Between Smoke and Shadow

2. Harrick

TWO

HARRICK

I am a child playing pretend, and everyone here knows it. The four elite representatives are my biggest concern. They glower at me from behind elaborate masks, their unimpressed expressions hollowing my stomach. My skin itches with their blatant disapproval, but I can’t afford to show vulnerability. I keep my shoulders squared as I stand at the end of the table, organizing parchments into careful piles. Despite the sharp spike of my heartbeat, I force myself to act bored.

“Let’s begin,” I say. “From my notes on your previous?—”

I’m cut off by an abrupt rumbling.

At first, I think it’s an earthquake, but a quick glance to my right proves even worse. A dark-haired servant stands at the far side of the room, his thin hand shaking against the lever to the window’s cover. The protective shields, glowing pale red with low magic, peel from the window like skin pulled from bone. The servant trembles, his already pale face growing near-translucent with blood loss.

“Stop,” I demand, hands tensed at my sides.

The servant immediately complies and sucks in a weak breath. His shoulders sag as he cradles his burnt hand to his chest. Mortals aren’t made to touch magic. The window’s lever is laced with it, and now, the man is vibrating in agony, his hand already swollen with blisters. He doesn’t cry—he barely even moves.

“Explain yourself,” I say. My words are clipped, as if I’m annoyed. I am, I suppose, just not at him.

The upper half of this room’s window is now exposed. The shields exist to fortify the Tower during Earthquake Season, to keep the windows from collapsing and the building with them. It takes days to get these shields in place before the start of the season, and only seconds to free the magic, to let it leech back into the room.

“I hoped to see the mountains,” the man stutters.

It’s a blatant lie, and it’s so poorly conceived, I can only assume Demetrius Llroy is behind it. Representative for the City of Mirrors, he’s as cruel as they come. Built like an overgrown weed and bearing the personality of an aggressive hound, Demetrius is Mother’s favorite lackey.

I stare out at the Savoan mountain range. Its jagged ridgeline, silhouetted by the dying sun, rises hundreds of feet higher than the top of the Tower. Every few moments, a crash of waves strikes against the barren peaks and surges between them. I follow the saltwater as it cascades over the mountain range in elaborate patterns, until it disappears behind the thick foliage of the Wilds. Though not visible from here, pools of translucent water collect at its base, making animals sick with its salt and slowly devouring the forest floor.

When I was young, Quil explained Savoa was like a bowl and our world was like the tub I bathed in. Our land sat in a wide expanse of water, and during Flood Season, water rose higher than the lowest peaks of our mountains, spilling into our bowl. Even in the days before the Flood Season officially begins, water leeches between the mountain peaks, seeping into what little fertile soil we have.

I clench and loosen my fists, feeling the bite of restless magic within them. The servant keeps his eyes low, but behind his thin veil, his tongue darts between his lips as he watches me.

I’m going to kill him, he thinks—and still, he pulled the lever. I wonder what Demetrius threatened him with.

“You are dismissed,” I tell him. My voice is stale, blunt. I sound angry, and I hope he knows it’s not at him. He probably doesn’t.

The man scampers from the room with a grateful nod. Behind me, Demetrius scoffs and Oris Fhell, representative of the Reaping Grounds, echoes his sentiment. Beyond the four representatives, three servants and six guards remain in the room. I glance between the servants, at their ill-fitting coveralls and their cowered stances. Weak, defenseless, terrified.

“All servants. Dismissed,” I bark. They hesitate, only momentarily, before hurrying from the room. I’ll ensure they’re paid, but I’m not going to worsen this moment by announcing it. I’ve already given the representatives plenty to report to Mother.

It’s her fault I’m here.

The elite sector representatives meet at the end of every season, and typically, Mother leads them. They discuss magic distribution and upcoming contracts, and I’ve heard it’s often past midnight before they adjourn. Only heard , because while these meetings are routine for the others here, it’s my first time. I read as many meeting transcripts as I could when Mother abruptly announced my new position, but it doesn’t translate to the real thing. I’ve never been to a sector meeting, and now I’m supposed to lead one.

You will face many surprises if you become king. You must know how to adapt, Harrick, she’d told me.

If.

I didn’t miss the insult. From the moment I was born, taking over as Savoa’s king has been my destiny. And yet, Mother often acts like it’s not, as though this kingdom will never truly be mine.

With a final steadying breath, I look over the representatives. Demetrius Llroy takes a generous chug of nightwater, effectively finishing off his first stein, and refills it for a second. His upper face is concealed by his ornate mask of crushed mirrors, but his lower features are twisted in a scowl.

“Going to let him off with that?” he asks with a grunt. He lifts his gaze to mine, and I can just barely make out his dark eyes behind the tulle of his mask. The elite class don’t have magic, but they do have money. And if Demetrius gets his way, his daughter will soon be my wife. Magic, money, power. It’s all any of these people want.

I ignore Demetrius and turn toward my secondary guard, Dae.

