Silence.
Beautiful, serene silence.
The charred prisoner falls to the ground, dead. I do not remember what he did to end up here, nor do I care. Everyone in my dungeon has earned their place.
I can feel the weight of eyes on me, but no one says anything. I continue on my way. Down, down, down. A permanent perfume of death and decay lingers, and my nostrils flare at the scent. The walls are narrower, and the darkness seems more absolute.
The suns’ rays don’t reach this far below the soil, and even the lanterns’ light seems dimmer than earlier. Darkness sweeps around me like a hug.Thisis where I’ve always felt the most at home. Here, in the dungeon, where I can work away from prying eyes. Delve into the dark gifts that are my birthright, practice wielding the magic I acquire each Harvest.
The cell I seek is a level down and at the end of the corridor. Six Protectors stand outside the steel bars, their backs straight and eyes lowered in deference as I approach. The soldiers part, and I stare into the cell, my lips curling in disgust. The stonefloor is slanted, tilting towards the drain that attests to the room’s true purpose.
A short, portly man is hanging from the ceiling, suspended by his arms. He’s swaying back and forth, and a low moan roils through him. Blood trickles down his face. He has two black eyes, and his right leg is broken.
“He tried to run,” the Protector closest to me says by way of explanation.
“Hmm.” I arch a brow. “We can’t be having that, can we?”
Especially not when he has information I need.
My collarbone burns, and I rub it absentmindedly, staring into the cell. I don’t remember the first time I came to this place of death, but I couldn’t have been older than five or six.
Even then, my father was preparing me to take over his throne.
King Andreas Bloodthorn, eighth of his name, strides down the hall, his limp barely noticeable as he leads me through the dark stone corridors.
“Why are we here, Father?” I ask, hurrying behind him. I take two steps for each of his, but I won’t let him know I’m having trouble keeping up.
The Bloodthorns do not tolerate weaknesses.
“Because someone tried to fight back against me, son,” he rumbles, turning a corner. “And what happens to people when they go against the Crown?”
“We kill them,” I say with the confidence of a young boy who knows what his father wants to hear. “They are in the wrong, Your Majesty. You are the king. They shouldn’t fight against you.”
“That is correct.”
My chest puffs up with pride.
King Andreas stops in front of a cell where a naked, bloody woman is kneeling in the middle of the floor, her wrists chained in front of her. Her back is covered in red stripes, and her hair is bloodied and grimy. A wilted rose is tattooed on her left shoulder, the ink stark against her pale skin.
Four Protectors stand guard on either side of the cell, and they dip their heads towards the king.
The prisoner looks up. Even though she’s bloody and weak, her eyes harden. “You,” she snarls. “You have made a mockery of Esyn’s blessings. You are not Blessed, not with the way you treat the others...”
She continues blathering on, but my father ignores her, so I do the same. I watch as the king extends a hand, and dark green, almost black sparks erupt from his palm.
“You will regret this,” the woman continues as my father gathers his magic. “You can’t keep Harvesting power without consequences. The gods will not allow?—”
Her words end in a bloody gurgle as the king’s power slams into her, ripping her head from her shoulders. Blood sprays, a crimson rain that reaches me where I stand.
King Andreas smirks at the sight of the dead woman, and then he turns to me. “Remember this, Andreas. One person may seem inconsequential, but should they rise at the right moment, they can cause a ripple effect that will be felt through the kingdom. This is why we rule with an iron fist: so that no one and nothing can ever stand against us.”
My father crossed the Veil five years before my son Severus was born, but I will never forget his teachings. He was right that day.
One person can ruin everything, which is why I need to find the gods-blessed who is threatening to destroy everything I’ve built.
“Open it,” I command.
The Protectors hurry to obey. The cell door swings open, and I stride inside. The prisoner’s chains clatter as his eyes land on me.
