Page 3 of Prince of the Phantom Sky

As he shoved Larissa, her gaze immediately dropped to the base of the altar, as if a puppeteer had forced her eyeballs downwards. A sob wracked from her throat, gurgling up as she collapsed to her knees. “No . . . no, you didn’t! No!”

A throne erected from stone dominated the cavernous space built into the side of the low mountain. Torches lined the blackened walls, their red hue skittering across the skulls woven into the base of the altar. Their sockets were filled with glistening malachite stones, and their browbones shone with the Silver Sisters mark.

An eight-pointed star, banded together by an embellished ring of twining roots that flicked out around their brows. Each compass point represented the elemental gods, with death and life in the centre, so intricately detailed it always caused Larissa’s chest to swell.

But now she was horrified. She was broken. She was wrathful.

Tears streamed down Larissa’s cheeks, her shackled hands reaching out to her sisters’ bones, used as a foundation to support this false throne. She screamed, her anguish echoing into the cave, vibrating down into the earth that mourned along with her.

She was too late.

“You murderer!”

She had sacrificed her life for a throne of death. Her sisters had been slaughtered, their precious blood spilled in the name of decay and horror. It was an insult to witches, to the gods. Igniso’s ire burned in her veins, her teeth grinding with invisible fire as her power failed to manifest.

The dark male lounged in the throne, clad in a black suit that matched his sheet of midnight hair. Larissa froze when her gaze met his. No . . . it couldn’t be.

“Larissa Vespertine,” he purred, his stormy eyes lighting up as they flickered to her matching marked browbone. The mark of prestige witches, of the royal line descended directly from the gods. Except hers was entirely flames, dedicated to her signet from Igniso. “We meet again.” His sharp smile flashed and he flicked his wrist, summoning his ungodly power.

Thick tendrils of tar seeped from the hard ground, bubbling up and latching onto her hands. She cried out as it circled up her arms, probing her clothes, yanking her down until her cheek kissed the hard earth, forcing her into a bow. The click of her holster followed, her pistol dropping to the floor.

“Callan, take that to Reginald, see if he can figure out what the vermin have been up to,” he instructed, eyeing her weapon curiously.

As Callan scarpered off, carrying her precious pistol in his mangled hands, Larissa’s eyes shuttered. Humans hadn’t discovered guns yet, something witches had ensured remained hidden, and she’d just handed over the witches’ entire advantage on them in this war.

The Dark One stood and clicked his fingers. “Rommier!” A blonde male appeared from behind the altar. Fraying braids had been woven throughout his hair, and shadows lined his faded eyes, resting above gaunt cheeks. Unlike the others, he didn’t wear a helmet.

“Aye, master?” His voice was devoid, lifeless.

Rommier’s grey eyes landed on Larissa, but nothing sparked within them. He was clad in the same sickening armour, with a shining sword strapped to his back. A swirl of a tattoo peeked from his wrists, but not enough for Larissa to discern anything.

“Put her in my personal quarters.” The Dark One smiled, followed by a wink. Absolute recognition speared through Larissa and she nearly spewed at his feet. “I want to keep her close. You’re to watch her, and make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”

“Aye, master,” Rommier responded like a walking phantom. He mindlessly moved, his body stiff and awkward, dragging Larissa to her feet and towards the steps as though she were light as a feather.

“No!” she cried. “I watched you die! You cannot be here!”

The Dark One laughed. “You cannot kill a god.”

Part One

The Lord of Ghosts

1

Raiden

This was it.

The time had finally come.

Raiden rolled his shoulders, the multi-coloured flight suit fitting his muscular frame like a second skin. He stalked through the winding streets of Mistros City, following the smooth curve of buildings until he reached the docks.

The Mist lay thick in the air, coating his lungs in a humid blanket as he darted between beams of moonlight gently filtering through. The stars still weren’t visible at night, but anything was better than before. That had been a fucking nightmare. A shiver pulsed through him as he recalled the bitter winters, trapped in the revolving cold darkness of the Mist for the past decade.

Urgency propelled Raiden forward as the scent of the sea drew him to the shore. A month of planning, of waiting, of gods-damned fucking pacing around the castle, until his plan was ready to be enacted. Everything had led up to this moment, even a second’s delay would throw it off course.

He was getting Kordelia back—if she was still alive. His gut twisted at the thought. No, she had to still be alive. He would know if she were dead . . . wouldn’t he? His pulse fluttered. He’d been unable to connect to her since her plea. Their connection had been severed, and a fathomless pit had formed within their void where her glistening dome had once stood.