Stormveil Sample Chapter

The Princess & The Savage

The booted footsteps of her assigned Black Guards followed Aslyn Kiernan along the streets of Lemheller Gap in the very early hours of the evening. She wondered if they could hear the rapid beat of her heart increasing with each step toward Bloodstone Manor. If so, they would be on high alert, making the trap they were about to fall into even more dangerous for both her and the shadows waiting for them.

A week ago, she had convinced Marek to allow her freedom to venture into the city. He, in turn, had convinced his father, who only agreed if his hand-selected Black Guards escorted Aslyn any time she left the manor grounds. Even on the manor grounds, she detected them watching her every move. Only behind the closed doors of her bedroom did she have any sense of peace—assuming Marek didn’t drop in for a visit.

Aslyn turned the corner, the guards following a few steps behind. Their presence was even more cloying than Elisio had been in Stormvalor, perhaps because she had trusted Elisio on some level. Aslyn had never loved him, but she cared for him. The Black Guards, however, reported to Marek’s father and obeyed his orders above any other, except the emperor.

It hadn’t occurred to her until a week after leaving Stormvalor that she had no idea what happened to Elisio after dismissing him from her service. Was he part of the massacre in the royal suite? Despite the wound his betrayal of her trust had created in her heart, Aslyn hadn’t wished ill on him. He had just needed him to understand that things had changed, that they both had duties, that his judgment was clouded by his desires. She hadn’t taken the time to really look through the victims in the suite with everything else happening. Did he die defending her mother? Guilt gnawed at her every time she considered his demise. I hope he isn’t dead.

The people of Lemheller Gap were sharp-tongued and crass in ways that often infuriated Aslyn. Their markets were sparse, and the few times she had purchased from a vendor, they had inspected her coins as if suspecting they were counterfeit. No one bothered giving her thanks. They simply pushed her purchase into her hands and turned their attention to the next buyer or eyed her Black Guards anxiously.

Most of the buildings and homes were built of spruce trees harvested from the Umbr Mountains towering over the city. Each building rose two or three stories above street level, compressed thin and tall. Aslyn eyed some homes butted up close to each other. The upper floors extended beyond the main level, supported by thick spruce timbers. Some homes appeared slightly off balance. Builders created roofs out of carved slate from the mountains. She found each of them ugly, like a sloppy child’s version of a home.

Aslyn reached the narrow street that would serve as a shortcut back to Bloodstone Manor. Little light from the over case sky illuminated this street at any time of day, shadowed by the tall homes and the mountains beyond the city.

As she turned to venture along the shadowed street, a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, pulling Aslyn back.

Furious that he dared to lay a hand on her, Aslyn jerked away and rounded on the Black Guard. “Touch me like that again, and I will see that Lord Bloodstone hears how you manhandled me. This is a shortcut back to the manor, and I have no intention of arriving late for dinner.”

His black eyes tilted toward her own, not showing regret or fear. In fact, Aslyn couldn’t sense any emotion in him at all. Meanwhile, her own heart thundered in her chest.

Then his gaze darted toward the narrow street, searching for signs of danger.

Aslyn held her breath, worried about what he would find. The seconds ticked by painfully slow. The manor was still several blocks away, but this alley-like road would cut across a few of those blocks, shortening the trip back to the manor by at least fifteen minutes.

At last, he dropped his hand and stepped back. It required every ounce of willpower for Aslyn not to puff out a breath of relief.

Aslyn focused on putting one confident step in front of another despite the way her body trembled. Could they see or sense her limbs shaking? Seven Gods help us, Aslyn prayed to the lost gods. If this goes sideways, I’m a dead woman.

Since leaving Stormvalor, Blackblade had always been somewhere nearby, hiding in shadows like a silent guardian. He had managed to sneak into her room in Bloodstone Manor four times to speak with her. Those were the only times they had spoken, and always with clipped words. Blackblade was not the same man as Zayne—in body, yes, but not in soul—and the transformation infuriated Aslyn. Lies and deception would do that to a person. Still, they both had their own objectives, and for the moment they aligned…

… Find out what the emperor was up to before it was too late to stop him. It was for this reason they planned this trap—or more specifically, Blackblade planned it. She needed a way into the imperial palace. He needed one of the Black Guards alive.

Three more steps with the Black Guards following close on her heels.

Why did I ever agree to this?

Five more steps. Aslyn sensed his presence. She still didn’t understand how she knew when Zayne was near.

No, not Zayne, Aslyn, she chided herself. Zayne was a false name, a fraud, a fake by the name of Blackblade. He had lied to her for so long, manipulated her, betrayed her trust in nearly every way she could imagine.

For some reason, Blackblade had given her a blood oath. So far, he had kept to that oath, keeping her from harm from the shadows, but Aslyn wasn’t certain she could ever trust him again. Not fully.