“Fetch me as many menders as you can find. Tell them our shield is compromised,” I say. I should probably just do it myself, but maybe that’s Mother’s true intentions. If I exert all my energy fixing a stupid window, I’ll be too drained to lead this meeting. I’ll fail, and she can add it to her ongoing list of reasons I’m not fit to rule.

Though it’s impossible to see Dae’s face through his wolf mask, I know he’s scowling. He’d once been my and Tora’s friend, but once he became a guard, that ended. Mother had him assigned to me two cycles ago, and though he’s my guard, I know exactly where his true loyalties lie.

“The queen won’t be pleased,” Demetrius continues. “A strong leader knows when to discipline the help.”

“A strong leader knows how to recognize a feeble ploy,” I say. I snatch the pitcher of nightwater from the table and pour myself a stein. Taking a long drink, I relish its burn down my throat. “Torturing innocent men isn’t particularly useful. Wouldn’t you agree, Demetrius?”

“That thing is a criminal,” he spits. He leans onto his elbows, the decorative beryls of his suit clanking against the metal table. The man is wearing literal money.

“Enough,” I snap. “We all know what you’ve done, Demetrius. The queen may tolerate—or encourage—your tactics, but I will not. Your hijinks have made this wing vulnerable, so I recommend you settle down before I have you physically removed.”

Demetrius stares at me. My heart races as he assesses me, upper lip twitching. I keep waiting for his response, whether it’s a scoff or an outburst. When neither comes, I shift my weight, refusing to let my gaze wander. The two female representatives, Ksana Renat for the Wilds and Maeve DinSon for the Reaping Grounds, remain perfectly still. Oris Fhell, on the other hand, notes something in his journal.

I wait, holding my breath behind my teeth. I outrank everyone here, but I don’t know what I’ll do if Demetrius Llroy actually challenges me. His mouth curls into a heinous sneer, threatening, even as he shifts back into his seat.

“Now,” I say, steadying my voice. “Let’s begin.”

Oris Fhell will likely have a sore throat tomorrow from all his guttural scoffs, but the meeting has been borderline productive following our rough start. Maeve DinSon approved her contract for the Pit without a single adjustment, and Demetrius eagerly signed his for the City of Mirrors. I assumed he would. Despite everyone else receiving a reduction, Mother managed an increase of magic for his sector.

“This isn’t going to work,” Ksana says, smacking her contract against the table. It jostles her mask, and she has to pause to readjust it on her face. Fashioned to symbolize her sector, her olive mask is a blend of creatures from the Wilds. Fish and crocodiles on the left to represent its bottomless lake. Panthers, serpents, and boars on the right for its treacherous forest. Near-transparent mesh covers her eyes, making them easier to see than most.

Ksana Renat is dark-skinned, beautiful, and taller than the majority of men. I always hoped I’d be matched with her daughter, but Mother would never be so kind. According to rumor, she’s going to pair me with Demetrius’s daughter. Viana Llroy. One of the most beautiful faces, paired with the nastiest of hearts.

“It’s the most we can offer,” I say, as if I had any part in the decision. Ksana is right though—Mother nearly halved her magic allocation. I look over my copy of the numbers and resist the temptation to offer more.

“And yet, Demetrius saw an increase,” she argues. “You’re asking us to keep our animals alive and our lake free of salt with…this? It’s preposterous. It’s impossible . We won’t have enough magic to protect both.”

“Well, I vote to save the woodlands,” Demetrius says, voice drawling. “I’m not a fan of fish.”

Ksana’s mouth bobs, much like the fish Demetrius doesn’t like. He smirks at her, flashing his magically-straightened teeth. I often wonder if his entire face has been mutilated by low magic. It would explain the unnatural stretch of his skin and the odd sheen to his dark hair.

“The Flood Season is hardest on the Wilds, and everyone here knows it,” Ksana snaps. She shoves her contract toward the table’s center, glare fixing between me and Demetrius. I hate that she’s somehow teamed us together. “The City of Mirrors gets more magic during Earthquake Season. That makes sense. Help the commoners survive and give them something with which to rebuild their collapsed structures. But Flood Season is our beast to face. If you?—”

As if awoken at Ksana’s mention of the season, the floor trembles beneath us. Unlike earlier, there’s no mistaking this sensation. It shakes the reflective marble, shooting vibrations up my legs until my knees buckle. My attention darts to the partially-covered window. We’d had a series of earthquakes this morning, mostly small ones that barely affected the Tower. Still, I was convinced we’d had our fill for the day.

Foolish .

The tremor slows, trailing to an eventual stop. I bend my knees, adjusting to the stillness, and keep one hand on the metal table. The four representatives remain in their chairs, but they’ve pressed themselves to the table’s edge, as if it will protect them. We look amongst each other, our quiet breaths filling the room.

“Perhaps only the one?” asks Joran from the wall.

He’s my primary guard, recognizable by his impressive stature. He’s taller, broader, and stronger than any other guard in the lineup. Stepping from the wall like a detached shadow, Joran crosses the room to stand beside me.

