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ChapterOne
KIRRAN
My father gapes at the wine-red stains on my hands and forearms as if they’re the sign of a curse. For an autumn fey, they might as well be.
“Kirran.” He rubs his fingers over his mouth and down his chin, curling his hand into a fist beneath it. With his other hand, he grips the polished wooden armrest of his throne. “What have you done?”
I stare at him, shoulders squared. “Won.”
My father grimaces and shakes his head.
His skin is brown, the dusty shade of dying leaves. The color my hands were when I left the palace seven years ago. When we kill, our sin inks us with barren branches stretching up from our hands, like our victim’s blood silently crying out from our skin. Every life taken extends the marks, deepens the branches to a brackish red and beyond, until they mirror the darkness of a cavern.
I don’t know any soldiers without at least a few branches. But the marks can evidently reach a point where the old bloodstains they mimic hit their apex, where the branches don’t grow any darker or thicker or longer. Though it’s not for lack of trying.
What have I done? It should be obvious.
Without taking his eyes off me, my father beckons a servant over. The man listens for a moment, bows, and scurries from the room.
A pace to my right, General Zeccar clears his throat. “If I may, Your Majesty. Prince Kirran’s presence on the frontline made the difference between victory and defeat on numerous occasions.” His folded hands flex at his back. Dozens of stains mar his skin, more than most other officers’. But his magic isn’t killing magic. He meets my glance with a half-smile and settles his attention on my father. “Merciless enemies must be met with mercilessness. You should be proud of him. He has honed himself into a formidable foe.”
Zeccar would know. His enhanced memory magic allows him to forget nothing, and since he stuck close to my side, he’s probably seen me kill more times than anyone else has. Both with blades and my mind.
“As you hoped.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Zeccar dips his head in a bow.
My father’s hard gaze slides between us. The stained-glass windows high above fling pale daylight across his crown and shadows over his face. “Unfortunately, a weapon’s place is on the battlefield. Yet here we are, in a palace. Tell me, what use is honed withering magic in a palace?”
I bristle but say nothing. Zeccar keeps his head down. His jaw tightens.
My father studies Zeccar for a moment longer, all the while idly tapping the armrest. The jeweled ring on each finger glimmers. “General, you may take your leave. I wish to speak with the crown prince.”
The air locks in my chest. Never before has that title been applied to me.
Zeccar salutes and turns away, flashing me the slightest wince where my father can’t see it. His steady footfalls soften in the distance.
The instant the main doors close behind him, my father pushes up from his throne. He steps down from the dais, planting his hands on his hips as he scans me. If he tries at all to hide the way his focus lingers on the stains, he fails. When I left, we were about the same build. Whether time has strengthened me or simply shriveled him, I can’t tell. Or perhaps it’s due to his thirtieth year as king approaching its end.
In the weeks it’s taken my army to return since the human king of Codrin surrendered, I did find time to clean my armor, at least. So he can’t complain about that too.
“Am I to believe that this is how you will behave as king?” He gestures at my hands. It isn’t concern in his voice, merely mockery.
“What, winning?” I allow a faint smirk to skim my lips. “Yes, I intend to keep winning.”
“No, Kirran, being reckless and ruthless, refusing all diplomacy in favor of…carnage.”
A cold laugh almost spills out. I settle for icy words instead. “What kind of diplomacy do you think happens on a battlefield? At least one path actually gets the job done.” I shrug and start past him toward the back doors of the great hall. “Guess you should’ve had more sons so the crown definitely wouldn’t get down to me.”
“Kirran —”
I whirl back to face him, my boots scraping across the stone floor. “What?”
My father snags the pair of dust-colored gloves from the returning servant and holds them out. “You will wear these tonight.”
“Tonight?” My plans for tonight include food, drink, and some much-needed sleep — none of which require gloves.
He blinks like he’s unsure whether my response is confusion, a joke, or idiocy. “The masquerade.”