Ten more steps. Aslyn could now point directly to where Blackblade hid in the shadows of a stack of barrels. Her fingers subtly slid along the handle of the knife he had given her back in Stormvalor. According to Blackblade, it contained a sedative. All she had to do was cut the skin and it would work quickly.

Blackblade had instructed where to aim with her knife the moment she had the opportunity so that she would not strike armor but instead pierce skin. She resented taking orders from him. But if anyone would know where a Black Guard’s armor was weakest, it would be the famous shadow assassin. “Don’t kill him,” Blackblade had ordered. As if she would.

The street was eerily silent, save for the faint click of Aslyn’s measured footsteps against the cobblestones, followed by the thump of Black Guard boots. Aslyn’s airy gray and red dress swished around her legs with each step.

Four Black Guards flanked her like ominous black forms of lethal grace. Their armored bodies moved with precision; the faint clink of their gear drowned in the oppressive quiet. Why was this street abandoned?

The narrow street darkened with each step, save for occasional bursts of light between houses that illuminated the red on her dress. She paused and tilted her face toward the sky, wishing she could enjoy warmth on her face. The Black Guards paused in unison, their hands resting on their weapons.

The first strike came as a whisper of air. A knife, forged of darkness and steel, hurtled through the shadows and embedded itself into the cobblestone between two of the guards. The sound was sharp, deliberate. A challenge. Aslyn nearly scoffed at Blackblade’s arrogance. He was warning them? Taunting them? What a fool!

Blackblade emerged from the shadows, his form melding with the dimness as his twin black knives reflected no light. He was a wraith, more a presence than a man. Even expecting his appearance, Aslyn gasped in alarm, her pulse quickening in fear. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not if he intended to keep his oath.

Without hesitation, the first guard surged forward, sword slicing through the air. Blackblade slipped to the side with liquid grace, one of his knives catching the guard’s blade and redirecting it into a spruce wall where it embedded in the wood. The assassin spun, his other knife carving through the guard’s armor with a chilling efficiency. The guard released his sword and staggered back, silent even in death, before crumpling to the ground.

The second and third guards attacked in unison, their movements calculated and swift. One guard’s blade sang as it sliced through the air toward Blackblade’s neck. The other guard drove low to cut off his retreat. Aslyn pressed a hand to her throat to fight off the fear that Blackblade was about to take a lethal blow. Instead, shadows surged at Blackblade’s command, forming a veil that swallowed him whole. Their weapons met only air and they stumbled a step.

Aslyn recalled her sword fight with Blackblade in Stormvalor. She had met him swing for swing. But the wraith before her now was not the same man. The man in Stormvalor had been holding back. Blackblade was a deadly force of shadows even the Black Guards couldn’t match. Maybe he really wasn’t trying to hurt me in Stormvalor, she realized.

The fourth guard marched straight for Aslyn. Her heart beat so wildly she could feel it all the way up her throat. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the mouth of the narrow street, leaving the other guards to deal with Blackblade.

Aslyn stumbled along, her fingers fumbling over her knife as she watched over her shoulder.

The two guards engaged in a deadly dance of weapons with the shadow assassin. Every time Aslyn was certain Blackblade would take a blow, he became a wraith once more, appearing behind them.

One of Blackblade’s knives raked across the second guard’s back, finding a vulnerable seam in the armor, while another knife deflected the third guard’s strike with a clash that echoed down the street. The second guard collapsed, immobilized by the strike to his spine. The third guard spun to face Blackblade, who danced away from the second guard’s gloved hands as he reached to unbalance Blackblade’s feet.

Aslyn’s final guard yanked her up the street without glancing back to see how his brethren fared against the assassin. Watching Blackblade over her shoulder, she stumbled and nearly fell a few times, only to be hauled roughly back to her feet by the unbreakable grasp on her arm.

This last duel was savage. The remaining guard’s movements were ferocious, each swing of his blade aimed with deadly precision. Blackblade met every strike, his knives moving in a dance of deflection and counterattack. Shadows rippled around him, tendrils lashing out to unbalance his opponent. The guard fought valiantly, his silence an unyielding defiance, but Blackblade’s speed and mastery were unrelenting. A feint with one knife led to the other plunging into the guard’s chest through a gap in the armor. As the man fell, Blackblade finished with a spin, plunging a knife into the second guard’s neck to be sure he was dead.

The third guard fell, his sword clattering to the ground, leaving Blackblade amidst the carnage, his breath steady and calm.

The clatter finally caught the attention of Aslyn’s guard. He let go, spinning to find out what caused the noise, probably hoping to find Blackblade on the ground.

