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A scoff escapes. “I’m not going to a ball. I’m going to bed.”
His eyes flare, and he shakes the gloves at me. “You will in fact attend all three balls, Kirran.”
Back-to-back evenings. Even better.
“As is custom, this shall be a traditional masquerade — to honor your homecoming and celebrate our victory, as well as present you as the crown prince.”
I’m a little more prepared for the title this time, but it still lands like a blow to my gut.
“On the final night, also as per custom, you will announce your choice for a bride.”
I tense. An unbidden memory of sunlight-gold hair and river-deep eyes glimmers to the surface. I grit my teeth to repel it. Everything within me still coils as if to lash out.
My reaction is nothing more than being in this place again. Certainly not because of the wordbride. Or the thoughts of the treacherous girl I’d once foolishly imagined marrying.
I wrangle the disgust and pointedly spread my arms. “Don’t you think my future wife should know exactly what kind of monster she’s marrying? Isn’t it deceitful to attempt to conceal such information?” My brows tick up, and I let my arms fall to my sides. “You are aware that every single soldier in the army has seen this, yes? Plenty of others here too.” I tip my head toward the nearby servant, who snaps his gaze away.
“Perhaps, but regardless, you will wear them. For thedurationof the masquerade.” My father holds my stare without flinching and tips his chin up to meet my challenge. He thrusts the gloves out again. “It is not a request, son.”
For a prolonged moment, we don’t move. Then I snatch the gloves from his grasp and yank them onto my hands to cover my sins.
“Better?”
“Much.” He matches my sneering smile. “Get some rest and get cleaned up. You are to be presentable — and in a better mood — by dusk.”
I don’t humor him with a response, just spin on my heel and stride from the throne room. A throne room that shouldn’t be mine, yet will be. And far sooner than I can wrap my head around.
The reality of it all claws at me more with every step I take toward my old quarters. I lengthen my stride. As if my boots thudding across the smooth marble floor could drown out the memory of my eldest brother’s earnest words mere days before his assassination.
“Father said he’ll begin the transition ritual when I return.”
Even now, I can see the compassion and resolve in Farrid’s golden eyes as he spoke of taking Father’s place, accepting the thirty-year responsibility of kingship. The knowledge that he’d be bound to the people and land had never daunted him. Even when we were all boys. Neither had the fact that, in his final year, as those threads started unraveling and his magic weakened, he’d have to relinquish the kingdom to someone else. Or the binding magic would kill him.
Just like it’ll kill Father if he remains king a day beyond what the magic allows.
Of the four of us, Farrid had always been closest with Father. Always anticipated the day he’d relieve Father of the burden, allowing him to enjoy his final years with Mother.
If Father were that worried about my potential rule, he would’ve named a different successor years ago. Perhaps he truly considered such precautions unnecessary. After all, he had Farrid, his perfect reflection, down to their matching storm magic. And if not Farrid, then Sammir, the second-best, gifted never to grow tired and to imbue strength to others. Then Rassul, with his ability, like Zeccar, to remember everything. All of them suited for life at court or as leaders.
Me, fourth in line, gifted to extinguish life? Of course I’d never be king.
Each rapid step I take pounds in time with my heart.
Sammir and Rassul never left the battlefield. Farrid never made it home from negotiations with Codrin’s crown prince. Now my father has three and a half months for a ritual that can take three.
And just me.
Servants skitter out of my way as I stalk down the hall. Some offer breathless greetings while others pin their gazes to the floor in reverence. I start to acknowledge them, but the instant I catch myself wanting to look for golden hair, I snap my gaze straight ahead and quicken my pace even more. I can traverse these halls with my eyes shut. Still, I don’t dare close them, lest my mind betray me there as well, bring her face back to haunt me.
My chamber smells of stale dust and old leather.
Crinkled leaves litter the corners of the room, as if someone left the windows open and forgot I was coming back today. Or maybe that’s how I left it, abandoned in rage. Maybe someone thought I preferred it in that state. Either way, it’s somehow fitting. At first glance, nothing has changed inside the room. Yet decay lurks in the shadows and crevices. I don’t want to pretend it isn’t there, hasn’t followed me here.
My hands are evidence of that, as Father so aptly implied.
For the first time in nearly two centuries, the autumn fey will have a killer for a king. One whose private rooms should stink of death.
I once thought of my people, my magic, as bringing change, offering quiet reflection and solace. Beauty. Growing up, autumn was beautiful. The turn of the seasons. Summer’s vibrant, loud sun making way for a softer solace before winter’s chill stepped in.
