12. Harrick
TWELVE
HARRICK
She’d look good taking my cock.
It’s the last thought I had before falling asleep, and it’s the first thought I have when I wake this morning. A single gasp. That’s all it took for my attraction to cross from awareness to desperation. I’d known she was beautiful from the first time I saw her, obviously, but this was the first time I truly wanted to act on it.
I knew it was wrong. So wrong, so fucking inappropriate. This frightened servant at my mercy, my dirty thoughts between us. It doesn’t matter that I’d never actually kiss her—I hate that I wanted to.
I hate more that I still want to.
Wide blue eyes, pretty lips, and that breathy gasp echoes through my mind as I remain in bed. It’s well after daybreak at this point, meaning I’ve missed the morning meeting. Nothing ever happens at them anyway, but I’ve rarely been late…let alone missed one. Yet here I sit, propped up in bed, watching water streak my windows and thinking of Rune Ealde.
Pale, sickly handmaiden.
Daring, secretive trespasser.
Beautiful, fucking temptation.
In the middle of the night, I got an alert that Viana’s code had been used to enter the Training Arena. Luckily I’d still been awake, and I assured the guard on duty that I’d take care of it. I’d been annoyed the entire way there, wondering what the hell she was doing. It didn’t seem likely that she’d be snooping or stealing or doing anything to risk her new status. And still, none of those options would have surprised me more than the sight of Rune Ealde swinging a sword. She’d stolen an elite’s code. She’d broken into a forbidden place. She’d taken a weapon and was using it.
I’d been mesmerized, watching her, stunned as she attempted to swing a sword far too big for her. Her arms had been shaking, but her mouth was set in a determined line. She hadn’t seen me, and thank Wyhel for that. I would’ve been happy watching her all night, and yet, I’d found myself moving toward her. Wanting more than distant observation.
In the daylight, I have more questions than I did last night. She’s obviously up to something, and it’s most likely not in my favor. I should report her to Sorace, inform him that even our smallest of servants is creeping where she shouldn’t. But the thought makes me sick. I think of him and Malek, snickering about the vile things they’d like to do to her.
No. I’m not telling a fucking soul about what I saw. I’ll figure out her intentions myself, and in the meantime, I’ll use it as an excuse to see her again.
My eyes fall shut, and soon, I’m thinking more about her . Her eyes and their unusual color: pale blue, like falling rain. Her soft, low voice, somehow both timid and brave at the same time. Her blatant curiosity and quiet intelligence.
I don’t let myself think of my urge to stroke her face, or the breathy sound she made when I did.
A heavy knock pounds at my door, shattering the moment. I shuffle beneath the covers and pretend to be sleeping. Whoever it is—and I fear I know exactly who it is—can wait until our training session to bother me.
Unfortunately, Malek doesn’t take the hint. He slams his fist a few more times, and then, the door clangs open. Familiar footsteps—heavy and wide, like a charging general—stride into the room. Despite my closed eyes, he strips the blankets off my bed and drops them to the floor.
“A little old for pretending, aren’t we, brother?” he asks. He’s dressed more extravagantly than usual. He wears an unfamiliar red suit, sharply pressed and stamped with mangled claws. His crown of teeth sits squarely over his slicked black hair.
I rise to my feet and shove past Malek. As I pass the ornate wall mirror, I catch a glimpse of my haggard reflection: messy hair and shadowed eyes. I look terrible, and I’ve got a throbbing headache to match. Rather than dwell on either, I flick through a dozen red suits on display before selecting a random one.
When I turn, I’m unsurprised to find Malek watching me. He’s wearing his mischievous grin, and despite it being late morning, it’s too early to deal with this bullshit. I move to the left and head for my washroom, only for him to step into my path, blocking me.
“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?” he sneers.
“I assumed boredom,” I say, meeting his eyes. A smirk is already working its way over his mouth. I step to the left, and he shadows the movement. With a sigh, I stop again, centering myself in front of him. “If you want something, say it. I’ve already missed one meeting this morning. I shouldn’t miss another.”
“The Architect has called a gathering.” Malek’s smirk deepens, bringing with it an eerie spark to his expression. “He’s ready to discuss the portal.”
“With the Committee?” I ask. I hadn’t planned on entertaining Malek at all, but now I can’t help it. He grins like I’ve reacted exactly as he hoped: equal parts shocked and horrified.
“Yes,” he drawls. “The Architect is willing to hear my plan to escape this hellish world. Sooner rather than later, that is. Seeing as you weren’t at the morning meeting, I volunteered to inform you.”