Instead, Blackblade vanished in a puff of shadows, emerging only a few steps away in an obvious challenge to the sole survivor.

Her guard took a step toward the Blackblade.

Aslyn’s panic made her move, knowing her window of opportunity closed. She had been so mesmerized by the fight he had forgotten her only task. She palmed her knife as the guard lifted his arm to draw his sword. Her heart thundered in her ears, reminding her that death loomed near.

Before she could chicken out, Aslyn sliced upward into the fourth guard’s armpit where no armor protected his skin. He didn’t make a sound. Not as she cut him. Not as his sword fell from his fingers. Not as he fell face-first to the ground.

Aslyn stared at the blood on the knife, praying she hadn’t killed him. She’d never taken a life before. Blackblade promised that move would only render the guard unconscious. But could she trust him?

“It’s alright, Aslyn,” Blackblade said gently.

Aslyn jumped, startled from her own thoughts, to find Blackblade in front of her. His gloved hand fell over her wrist, easing the knife down to her side.

“He’s not dead,” Blackblade reassured her.

Aslyn’s gaze slipped from his to the guard she had cut. Sure enough, his chest rose and fell with steady breaths, eyes closed.

“Are they all…?” Aslyn eyed the guards.

“They deserved their deaths.”

Aslyn scoffed. “No one deserves death.”

“No one?” Blackblade didn’t lower his hood, but Aslyn could see clearly enough inside to notice his brows rising in surprise. “These men have killed innocent people in the name of the Imperial Seat. For all you know, they could have been responsible for what happened to your mother and guards in Stormvalor.”

Aslyn flinched. She hated that Blackblade was right and certainly would never give him the satisfaction of hearing her say it. “What gives you the right to make that decision?”

Blackblade turned from her, yanking the helmet off the unconscious guard. The man’s skin was sickly pale, his hair limp and thinning.

“He can’t return,” she said, realizing that the guard could give away what she had done, who she worked with. “If he does…”

“Don’t worry. He won’t.”

Aslyn didn’t wish this guard ill. He simply followed his orders. But if he returned and informed Lord Bloodstone that she had conspired against these guards, and continued conspiring against him, Lord Bloodstone would not be forgiving. He would hurt her, perhaps torture her. He wouldn’t kill her, not if he wanted his son to marry her. But there were a lot of ways he could teach her a brutal lesson without killing her, and everything she had worked so hard for—everything she had sacrificed for it—would be destroyed.

“You need to kill him.” She wrang her hands to fight off the tremble.

“Look who’s suddenly not opposed to killing when it benefits her,” Blackblade grumbled as he crouched and searched the guard’s pockets.

 Aslyn didn’t understand why Blackblade wanted to do this. He insisted he needed one guard alive, and that she would be unharmed—which physically she was.

“What is your plan, Blackblade?” Aslyn demanded. “I won’t be your pawn.”

“That’s rich from you.” He rose slowly, peering at her like a deadly predator. “Your time is running out.”

Aslyn shuddered. She was well aware of that. Marek reminded her several times a day. Aslyn had hoped for more answers this past month, but the Bloodstone family had kept her under such close watch she hadn’t learned much about the emperor’s plans at all.

“I’m working on it,” she said sharply.

“Right.” Blackblade strolled toward Aslyn. Despite herself, Aslyn stumbled away from him until her back was against the wall of a home. “Meanwhile, I intend to get some answers for you. But that requires one of them alive and a Black Guard uniform.”

Blackblade towered over her, his stone-gray eyes drilling into her.

Aslyn lifted her chin defiantly. “Can’t you just sneak in? Sneaking is the only thing you seem proficient at. That and killing.”

Blackblade’s jaw twitched. He reached a hand up and Aslyn tensed as it slid into her hair. She could knee him in the groin. That would teach him for touching her.

A pin fell from her styled hair, making part of it fall.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Aslyn hissed, hating how her stomach churned at his touch.

His steely eyes shifted to her shoulder, then his hand followed suit. “If you return in the same state you left, they will never believe you.” He ripped her long chiffon sleeve clean off her dress in one smooth motion. “There needs to be some sign of a struggle.” He tossed the sleeve.

Aslyn froze in place, unable to think clearly with him so close to her.

“Turn around, Sol’ami,” Blackblade commanded, but the words were so soft, and far too friendly.

Aslyn blinked in alarm. “What?” She hated when he called her that, and hated even more that she still had no idea what it meant. The nickname felt far too intimate, a remnant of his lies and betrayal. She wanted to scrub that nickname from existence.

He seized her shoulders and spun her around, pressing her chest against the wall of the spruce log home with one hand. His breath rolled down her shoulder-blade.

“Get off of me, savage,” Aslyn snapped.

“Calm down,” he grumbled.