“For Demetrius’s sake, that better be the case,” I say. I follow Joran’s lead across the room, where metal handles blend into the scarlet wall. Chairs screech as the representatives do the same.

There’s no sign of Dae or the menders.

Demetrius spits back something about the incompetent servant, but he doesn’t have the chance to finish. He doesn’t even make it to the wall before the next tremor hits. This one is infinitely harder than the first, like getting punched in the gut or falling down stairs. I stumble against the wall, gripping the metal handle as Joran steadies me from the back.

I don’t hear the splinter of glass, but I see it: a hairline fracture that dances from one corner of the window to the opposite side. It spiderwebs until it mars the entire upper window with serrated fissures. The earthquake finally stills, followed immediately by the ring of a two-toned siren. It radiates from this room, a global warning that we’ve suffered damage.

Mother will be so pleased if the room collapses under my watch. And unless I do something, it will.

“We must go, my prince,” Joran says. Heavy boots sound on the marble floor behind me and voices blur in the back of my mind. I tune them out, only reacting when Joran pulls hard at my shoulder.

There are over fifteen royal guards in the room now, and where the four representatives once sat, there is now only an abandoned table. The mending royal has arrived, but it’s far too late for that.

“It’s going to shatter,” I say, my voice hoarse. This was likely Demetrius’s plan all along. Not to report my lenience with servants, but to show my incompetence. I should have evacuated the room as soon as the window lost half its shield. I should have ensured royals arrived to mend it. I should have?—

It doesn’t matter now .

“My prince–”

I rip out of Joran’s grasp, legs still unsteady. Multiple pairs of hands reach for me, as if I could possibly leave the room in this state. I shove them off and center myself in the room.

“Guards,” I say, my voice steady and loud over the blaring siren. “Vacate the room immediately. That’s an order.”

Nobody argues—they can’t —but still, I feel Joran hesitate behind me. His bulking frame lingers for one second, maybe two, before he reluctantly leaves. I stretch my fingers, into my palms and away, until my hands are loose.

Magic pulses through my bones, growing hotter as it nears my fingertips. I twitch with discomfort.

I raise my arms, keeping my attention on the window. The mangled cracks taunt me, worsening with each passing second. I suck a deep breath into my lungs and close my eyes. Without sight to distract me, I can feel every morsel of magic in my bones. It’s a living thing, jolting around the marrow, somehow both desperate for release and reluctant to leave.

I open my eyes, find my target, and cast.

The magic rips from my fingers, dark red and coiled tight. Bits of my soul go with it, and though I know it will return, it’s uncomfortable all the same. I scream against the sensation, throat burning with it.

As a son of the Architect, I can harness every type of magic: violence from the Wilds; darkness from the Pit; pain from the City of Mirrors. But I’ve always been drawn most to the power of the Reaping Grounds.

Raw magic comes in discordant bursts, often taking the form of smoke or fog. It’s reckless and difficult to control, and most descendants are not strong enough to wield it.

But I am not most.

With a thrust of my hands, the magic transforms before me. Red mist solidifies into a swarm of vines and roots, multiplying the farther they stretch. A thick bough, wide as my chest, slams against the floor. The magic expands, swirling through the room like a living tornado. Tendrils of reedy branches stretch across the wall and over the window, lacing together like a woven mat. One row and then another, slowly building from the top down.

They solidify as I move on, transforming from pliable magic to hardened overgrowth, thick with bark and tangled vines. I’m almost done. Twisting, twining, until branches cover the majority of the window.

Another earthquake strikes, the hardest yet, and the glass shatters with it. It slices against my living magic, hurting worse than if it was my skin. I stumble with the pain, magic snapping like an overstretched band. I scream harder, finding my balance again and pushing the magic back toward the window. It doesn’t matter—it’s too late. The ceiling sags without its exterior support, slanting as if ready to plunge two-hundred stories.

The room is going to collapse.

I bring both hands together, transforming narrow branches into full-sized tree boles. I’m giving too much, letting the magic take more than I have to offer, but I don’t stop. With jerking heaves, I place one massive trunk after the other, smashing them against the failing shield. By the time I’m done, panting and exhausted, six tree trunks stand as impenetrable pillars. A soft wind filters through the gaping hole in the wall of vines and trees, but the ceiling holds.

I drop my hands, the magic shooting back into my bones. Instant relief courses through me as it settles into its rightful home. Breaths come easier. My legs stop shaking. Even my thoughts clear.

“Your hands, my prince,” Joran says.

I startle at the sound of his voice, though I shouldn’t be surprised. He likely stood just beyond this room in case I needed him.

I rotate my hands. Burning like fresh embers, my skin glows with the extreme heat. I flex my fingers, groaning against the tremor of pain. Now that my magic is where it belongs, tucked in the recesses of my bones, a weariness presses against me.

The earthquakes have ended, at least for now, and the Tower is safe from collapse. I stagger forward, one step, then two. Finally, I collapse into one of the chairs and lay my head onto the table.

“My prince,” Joran says again. He says something else, but I’m already succumbing to sleep.