A Broken Throne of Bronze (Of Metals and Curses #1)

Prologue

MANY YEARS AGO—Keuron, Capital of Inatia

N o one stops when both doors open.

Instead, the celebration continues, filling the large ballroom with music and chatter and drunken laughter. More wine gets poured into goblets. Waitstaff float through the sea of guests with delicacies on silver platters. Couples dance in the center while others stand around them, watching and talking and eating.

At the front of it all, sit the High King and Queen of all Inatia.

And the child cradled in the High Queen’s arms .

Representatives from each of the five Noble Houses have traveled to Keuron for the occasion, all donning their finery. The Heads of Houses mingle with each other, discussing pleasure, wine, and business. The metal trade is abundant—the flow of magic and riches amongst the five Courts is plentiful. Casting glances at the royals upon their bronze thrones every so often, the guests whisper to one another.

“I heard she was barren,” someone says. “That they’d been trying for decades to produce an heir, with no success.”

“I did, too.” Eyes dart away from the royals, as if they can hear every word. The guests know they can’t, but it still feels strange to gossip while they’re breathing the same air as the ones they speak of in hushed tones.

So instead, the onlookers toast to the royal family.

“To the birth of the crown prince!”

Smiling, the High King raises his goblet. Pride rolls from his shoulders. “To the birth of the crown prince.”

“What are we to call him?” someone asks the queen.

The High Queen looks down at her son, warmth filling her gaze. “Viridian. You shall call him Crown Prince Viridian Avanos.”

“A wonderful choice, Your Majesties.” The guest bows. “May the gods smile down at you, and may the metals be pure.”

“Thank you.” The High Queen beams, still beholding the child she never thought she would have.

They should have looked when both doors opened .

Now, it is much too late.

The sorceress shoves her way through the crowd. She is powerful, and while she may look fae, she does not belong to any one of the five Noble Houses. No, anyone that beholds her knows she is not of this world. She is darkness made flesh. Her pointed ears slice through sheets of black hair, hanging down like curtains around her long, pale face. Like a beast hunting its prey, she stalks to the bronze thrones and stops, holding her head high.

Her eyes simmer with rage. Raw power radiates from her, an electric current buzzing through the stone floor.

“You,” she sneers at the High King. “You have taken everything from me.”

The High Queen holds the child closer, clutching him to her chest. But the High King only laughs.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“Oh, but you will never forget me.” The sorceress raises her hands over her head. “From this day forth, you shall carry my words. They will weigh down on you, just as my pain does to me.”

By now, all of the guests have stopped to look. Silence sweeps the ballroom. Wine goes un-poured. Waitstaff stand still and lower their silver platters. Couples no longer dance in the center. There is no gossiping, no talking, and no eating.

The ballroom has gone utterly still.

“Vorr,” the High Queen asks, her voice laced with dread. “What is the meaning of this? ”

“Nothing, my darling Azalinah, I assure you,” the High King promises. “This female is simply deranged.”

The sorceress’s expression hardens.

As if the High King’s dismissal of her threat is a very grave mistake.

“Hear me,” she bellows, “all of you!” Her dark eyes scan the room, finding every face, every ounce of fear. Then she turns her cold eyes back to the High King, gazing deep into his very being.

“A cursed sickness shall poison everything the wrongdoer touches.” As the sorceress speaks, a thickness takes hold of the air, ripe and thrumming with power. Dark, old magic. Older than even the kingdom itself.

Her eyes fall on the child. “But by the blessing of Theelia, the righteous heir and lost golden daughter will unite as one. For from the bonds of love will come the ultimate sacrifice. And only from that sacred gift, shall these wrongs be made right, and this curse be broken.”

With the final word uttered, a flash of lightning strikes the High King’s throne.

The bronze wails and splinters right down the middle.

Gasping, the High King falls to his knees. He places a palm to his chest, eyes wild, as if something is not right.

Perhaps it never will be again.

“You shall keep your broken throne of bronze,” the sorceress tells him, anger seeping into these last and final words. Her quiet rage is so unholy, that even the gods turn away. “But I shall take pleasure in descending into hell while knowing your reign has been spoiled forever.”

Thunder roars. Then her body goes limp and crumples to the ground.

One does not need to approach her to know that she is dead.

The crowd shrieks.

Then the High Queen turns to her husband, her beautiful face twisting in horror.

“What have you done?”