A moment later, she heard a rip and felt a draft in her skirt. Aslyn prepared to unload a string of curses at him when his hands released and his body heat vanished.

Aslyn spun, ready to slap him, but Blackblade crouched several feet away over the bodies, moving them into different positions. Setting the stage, she realized. She inspected her skirt. The tear had been placed well enough not to be indecent, but enough to be clearly visible.

“Why the back of the skirt?” she asked.

“Well, you would be running away, wouldn’t you?” Blackblade said as he worked. “A rip on the front of the skirt might be suspicious.”

She peered down the front of her dress. Dirt stained the dress from when he had pressed her to the wall. She certainly looked like someone had assaulted her.

“They will double my guard for this,” Aslyn muttered as she fingered the ripped material.

“Good.” Blackblade didn’t bother glancing in her direction as he worked. “Maybe it will be a fair fight then.”

“Arrogant asshole,” Aslyn muttered under her breath.

He froze just long enough for Aslyn to know her words struck true. Good. He deserved it. “Better run along, princess. Before anyone sees you loitering with a savage.”

Aslyn gritted her teeth to bite back a retort, pulling her heels off so she could run. “Better make yourself scarce then, because I fully intend to make a scene.”

“I would expect no less from you.”

Aslyn couldn’t stop herself. She whipped a heel at him. He repelled it with shadows, not even moving a muscle in his body.

I hate you so much!

Then she dropped the second shoe, scrubbed her hands in her hair to make it a further mess, pivoted, and sprinted out of the side street, summoning all the panic she could muster.

But the tears that streaked down her face were far too real.

***

The moment Aslyn vanished from the street, Bast Blackblade dropped the shadows he had used beside a set of stairs leading up to the front door of one of the homes. A handful of bodies appeared—all men who had threatened Aslyn’s safety by tracking her movements outside the manor or trying to hire men to kidnap her. Every coin intended to harm her ended up in Bast’s pocket as he took the job. And every man who hired him ended up dead to ensure they didn’t hire anyone else when he “failed” the job.

Savage.

Bast clenched his jaw in irritation as he pulled one of the bodies into position. That woman knew exactly how to get under his skin. He had taken dark pleasure in ruining her hair and her dress, even if his reasoning remained sound.

She has no idea the lengths I’ve gone to protect her, he thought bitterly as he arranged another body.

True to her word, she burst from the narrow street with her skirt hiked up, making a ruckus. He would only have moments to finish this and vanish before more Black Guards arrived on the scene.

Even from over a block away, he could hear her cry for help as he arranged the final body into position beneath one guard, positioning their weapons in a dual-death position.

That she was worried about her dress and her guards clarified just how skewed her priorities were. Not that Bast would expect any less from a royal of any court. Aslyn acted like the entitled princess she was, condemning him for being judge and executioner only moments before doing the exact same thing—but demanding it of him.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Bast gritted his teeth as he hoisted the final guard up over his shoulder. The shadows sang to him as he pulled at their magic, wrapping them around him. Then he ducked cautiously out of the narrow street and followed his predetermined path to the abandoned house he had selected for this interrogation.

If Aslyn had any idea what Bast intended to do to get this guard to talk, her delicate sensibilities would be personally affronted and she would likely faint. He couldn’t help smirking as he imagined exactly that, watching her fall to the ground in shock. But as he realized there was still every opportunity for her to screw this up, his smirk faded.

She had better not fuck up her story, he thought as he slipped around another corner when a pair of guards appeared.

Bay of Shimmering Sapphire

Aethan Starkling’s hands tightened around the rail at the ship’s prow. A warm ocean breeze ruffled his pale blonde hair. An endless expanse of gently rolling waves stretched into the horizon on the port side of the ship. But that wasn’t where his attention fixed.

Slowly, the lead ship upon which Aethan stood turned toward starboard, headed for the distant docks nestled in a bay of shimmering sapphire. Breakwater rip-rap embraced the massive Arithian harbor and beaches to prevent erosion or danger from high tidal waves.

The city of Arithia rose in intricate, beautiful levels of white stone cradled by a backdrop of the lush green Aryth Mountains. Domed buildings and peaked spires sparkled as overcast light shone off the golden tiles atop them. High above, the Novavito palace towered like a guardian over the rest of the city. Even from a distance, Aethan could see the dam that controlled the flow of water from the Great River through the city itself. The river pulsed like a vein through the heart of Arithia. Cascading waterfalls flowed in almost purposeful patterns from high in the mountains, down past the palace, and into the many fountains of the city below.

While Aethan loved Mordelic, his own homeland capital, he had to admit that Arithia was just as beautiful in a very different way. Mordelic’s walls and primary buildings were composed of onyx marbled with veins of silver and gold. Arithia’s entire city seemed composed of brilliant white marble capped in domes of gold.

