Page 2 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

I unclenched my fist, and steel made of midnight shadows streamed outward inch by inch. I took my time conjuring the broadsword. To the crowd, it probably looked like I was concentrating, but I could’ve summoned a flurry of blades in less than a heartbeat.

Berian’s smile tightened. He knew I was stalling. The message rang loud and clear: get on with it.

But the boy was praying.

“Please, Divine Mother,” he whispered, voice cracking from a body striving to grow into a manhood that would never come, “I didn’t mean to…”

Turning my head so the crowd couldn’t see my lips move, I whispered, my throat thick with bile, “It’ll be quick. I promise.”

I’d long ago accepted that duty would never be sweet, but I’d never expected it to feel so often like sinning.

Berian’s smile widened as the boy’s sobbing crescendoed.

I raised my conjured sword. “For what it’s worth,” I said softly, “I believe you.”

I locked my emotions behind the walls I’d built as a child. If I let myself feel too much—now, ever—I couldn’t serve my people.

Yet something broke through those walls just as my blade emerged on the other side of the boy’s neck. Chains rattled against the blood-soaked boards as his body crumpled sideways. I nearly did the same—right there in front of the crowd—as prickles of awareness danced across my skin, making all the fine hairs on my body stand on end.

I eyed Vaustin with suspicion. But it wasn’t an attack. There was no telltale vibration or hum in the air of magic.

A tug. At first, I thought it was my shadows stirring, finally breaking free of their human cage, but the sensation was as soft as a sigh against my skin.

Then another, distant and unseen, pulling insistently at the heart of my magic. It was so sudden and soul-deep that it nearly rocked me off my feet a second time. When I looked at the crowd, thinking the source might be there, I found nothing.

Whatever it was, it unsettled something in me I hadn’t known could be stirred. The sensation settled into a strange and oddly comforting warmth—a quiet stillness that didn’t belong on a scaffold. Didn’t belong to a sinner like me.

The feeling passed, swallowed by the clattering of rain and the stench of death.

I shook off the lingering doubt. There would be no forgiveness for this. It was probably my guilt coming to life in a new way, ready to cast its shadow over my thoughts like it always did, donning the disguise of mercy I didn’t deserve.

The last drops of an innocent life soaking my blade fell to the ground as I released the magic that had formed the weapon. Clenching my hands at my sides to keep them from trembling with pent-up rage and powerlessness, I turned to face the audience instead of the child I’d just beheaded according to my brother’s orders.

Whispers of the Shadow Prince and Shadowborn erupted, now louder after my display. Some praised my swiftness, but the venomous words of others surely would’ve poisoned me if I hadn’t fortified myself against them years ago.

I could force my shadows down dozens of throats at once. Could stop their insults forever. I could break half this crowd in the time between heartbeats… But I wouldn’t—ever.

I kept my face carefully blank. Emotion was a luxury I could never afford in public. I shoved the guilt down, burying it with all the other fractured parts of myself so deep that I wasn’t even certain who I was anymore.

“Justice has been served!” Berian cheered above the din of the crowd.

My men watched me in silence. Only a few heads bowed in reverence to the dead. The silent struggle that raged inside me forced me to move my clenched hands behind my back.

Yet I was too slow. Camrick, my top general and best friend, stood next to my aunt Reina. Judging by the expressions on their faces, they’d both seen the agitated wisps jumping off my palms. Vaustin had seen them too. A smile crossed his face at my frailty. He collected a list of weaknesses the way other men collected jewels, polishing each one until it could be set into a blade. If the Assembly knew what made me crack, it wouldn’t be long before they pressed a jeweled knife to my throat. My death would be one fewer obstacle to getting exactly what they wanted: control over all of Avanfell.

It was a mystery to me why my brother was entertaining him. The Mage Assembly claimed neutrality in anything not related to the governance of magic. Neutrality, in the Assembly’s mouth, meant waiting until their mark bled enough to welcome a leash. Every crown that invited them to advise found its laws rewritten in purple ink. So why had I, next in line to the throne, been left out of the discussions they’d had behind closed doors recently?

Bow. Breathe. Mask on, Owain.

Soaked to the skin with rain that had a whisper of winter in it, I allowed the world to mistake my obedience for cruelty. I bowed my head to the king while an innocent boy’s blood mingled with the rainwater around my boots.

Berian moved on, discussing matters of civic pride and the year’s rich harvest with the assembled crowd. Now that the last of the dirty work for the public event had concluded, I was no longer needed. And yet still another duty I’d rather avoid was waiting on my desk unopened. A missive from Gelida—one I’d been half-hoping would resolve itself without me.

“The king wants a word alone after this,” one of my brother’s personal guards murmured as I finally stepped off the platform, mud and grass squelching under my boots. So…the day still held more personal degradation. My delay on the platform had likely annoyed Berian, or perhaps he had one of a thousand other grievances to express.

My body moved to obey before my mind did, my ingrained loyalty stronger than my disgust. As I crossed the courtyard, people stared, their gazes wary, like they were waiting for me to slip on the muddy paths. I sometimes wondered what it would feel like to be met with the same approval they gave Berian, instead of that ever-present dread.

With every step away from the public eye, my older half-brother’s leash tightened around my neck.