go of the power. I should have smothered the flames and saved the man, but I was made of pure panic.
All I could do was watch Mr. Carmentis writhe on the ground, skin and flesh peeling back in black husks until all movement stopped and the street was quiet.
I should have heard the clicking of the horses hooves or the roll of the carriage wheels, but I heard neither as I fought for my life. I heard neither as I stared into guttering flames, stark on white bone.
A hand clamped down on my shoulder—weighted and fire warmed.
I startled, drawing back in wide-eyed fear.
Before me stood a man I had only seen in paintings.
He drew a regal portrait, spine straight and chin lifted. Red hair lifting in the breeze, the wild winds dissipating as if they had never been. A thin golden circlet rested upon his head.
Prince Claudian wore a sickening smile upon his thin lips as he introduced himself.
“What is your name, boy?” His voice had an oily quality to it—dark and smooth and wrong—fostering immediate distrust in me.
“My name is Harkin Aranti, Your Highness.” I forced myself to bow my head, clenching my shaking hands.
“Your first murder, was it?” Claudian continued to gaze at me with disturbing interest.
My eyes fluttered shut, and I swallowed down the sob which threatened to rip free of me. I thought, surely, I would be arrested or hanged for my crimes. I was guilty, as witnessed by the eyes of the Prince of Acsilla. When I finally managed them, the words were only a whisper. “Yes, Highness.”
“Hmm.” Claudian appraised me, considering. He came to an eventual conclusion, nodding decisively. “No one has to know about this, Aranti. We can keep it between you and I.”
We made a deal that day, in the dark blue hour of morning.
The prince would pardon me of my crime that night, if I agreed to use my particular skill set as a mercenary to the crown. There was no true choice. Agreement was the only option that left my family and me alive.
For weeks, I was sick over the thought of stealing or lying or killing again. I was sick over the fact that the prince believed me to be a cold blooded killer when I had never intended to harm anyone.