One day soon, this would be his home. He would become responsible for its people and its protection, supporting their future queen. That thought should have lifted Aethan’s heart with hope, but instead it made his gut churn.

Aslyn had gone with Marek back to Lemheller Gap. He had only received one brief message from her since. A reminder to stay the course. She had a plan. Not that he knew what that plan was. All he knew was that he had promised to get her father back and she held him to that promise. Aethan would do his best, but every day brought a fresh wave of torment knowing that she was in Marek’s clutches. What would he do to her? What had he already done to her?

The captain’s falcon flew in from the city. Aethan tracked the falcon as it headed straight for the stern where the captain guided the ship, then tucked its wings and landed on the captain’s shoulder.

Aethan pried his fingers from the rail, only then realizing how tightly he’d been holding on as his joints ached with the movement. Flexing his stiff hands, he descended the creaking wooden steps, crossed the main deck, and climbed back up to where the captain was finishing the message.

Captain Barrow was in his mid-forties, with weathered features and peppered hair. King Orrin had selected Captain Barrow because he was the best in the fleet and could command as many as twenty ships with little need for help. The king hadn’t given Aethan twenty ships for this rescue mission—only five. But five should be enough for the task. While King Orrin put his nephew in command, Captain Barrow was the one who controlled those five ships.

Without comment, the captain handed the note to Aethan, who read it quickly as the captain spoke. “Prince Dorin expected us. Not sure if your princess sent word ahead somehow. He’ll have men waiting for you and your guard at the dock.”

Aethan nodded and tucked the note into his pocket. “I suppose I should gather my things then.”

When he reached the narrow hallway leading to his quarters below deck, Aethan was greeted by a flurry of motion as his friends prepared to disembark as well. He couldn’t fault their eagerness. They had been on this ship for nearly three weeks, only making landfall to stop in Lago so Weylen could report to the king of Oshon, his liege lord.

Aethan nodded to Von as he slipped past and ducked into his quarters. During the journey, Von had spoken endlessly with Gorim—and sometimes with Aethan and his other companions—about the legend of the Cavern of Lost Souls deep in the Isles of Storm. Legend claimed that the gods stored a great power in the cavern, and that one day their chosen Champion would pierce the stormveil, enter the cavern, and obtain the power in the name of right and light. But the way Von spoke of it made the legend sound more like a prophecy. He tried to ignore it, for the most part.

Because of how many men were aboard the ship, many of them had to double up on quarters. Aethan’s space remained his own. Or it had, until one of Captain Barrow’s men uncovered a young stowaway a few days into the trip.

Aethan had been furious that Roric had the audacity to undermine his orders, but some part of him had been secretly happy to see the boy. With nowhere else to put him, the captain had insisted Roric share quarters with Aethan. But only after Roric had been forced to spend a day in the brig for his crime, and then he was forced to work off his occupancy by swabbing the decks every day.

Now, Roric shouldered two large packs when Aethan entered. “All packed and ready, sire.”

“I would say it might be safer for you to remain on the ship,” Aethan said as he reached for the suit jacket he had discarded earlier in the day. “But something tells me you wouldn’t listen.”

“I go where you go, sire,” Roric said, raising his chin proudly.

Aethan inwardly sighed. He expected as much. At least Roric had proven himself to be an adept spy in Stormvalor. That might come in handy to help Aethan dissect Arithian court intrigue during his brief stay.

He strapped on his sword belt, noting the way Roric eyed the blue-hilted weapon with awe. The boy had endless questions about the sword. Questions Aethan was unprepared or unequipped to answer. So much about the sword remained a mystery.

Aethan had discovered it in the Shrine of Justis, God of War. The weapon sat atop an altar, untouched for hundreds of years—perhaps longer—as if waiting for someone.

For him.

He recalled the way it had called out to him, pulling him closer until he wrapped his hand around the sapphire blue leather hilt. The way it had fit into his hand as if made for him. How it hummed and sang and whispered in response to his touch and movements.

The blade showed no signs of age, and the edge remained razor sharp. The sapphire stones on the pommel and cross guard sparkled as if powered by some inner light.

Aethan hadn’t told his father. He hadn’t shown him the blade either. Aethan didn’t know why he hadn’t told his father. Perhaps, deep down, he feared his father would reprimand him for venturing into the tomb again and stealing an ancient relic, then demand it be returned to its rightful place. But the sword had called to him. It chose him, and he felt bonded to it in a way his father would never be able to understand.

Whenever anyone asked about the new sword, Aethan simply stated it had been a gift. Most left it alone and accepted his statement. Only Roric persisted with his questions, though Von and Gorim had given curious glances. Thankfully, they never asked for more details.

