Prologue
Calix
Two years earlier
* * *
Waking up in Ederyn’s most notorious prison with a splitting headache and an eye so swollen I could barely see was the least of my problems.
The dungeons had gone silent.
I peeled myself from the ground wincing, a putrid piece of straw clinging to the scruff of my jaw. The constant, dissonant moans I’d heard all night had vanished.
He’s here.
Fuck.
I combed through my muddled memory, trying to recall a healing spell my childhood nurse had used for scrapes, but the pain in my head clouded my thoughts. Straightening my untucked shirt, I muttered a quick gesture spell to mend a rip in my trousers, then dragged my fingers through my long hair, knotting it at my nape.
The steel door thundered open.
My father entered, dressed in full regalia, his face twisted with displeasure. Only he could command such absolute silence in the dungeons.
A single window provided light, its narrow beam illuminating the swirling dust motes in the early morning sun. He stepped into the glow, the golden hue draping him like a mantle. Love him or hate him, Father was king in every sense of the word, as though the Warrick bloodline had known his destiny from conception.
“Calix.”
The low timbre of his voice suggested fury. Father enraged was deadly calm and collected—one of the few traits I admired about him.
“Collecting me in person, Father? I’m flattered.”
His steel-blue pupils wreathed with green—identical to my own—narrowed. Unamused. Humor wouldn’t save me today.
“When my youngest son destroys the most beloved tavern in Suomelin, burns down a city block, and is dragged to prison, a personal call is disappointingly critical.”
I crossed my arms, straightening. “The tavern owner was keeping an Ibarran woman as a concubine. In a cage.”
“So, you burned the place down?”
“No. I rescued her. The fire was … accidental.” My shirtfront, sticky with dried blood, remained plastered against my skin.
“How so?”
My throat tightened at the memory of her—beautiful and fragile—clinging to me as I carried her from that filthy enclosure. Then the gasp—the bright burst of crimson as a crossbow bolt embedded itself in her throat.
“He killed her,” I said hoarsely. “As I took her out. My anger may have … tipped out of my control.”
To be fair, I hadn’t meant to cause a conflagration.
On the other hand, I didn’t regret it.
The footfalls of Father’s fine boots echoed against the stone floor. “And then you killed the man.”
“Can I help it that he fell into my sword?”
Father’s gaze hardened. “You are a prince and an heir to the throne, Calix. Executing a citizen—no matter how despicable—without trial is forbidden. Even for you. You are not above the law because you are my son. This on the heels of that disaster on the border of the Dreadwood. ‘Scourge of the Viori’ indeed.”
I refused to let him bait me into discussing that. And heir? I nearly laughed. Convenient, considering six older brothers had claims before me. “You are the law, Father. You could change it. Or grant me clemency.”
