Page 1 of Fate of the Sun King

CHAPTER ONE

GABRIEL

APHELION: THE SUN PALACE

Pain throbs behind my left eye, reminding me of the time an angry lover twisted my balls in his grip after finding me buried between his sister’s thighs. I told him jealousy wasn’t a good look, and unsurprisingly, that only made things worse.

Another stab pulses in my temple as I jingle a ring of golden keys in my hand, hating the sound. They’re too shiny and bright in this corridor’s weak light. A mockery of what lives in this abandoned corner of the palace, carefully shielded by false curtains of shadow.

My footsteps ring sharply in the silence, like razors slicing into my eardrums, each more ominous than the last.

I both loathe and look forward to this task.

When I reach the door, I pause and drag in a deep, grounding breath before I insert the key and swivel the lock. The door drifts open on carefully oiled hinges, as silent as dust tumbling through a sunbeam. Though we’re far from the curiosity of acutely tuned High Fae hearing, every layer of these buried secrets is carefully considered.

Thanks to his powers of illusion, Atlas ensures this corner garners little notice from passersby, their eyes slithering over the archway of the dimly lit hall. They swear they noticed something, but a moment later, it’s gone, and surely they have better things to do.

A feat he’s managed for nearly a hundred years.

On the far side of the door, a stone stairwell spirals up into the darkness. My dogged steps strike like nails against steel, winding the tight corner, suffocating me as I ascend. The top landing reveals another door—this one heavier and stronger, fortified with iron bands, bolts, and a barrier of protective magic for a dose of good measure. Even a full-grown Imperial Fae at the height of his strength would struggle to break it down.

I pick out another key from the ring and flip the lock before opening another door oiled into silence. The tower room is comfortably sized to suit its single discarded resident. Unlike the rest of the Sun Palace, it boasts none of the usual gilded trappings. No resplendent décor or surfaces polished to a high shine. Here are stone floors and walls, everything grey and faded, like a memory you’re trying to forget.

Windows inset around the perimeter afford a breathtaking view of Aphelion from every side. The taunting blue of the ocean. The glittering domes of the city’s buildings. The shadow of The Umbra lying to the south.

What I can’t decide is whether the king offered this panorama as a kindness or as further penance for a sin that was never committed except in his own mind. I suspect it’s the latter. To be confined to this space, forced to bear witness to the untouchable outside world, is a prison of its own sort.

Atlas’s already shaky moral compass deserted him so many years ago I’ve forgotten he ever had one.

I take a moment to gather myself before my gaze wanders to the figure on the bed. Tyr lies on his side, his knees tucked up, his thin hands clutching the covers, his eyes distant and vacant. Once as bright and blue as the sea, decades of confinement have dimmed them to haunted hollows of muted grey shadows. His once shining blond hair is the same—muddied by time and torment and the years spent without the sun’s warmth on his face.

I stride to his side and crouch on my haunches, putting me at eye level with the royal Fae, who was once a king. Who, by all rights, is still a king, but there are only eleven people left in the world who know that—ten of whom are magically bound to silence.

“How are you doing today?” I ask, though I’m not expecting an answer.

Tyr’s eyes flick up, registering me before they flick away again. He listens when I speak, though he rarely responds. Sometimes he does, and those are the good days, if there is such a thing. But they happen less and less, and it’s actually been weeks since he last said a word.

“Plans are underway for the bonding ceremony,” I say as I push myself up and move about the room before unloading the bag slung over my shoulder and unpacking its contents onto the dresser pushed against the far wall.

Atlas can’t place his trust in the palace servants, so Tyr’s care has fallen to me and the other nine warders. But Tyr makes my brothers uncomfortable, so the duty lies mostly with me. It’s one of the few tasks I approach without resentment, because I don’t trust anyone else to do a proper job.

My haul includes the usual load of dried goods. Some loaves of bread. Hunks of cheese. Fruit and vegetables. Wine and beer and water. Though he’ll wait until I leave, he’ll eat it all. That knowledge offers some consolation. At least he’s not starving himself, and I take my victories where they arise.

“The queen’s guest list would probably wrap around the entire city,” I continue, keeping up a stream of chatter. “Twice.”

No one has ever accused me of being verbose, but I hate the silence that squats in the corners of this room when Tyr isn’t in the mood for conversation. As a result, I find myself babbling into the vacancy like a fool.

“She’s stirring up all kinds of shit about another delay.”

As I ramble, I consider the circumstances of all that’s transpired over the last several months. The many things I don’t understand about Atlas’s plan to bond. He isn’t the Primary or an ascended king, so I’m not sure what he’s hoping to accomplish. At the same time, I also don’t understand what he’s waiting for. He held the Trials to find a partner, or so I presume, and the Mirror chose Apricia. So this should all be over.

But Atlas continues deferring, and her shrill screeches can probably be heard all the way to The Aurora. The entire thing is wearing on every last one of my fucking nerves. I understand it has something to do with Lor, but after months of digging and questioning, I’m no closer to an answer.

Clearly, I’ve missed something important about the woman who made my life hell during the Trials, though I’ll grudgingly admit she started growing on me in the end. Like an annoying little pet you can’t bring yourself to abandon at the side of the road despite the fact it keeps chewing up your shoes.

I sense Tyr listening as I chatter about the kingdom and the latest news on the ground. Reports from The Umbra speak of increasing unrest stirring within its streets. The low fae demand the right to buy property within the twenty-four districts, but their bids for housing in the upper quarters are continually denied by the city council at Atlas’s behest. Despite everything working against them, plenty have cobbled together enough wealth to afford a home in the districts, but their wishes fall on Atlas’s unwilling ears.

I’ve never understood why they remain here rather than heading for The Woodlands or Alluvion, where they’d be free to live as equals. But I know all too well that abandoning the place you call home isn’t as simple as it sounds. Besides, it’s hardly fair they’re the ones being pushed out.