By the time Aethan returned to the main deck, the ship had sailed past the breakwater and eased toward the harbor. The rest of his companions waited.

Six of his fellow competitors had accompanied Aethan on this mission. Kern and Weylen, from Oshon, were both expert archers. Gorim and Von, from Elpisio, were excellent with hand-to-hand combat. Cormic and Cavis were twins who hailed from Novavito. They were both good fighters, and Cavis’s skill with a sword was exceptional. Of course, for the two of them, this was a homecoming, and joining a mission to rescue their own king had required no coercing from Aethan.

It hurt Aethan when Trystain had declined. They were brothers through thick and thin. Or they had been. But when Prince Valen stole Sybil away from Trystain, something about Trystain had changed. Aethan hoped his friend just needed time to process what had happened and find a new path for himself. For all Trystain’s insistence that he was fine, Aethan could see the hurt his best friend had tried to hide beneath normal banter.

Since leaving Vorovesti’s military port, Cavis had spent a little time coaching Aethan on what he knew of Novavito politics. Not that Aethan’s own education lacked, but getting insider information on specific people would likely prove helpful in the days to come. Cavis had a lot to say about Prince Dorin, Aslyn’s brother. And the warnings about Ambassador Umbogo would not go unheard. Not that Aethen would ever underestimate an ambassador—and he knew why Aslyn feared Umbogo. She thought he was after her hand in marriage, which put Aethan in a dangerous position the moment he stepped foot in the city.

“Are you ready for this?” Cavis asked when Aethan joined them.

“Do I have a choice?” Aethan teased, though a hint of seriousness bled through. He couldn’t go on a mission to rescue the Novavito king without touching base with the Arithian court. Even with Aslyn’s blessing.

“I guess not,” Cavis said.

Aethan glanced at the others gathered around him as the gangway was situated for them to disembark. “The invitation to the palace extends to only myself and my squire,” he told them. “Cormic and Cavis will see you in reputable establishments close to the palace. Don’t wander. If I need you, I will send word through the brothers or Roric. Otherwise, enjoy yourselves. Just remember that we are here for a reason. Let’s not insult our hosts during our stay.”

They nodded and grumbled in agreement, accepting him in the leadership position without any arguments. Was that because of his connection to Aslyn and the Vorovesti king?

Aethan’s gaze swept the bustling harbor, landing on the royal coach waiting nearby, a footman ready to assist.

The others descended the gangway first, marching and lining the path to the coach like they were his personal guards. It felt strange having these men do that. They were his friends. His equals.

Roric made himself nearly invisible as he trailed behind Aethan with the packs. As the footman opened the carriage door, another appeared to take the packs from Roric. With a last glance at his friends, Aethan boarded the carriage and began the journey through the streets of Arithia to the palace.

“I assume I don’t need to tell you what to do once we’re settled,” Aethan said to Roric as he stared out the side window, watching the bustling streets of Arithia.

“No, sire,” Roric said.

“Do your best to avoid Ambassador Umbogo during our stay,” Aethan instructed. “And if he corners you, tell him nothing, promise him nothing. Ambassadors can be tricky, and from what Aslyn has said, Umbogo is no exception. Make no mistake. We may be welcomed into the palace, but we are entering a foreign court. Be on guard.”

Roric scratched his chin thoughtfully, then sighed. “I thought you were engaged to their princess. Shouldn’t that offer us protection?”

Aethan wished it were so easy, but even though he and Aslyn had agreed to the marriage, her mother was murdered before signing an agreement. And she died while visiting the city his family controlled. Aethan wasn’t sure how that would go over with Prince Dorin.

“Just be on guard.”

They fell into tense silence as the carriage drew closer to the palace. Another would follow with Cormic and Cavis soon, bringing the remains of Queen Giata home. They had no choice but to burn her body before leaving Vorovesti. The bloating of her corpse and the scent of death would have been overpowering on a ship for weeks—not to mention the potential illness such a thing could wreak havoc on a confined ship.

Aslyn hadn’t instructed Aethan to bring her mother home, but he knew it was what she would have wanted. He had to be very careful about not accepting any form of responsibility for what happened to the queen. Especially if Umbogo lingered nearby.

At a glance, Arithia appeared a rich city vibrant with life and wealth. But the closer Aethan watched through the carriage window, the more he saw the tell-tale signs of decay and poverty found everywhere in the realm. The wealthy moved through the streets with servants trailing carts and goods, while people watched each other warily. Houses showed cracks, dirty awnings, and shuttered windows. Beggars waited in the shadows, emerging only when guards were gone. Even the food on display was far from quality.

All in all, it reminded Aethan of Mordelic—except something festered in the heart of Arithia. Was this all because their king was missing and the heir to the throne had not yet returned? What would Aslyn do if she knew the state her people were in? Would she abandon her mission and return home? Did her brother not know how to rule as steward until one of them returned?