I study him, glancing from his suit to his crown before finally landing on his slanted mouth. There’s something he’s not telling me, something sinister. I can always tell by his boyish excitement, by his barely contained grin. He’s conjured a new game, and I’ve unintentionally set it in motion by missing this meeting.
“Whatever treachery you’re planning, leave me out of it,” I snap, shoving past him. He loses his balance, enough that I feel a flicker of satisfaction. His voice follows me, even after I’ve shut myself in the washroom.
“There’s no treachery here, brother!” he calls. “There is only redemption, and I will claim it for our people—with or without your help!”
“This is ridiculous,” Tora says.
We sit in the Hall B auditorium of the 198th floor. Mother strolls around the room, greeting people as if they’re close friends. She’s memorized every royal’s name and position, and she knows exactly how to use that information to her benefit. I watch her, partly fascinated, partly disgusted, until Tora nudges me with her elbow.
We’re off to the side of the room, waiting for the elites to ready the stage. They move our thrones—four metal and one bone—this way and that, never seeming quite satisfied. Malek stands at the center of it all, flirting with a pretty elite, his eyes skimming the room as they talk. In front of the stage, ten rows of tipped-chin royals settle into place. A few stare at me and Tora, but thankfully, none of them get the courage to approach us.
“Look at him,” Tora says. She tugs at her elbow-length gloves, a gift to her from Nordan Kerr, before gesturing toward our brother. “What a rat. Digging his way into places he doesn’t belong. Trying to force the Architect’s hand. Defying Mother’s requests. Going over your head. He’s an absolute fiend, Harrick! He ruins everything , and he’s completely reckless about it.”
“He’s up to something,” I murmur. His eyes catch mine, just for a moment, and he grins before looking away.
“Well, obviously,” Tora snorts. “He’s always up to something. He’s trying to condemn all of Savoa, just because he’s an impatient brat. And, despite the fact he’s betrothed, he’s up there, openly flirting with that random woman. We’ll have to hear all about him bedding her at breakfast.”
“No, there’s something more,” I say, chewing the inside of my cheek. “He came to my quarters this morning to make sure I knew of tonight’s gathering.”
“Do you think he’s—” Tora cuts off, her attention suddenly at the door. She lets out a short groan. “Gods. I didn’t know they were coming.”
I follow her glare to the entryway, where Nordan Kerr, Viana Llroy, and Malek’s betrothed Petra Renat stand. Nordan Kerr wears an emerald suit with dashes of red throughout the fabric—and yet, he looks entirely bland and unimportant. His face is a collection of unremarkable features, and his fidgeting fingers make him look like a lost child.
Viana is as beautiful as ever, dressed in a gown far too elegant for the occasion. Her attention is already locked on me. She grins, showing off teeth whiter and straighter than I remember them being. She’s probably using two hundred beryls of magic, just to look like that. Following a shy wave to me, she leans to whisper something to Petra.
Malek’s betrothed looks almost as out of place as Nordan. She shrinks behind Viana’s left shoulder, her red and green dress half-swallowing her. She hunches her shoulders, like she’s hoping it actually will.
“They’re without their servants,” I say. I cringe, realizing my mistake only after I’ve spoken. Servants don’t come to royal meetings, let alone to gatherings.
Luckily, Tora is too busy glaring at Nordan to notice. She picks him apart from where we stand, ranting about his hair and his poor posture and the way his fingers twitch against his thighs. I’m about to pull her attention back to me when an elite appears before us. She beckons us to the stage, and whatever theory Tora had about Malek vanishes between us.
The elite calls everyone to their seats. Over one hundred royals, dressed in every shade of purple, filter into place. Their voices quiet to whispers, but their eyes remain loud. They stare at us on the stage, expressions hungry for whatever drama Malek has prepared. They briefly look away to watch Viana, Petra, and Nordan find their places in the front row. Viana makes a show of blowing me a kiss.
I ignore her—I ignore all of them—from my place on the stage. As usual, I sit between Mother and Malek with Tora to his left. The Architect’s throne sits empty on the stage’s far right, and I imagine that means he’ll have a special entrance. I don’t bother trying to get my sister’s attention from here. Instead, I look out at the mountains through the distant windows, trying but failing to distract myself.
The elongated room darkens and the crowd falls silent. One of the elites—the one who’d been flirting with Malek—comes to the stage and positions herself behind the glass podium. She looks back to smile at my brother before facing the crowd. If nothing else, Tora was right about Malek bragging tomorrow morning.
