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“Calian?” I ask. “Please tell me he knows what he’s doing.”
“Do not fear, Princess. Like I said, you’re extremely valuable to my people. We wouldn’t let any harm come to you.”
Sure enough, a huge slab of grass slides up from the mountain to reveal a hidden tunnel speckled with long, bright lights.
“How many people know about this place?” I ask.
“It is a tightly kept secret, but more know than you would suspect.”
We emerge from the tunnel into a starlit valley. In the distance ahead, I see warm yellow lights like pinpricks against the black, reaching out to me from a city that shouldn’t exist--from a place that shouldn’t exist.
“You can’t be serious…” I say breathlessly.
“The Shrouded Kingdom,” says Calian. “Welcome home, Princess.”2RoarkI wait behind the restaurant with my brother, Titus. We both carry our Blades, but outside the Shrouded Kingdom we’re forced to conceal them. In the Shrouded Kingdom, Blades are both a status symbol and the weapon of choice for the nobility. The obsession my people place on them has always seemed ridiculous to me. At the end of the day, a Blade is just a custom-fitted pistol with a retractable metal knife hidden in the barrel. To outsiders, I imagine seeing a huge pistol at someone’s hip would cause alarm, so we wear them beneath our jackets here.
“She is something, isn’t she?” asks Titus, who leans against the wall beside me. My younger brother couldn’t be more different from me. We may share some of the same facial features, but my black hair and his blonde are just the start of our differences.
“She is,” I say, idly running my finger along the smooth, matte black barrel of my Blade, which is holstered just inside my jacket. I let my finger glide over the release switch, which releases a ten inch blade of razor sharp steel. As always, touching the weapon causes something inside me to stir, something that lies dormant at times for days, sometimes more, but never forever. The feelings of violence that swirl within me and grow until I feel like I can’t control them anymore are in a frenzy tonight. I call it the darkness. My long-time companion, who, at times, threatens to wrestle control from me once and for all.
“You had better figure out what’s going on with Tyrese,” says Titus. “It would be unseemly for your little brother to tie the knot before you.”
“My business isn’t your concern. I’ll marry when I marry.”
“Your business is the kingdom’s concern,” persists Titus. He’s using the voice he always seems to use when he pretends to care about anything but himself--it’s a frail impression of the commanding way our father used to speak. “Father is gone. The kingdom will only abide being ruled by a widowed queen for so long.”
I ignore him. Titus has painted a target on my back since father died, and the moment he thinks I’m weak enough to strike, I know he will. He’s masking a taunt with concern, and it’s about as subtle as a brute like my brother can manage.
“There he is,” I say, nodding toward a man who steps out of the restaurant’s back door. His hands are tucked in his pockets and he wears a simple jacket like one of the outsiders, but I notice his family insignia is stitched into the sleeve. Idiot.
His eyes widen as he takes in Titus and I. He takes a faltering step backwards, nearly falling on his ass before reaching for the door.
Titus rushes toward him, pinning the door shut. I grip him by his shirt and lift him so that I can slam him into the wall.
“You’ve been talking,” I say.
“Prince Roark? P-prince Titus? They sent you two?”
“No. We volunteered to educate you,” I say. “How many have you told?”
“I have no idea wh--”
Quick as thought, I snap my elbow out and across his face, gripping him again before he even has a chance to slide down the wall. He blinks through the pain, then groans and spits blood. The darkness is flowing through me freely now, lending me strength along with its red intent.
“Wait. Wait,” he says. “What did you hear?”
“Don’t try to fucking weasel out of this, Gerald,” says Titus, who still leans casually against the door, respecting my right to the confrontation.
“I just--I think you’ve been misinformed. I haven’t even--”
I use my fist this time. The ferocity of the punch ignites something in me, something hot and fiery that feeds the darkness, calming it only slightly. It’s as if I can feel it inching backwards, letting me take full control because I’m giving it what it wants. Just give me a fucking excuse to hurt you more, Gerald.
The brief satisfaction of violence also brings a familiar sense of corruption, but I ignore it, letting the fire of anger grow and focusing it all on the sniveling traitor in front of me.