The carriage wound its way up the streets hugging the side of the mountain, slowing only for sharp turns. When they at last reached the courtyard and stopped, Aethan ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his jacket to be sure he was presentable. Nervous tension writhed in his gut. The door opened.

Aethan drew in a breath to steady his nerves, then released it slowly before stepping out.

The warm summer air in Arithia was more stifling than the summers in Mordelic and he regretted the heavy material of his jacket the moment the thick heat beat down on him.

A tall, thin man in his middle years waited to greet Aethan atop the palace steps. Aethan straightened his coat and marched confidently forward.

“Lord Aethan Starkling,” the man said, bowing just deeply enough to be deferential, “We are surprised by your arrival but pleased to host you all the same.”

Host? Aethan resisted the temptation to glance toward the city. They were not playing host. He would be King Consort soon enough, and only Aslyn would have power beyond his own. When he finished the rescue mission, he would do what he could to help restore balance in this city for her and her father, at their will. But as far as Aethan was concerned, this would be home. For now, he would play their political games.

“I hope it isn’t too much of an imposition,” Aethan said. He kept his back straight and chin proud as his father taught him, resting a hand non-threateningly on his sword.

“No, of course not,” the man said swiftly. “I am Javon Nadier, King Novin’s royal accountant and personal assistant.”

Aethan vaguely recalled Aslyn mentioning this man once. He nodded politely. “Pleasure. If you don’t mind, my squire would like to get my things settled into my room. Once I’ve had a chance to clean up, I would like to speak with Prince Dorin.”

“As you wish,” Javon said, motioning them inside.

He led Aethan left, and up a set of wide, winding stairs to the third floor of the palace, watching Aethan from the corner of his eye all the way as he shared pieces of history about priceless pieces of art as they passed. Aethan took it all in politely, but he spent most of his life in a palace. If Javon hoped to impress Aethan, he would be disappointed.

At last, they stopped inside a large sitting room adorned with colorful tapestries and sheer curtained windows that fluttered in the breeze. Aethan could hear one of the many waterfalls somewhere in the distance.

“Please get cleaned up and make yourself comfortable,” Javon said from the doorway. “His Majesty would be honored to host you over dinner.”

“Thank you, Javon,” Aethan said politely.

Javon bowed and slipped out the door, holding the handle to pull it closed behind him. But he paused, glancing at Aethan. “Do you know when we might see the princess? Her brother is quite worried.”

Aethan had to fight to keep his face neutral. “I will speak with him about it over dinner.”

Javon murmured subserviently before closing the door.

Roric had already vanished deeper into the suite. Aethan could hear the water running.

How could he possibly explain what happened to Aslyn to her own brother when he did not himself understand? Aethan scrubbed his hands over his face nervously, then heaved out another deep sigh and ran his fingers through his hair.

This would be a very long evening.

***

Prince Gannon sat back in his seat at the council table, fingers hanging casually over the dragon claw end of the chair arm. The fingers of his other hand flipped a coin across his knuckles, and he leaned weight against his elbow. Outwardly, the Vorovesti Crown Prince appeared unbothered by the argument around him. Inwardly, he fumed just as surely as his father, though not as vocally.

Ambassador Zambul and King Orrin stood on opposite ends of the table. Where Zambul remained calm and collected, Gannon’s father pressed his knuckles against the table, leaning forward with a menace that would send any sane man running for his life. Understandably, the other lords around the table sat in silence, their faces varying shades of white. None dared interrupt their king. But no one ever claimed Zambul a coward.

“Hundreds of people died in the Stormvalor attack,” King Orrin shouted. “Including the Novavito queen! And under the protection of my kingdom. All accounts point to that cheating bastard, Marek Bloodstone and his disgraceful companion Bryse.”

Zambul quirked an eyebrow, his voice as cold and collected as ever. “Are you accusing the Stormvalor Champion of killing the Novavito Queen?”

“I am demanding answers from the emperor!” the king roared.

All six lords around the table flinched back, averting their gazes anywhere but their king or the ambassador. One man, Lord Cyrus, dared a glance in Gannon’s direction. Something like disgust crossed his features. It was fleeting, but Gannon noticed it all the same. Did Lord Cyrus assume Gannon was an entitled prince? Good, Gannon thought. Let him make his assumptions. Until I know who we can trust, they cannot know the game I’m playing.

Gannon intended to slowly draw out any hidden spies for the Imperial Seat. The best way for him to do that was to allow these men to think of him as the dutiful, entitled prince. They would underestimate him, let their guard down, make a mistake with him. Then he would find those truly loyal to Vorovesti first. Because the end of the Imperial rule was coming. Gannon could feel it as surely as he felt the wind in his hair—a minor disturbance, easily missed when one wasn’t paying attention.