“Welcome all to a spectacular gathering, presented to you by Prince Malek Ademas and the Architect himself!” the woman calls. More than half the crowd claps and cheers, but I’m relieved to see some looking less than enthused. It eases the tension in my chest, and I manage a deep breath. If the upper royals are skeptical, maybe they’ll revolt against Malek’s idea. Maybe they’ll hate the Architect’s secrecy to the point they rebel against this plan of his.
More time. I’m supposed to have more time before I have to deal with this.
The elite continues to ramble, and I don’t realize I’ve zoned out until there’s heavy applause from the crowd. The white lights brighten as the Architect strides into the room. He’s dressed in his usual blood-red suit and wolf mask, but his walk somehow feels more purposeful, more dangerous. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone in the crowd—or even us—as he claims his macabre throne.
I sit forcibly straight, determined not to look at the Architect. I haven’t seen him since the infirmary, but I know he’s been keeping tabs on me. His guards linger after training sessions. My cousins ask thinly veiled questions. And I do my best to act unaffected by his increasing attention.
The elite curtsies to the Architect before leading the rest of the organizers from the room. After they’re gone, the lights soften and shadow most faces in the crowd. I can still sense their eagerness. Despite anything else they might feel, these people are hungry for information.
The Architect doesn’t often make appearances, and he rarely calls gatherings. If we’re here, everyone in the room will have a fresh piece of gossip to whisper in the corridors. I imagine even the servants will know by nightfall. I can’t help but wonder how the Architect plans to keep people from storming his supply once they know—or if he’s even considered they will.
For now, he sits perfectly still, the room subdued in silence around us. After a painfully long wait, during which even Malek starts to twitch, the Architect finally rises and lifts his arms toward the sea of purple, the splashes of green and red. The crowd remains quiet, their attention unwavering.
“My greatest children,” he says. His voice echoes, and the purple sea leans into his words. “It brings me great pleasure to address you here today. Many of you have experienced hardships and heartaches in this violent land we call home. For countless cycles, I have hoped to find a way out for us, to find a way to escape this land and return to our Old World. Until recently, that has felt like nothing but a dream.”
The crowd is a mass of perplexed expressions and ravenous eyes. People look from the Architect to me to the Architect again. Sometimes they look at Malek or Mother or Tora, but I feel their gazes lingering on me. They think I have something to do with this gathering, this idea of escape.
“When I was approached with a plan that took evacuation from possible to plausible, I had a great realization. While I cannot yet tell you the details of our plan, I can admit I made a grievous error,” the Architect says. His voice hums through the anxious stillness. “Many cycles ago, I selected an heir for this kingdom. And ever since, I have questioned whether the correct choice was made. Today, I stand before you to correct what I now know was a mistake.”
No .
My heart thuds so loud I can hear it. They all must hear it, the way my body is rearranging beneath my ribcage. The crowd is unquestionably focused on me now. Meanwhile, I’ve finally turned to look at the Architect. I do not dare look at my brother.
This isn’t about leaving Savoa, not really. This is my worst fear realized. It is countless cycles of taunting and intimidation and mockery, all building to this one horrible moment. And for whatever reason, I still feel caught off guard.
He’s going to steal everything from me.
My body trembles, and without fully deciding to, I look at my sister. She’s already staring back at me, cheeks pale and lips parted in horror. She knows. Everyone in this gods-forsaken room knows now, and before long, the whole fucking kingdom will too.
I’m going to be the first heir ever stripped of his title.
The anticipation in the room sucks through my mouth, into my lungs, expanding until I hear the cartilage splitting my ribs. I am anxiety, everywhere, all at once. I want to freeze this moment, stop time long enough for me to flee the stage with what little dignity I still have. The Architect clears his throat, and though I can’t see his face, I know he is smiling.
Gods. Not here, not in front of everyone.
“Today, the fifteenth day of Flood Season, I officially renounce my chosen heir. The successor of Savoa, from this moment onward, is no longer Prince Harrick.”
The anxious breath in my lungs explodes into a pained grunt, as if the Architect has shoved a dull spear through my chest. I don’t know how the crowd reacts. A high-pitched buzz fills my ears and radiates into my throat until I can’t hear anything else. My consciousness is trying to rip from my body, and I wish it would. I’d like nothing more than to pass out and wake far away from the gaping mouths of my subjects.
Despite cycles of Malek’s prodding and snide remarks from my cousins, I never truly thought I’d lose it. Now, the Architect’s words cut through every nerve ending and my body pulses with the realization that I have failed. I have truly lost. And to someone as heartless, as cruel as Malek. He swept in like everyone warned he would, and I have no excuse for it but my own inadequacy.
“Kneel for your future leader and king, Heir Malek Ademas!”
My brother claps a hand against my shoulder as he stands. I blink the crowd into focus, and they’re bowing. All of them. Even those who seemed skeptical about today’s gathering kneel as he comes to the podium. I’m not sure if they’re happy to gain Malek as their heir—but they’re certainly not sad to lose me.
My skin is hot and my blood is cold. The desperation to disconnect, to disappear, still vibrates through my chest, but something else—something angry, spiteful, violent—awakens. It pushes through my bones, right between the marrow and the magic, and threatens to consume me. I don’t fight it. I let the anger swell and blister until my thoughts don’t feel entirely like my own.
No .
Everyone in the room stares at me. I’ve said it out loud, shouted it maybe. I’ve stood without meaning to.
“No.” I say it again. My voice is a strike of thunder in this gaping room.
I look away from the crowd, and I ignore Tora’s whisper of a touch on my arm. Malek and the Architect shift as I stride forward, centering myself in front of our people. They are more blurry outlines, tinged red with my shaky vision, than they are human.
“I am the rightful heir,” I say. The words vibrate around me. “You cannot take my title without a challenge.”
“I’m not sure you want to do that, brother,” Malek says. His voice is low and warm, as if this is all in good fun. He’s not wrong though. He’s the better fighter—I know that more than anyone.
“If you want the crown, you will pry it from me,” I spit. The words don’t sound like mine. They’re cold and sharp, snapping between my ears. Looking at the Architect, I steady my voice. “I have the right to a challenge.”
The Architect doesn’t respond for a long moment. He tilts his head and lets out a slow chuckle, like I’ve surprised him.
“Very well,” he says finally. He sounds more amused than offended, as if I’m a disobedient child, and he’s willing to humor my defiance.
“Fine,” Malek says. He rolls his eyes, making a show of it. “Have your challenge, Harrick. You’ll only bring more disgrace upon yourself.”
“I’d rather fall in disgrace than willingly condemn all of Savoa.”
If Malek responds, I don’t hear him. The high-pitched buzzing is back in my ears as I storm off the stage and into the adjacent corridor. A pair of eavesdropping elites scramble out of the way, first for me and then for Tora a moment later. She’s a step behind me, heels clicking on the marble floor, calling my name between sharp breaths. I ignore her, pressing toward the stairwell and praying none of these elites get in my way.
“Harrick!” she yells again. There’s a brief pause as she kicks out of her heels. Then, she’s running—no, sprinting—past me, gasping as she braces herself against the stairwell door, blocking my way.
I could hurl her halfway across this floor if I wanted, and she knows that, but she stands tall, a scowl distorting her features. I wonder, distantly, if this hesitation is my greatest weakness. Malek certainly would’ve thrown her by now.
“Move, Tor,” I say. My body is still shaking, cold with a million foreign emotions.
“Mother will fix this,” she insists. “She’ll talk to the Architect. He clearly?—”
“Move, Tora,” I snap again. I shouldn’t be surprised at her lack of faith in me. Of course she thinks I need Mother to protect me, to protect Savoa. I let the hurt and shame swell in my chest.
Tora doesn’t move.
I shove past her and rip the door open, knocking her off balance. She stumbles into the stairwell behind me and our footsteps echo as we descend. Once we reach my quarters, I punch my code. It’ll only be a matter of time before he claims my home too.
“Harrick,” pants Tora. “You can’t challenge him. You can’t .”
I stop, hand trembling on my partially opened door. Away from the gathering, the violent anger slips from my system, draining out through my toes. She’s right, of course. If I challenge Malek, I’m going to lose. Regardless of who has more magic, he’s always bested me. He’s always been the better fighter, and if I battle him in front of our people, they’re only going to feel more confident in the Architect’s decision.
Maybe it would be a better idea to ask for Mother’s help.
“Harrick—”
“I heard you,” I snap. My limbs feel like deflated balloons, like dying flowers. “I can’t take it back, Tora. I won’t.”
“He’ll kill you,” she whispers. “He’ll kill you as eagerly as he killed that redhead. Maybe more eagerly.”
I didn’t know he’d already killed Viana’s first servant, but I don’t let my surprise show. If anything, his careless murder only strengthens my resolve.
“Perhaps,” I say finally. Tora sucks in a breath. “But he’ll sacrifice all of Savoa if he becomes king. He’ll kill everyone if I let him. And, heir or not, I can’t let him do that.”
Tora says my name again, a near-silent whisper. I ignore her, shutting the door between us.