But Gannon was paying attention.

Zambul hissed. The sound made bumps rise across Gannon’s arms. “The emperor answers to no one, ruler or refuse. His rule and his actions are absolute and above reproach.”

Gannon raised a brow as his father growled at the ambassador. Oh, he was so close to losing control.

“The people are not refuse,” King Orrin argued. “That Umbrian swine bought off the officials to steal the title from the rightful winner, then used forbidden magic to attack any who stood in his way. His actions resulted in the death of dozens of my soldiers, the injury and near murder of Lord Lux Starkling, and the deaths of visitors and natives throughout the city. He will answer for his crimes!”

Zambul folded his hands behind his back and straightened, raising his chin. “By rightful winner, you assume your nephew. You would have the champion revoke his title so you can give it to your own kin? And if you have evidence that the title was bought off, perhaps you should have Lord Starkling inspect his officials more thoroughly. Had they any integrity, surely they would not have been bought. As far as the accusations that Marek Bloodstone used forbidden magic, your evidence is what? The word of a young man and his friends who were angry because they thought Marek stole the title from him?”

Gannon snorted, drawing all eyes to him. He flipped the coin and caught it between two fingers. “According to Imperial Law, any noble house may raise dispute against another as long as they have witnesses and or evidence against the accused.” Gannon slowly raised his gaze from the gold coin, meeting Zambul’s black eyes with his own sea-greens. He waved his hand almost absently toward Lord Cyrus. “Would you so discredit the merit of Lord Cyrus’ own son, or that of men from four of the five kingdoms?”

Zambul opened his mouth to respond, no doubt with some cold, intelligent comment. Gannon cut him off. “By law, we are well within our right to levy accusations against Marek Bloodstone and his house. Unless you stand in the way of the emperor’s laws?”

Zambul’s jaw snapped shut. For the first time, his expression darkened dangerously. “I uphold the emperor’s laws—”

“To the letter,” Gannon finished for him, using words he heard the ambassador throw about at least a dozen times a day for years.

Some shift of pattern rippled up along the gray bands on the ambassador’s black robes. Magic. It had to be. Yet no one else seemed to notice except Gannon. It happened quickly.

“My son is right, Zambul,” King Orrin said sharply. “Marek Bloodstone’s actions could result in a war between Novavito and Vorovesti should Aethan’s mission fail. If the Novavito royals determine Vorovesti’s men were at fault for the death of their queen, they will be well within their right to retaliate.”

“And who do you propose was responsible, if not the Starkling guards?” Zambul asked.

King Orrin glanced at his son. Gannon knew what that look meant. They had discussed it at length while alone, as well as with Aethan and Lux Starkling. Only Black Guards could be responsible for such a butchery. The problem, it seemed, was that no one could determine the motivation behind it, nor how to prove it. And to levy such accusations against the emperor himself was as good as death.

Not true, Gannon reminded himself. Aethan and his father both stated they believed the attack was the Bloodstone’s way of keeping Queen Giata from signing a marriage contact with Lux Starkling, thus leaving Marek open to pursuing Princess Aslyn further… And discrediting Aethan’s claim of betrothal to the princess. Only the king or queen could sign that agreement. One was dead. The other missing. Convenient, but Aethan will find King Novin Kiernan.

“Lord Bloodstone and his son and their dark magic,” King Orrin said at last.

No one breathed as they waited, stunned by the accusation against the Bloodstones.

Zambul broke the silence, his voice quiet yet just as dangerous as a razor-sharp blade. “Am I to understand that the kingdom of Vorovesti accuses the emperor’s military advisor and his son of sedition?”

King Orrin responded just as quiet and dangerous, unafraid of the danger of his next statement. “Yes. Under Imperial Law, we demand an investigation by High Council.”

Gannon’s stomach twisted. He knew this was coming. He and his father had discussed it backward and forward. But now that the words were out of the king’s mouth, Gannon couldn’t help wondering if they made a terrible mistake. It had been obvious to Aethan and several others that the Imperial Heir had something to do with the death of the Novavito queen and her guards, as well as the shadow demons Marek summoned that day.

If the High Council, men and women from each of the five kingdoms selected to investigate the incident and reach a verdict, found the Bloodstone’s guilty, the trail would likely lead straight to the Imperial Seat. And then what?

Gannon watched his father from the corner of his eye as he resumed flipping the coin between his fingers. He knew the answer, but his job at this moment was to give off the appearance of disinterest and complete lack of worry regarding the results.

Because if the path led to the Imperial Seat, there would be only one result. It would be the first time since the War of Two Crowns nearly a thousand years ago that the realm would see anything like it on this scale.

War.