Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
ASTER
I stood at the foot of my father’s bed with a frown so deep that lines etched into my face. I closed the curtain before rounding the corner of his bed.
Our father was a cruel man, one I hardly knew, but he was an effective leader. I was raised from afar, but each time I returned home, I was reminded of the burden I carried. King Asterius the Third, divider of lands and conqueror of shadows. He was no father though. Not more than in name.
He wheezed with every whistling snore, those crusted-over eyes twitching every few seconds. I looked at the empty glasses of water on his bedside, but I knew he wasn’t strong enough to drink them on his own. I wouldn’t be surprised if he nearly drowned each time the nurses came to feed him food and drink. It’d get to the point where he couldn’t swallow—if he wasn’t already incapable of such a mundane task.
I removed one glove, rubbing the pads of my fingers together until smoke bloomed off of them like an omen of night. The mist fell over the king with the intricate touch of an artist revealing the truth behind their haunting masterpiece. Slowly, his sweaty skin melted to reveal his true state—the decay so rancid that not even the nurses could stomach it.
His cheekbones hollowed, eyes recessing deep into his skull with eyelids half-open. The whites of his eyes were wholly black, and every vein in his skin was the color of a raven’s kiss. I lowered my hand over his chest, closing my eyes to focus on his heartbeat.
Slow, weak, and unsteady.
My father was always a dying man. It was the only thing we had in common. But this? Even with closed eyes, I stared at the face of my death. He was my omen—a warning of what would be. And when I glanced at him once more, his focus was weakly hung on me. Those cracked, bleeding lips parted, and I kneeled so I could hear the ghost of his voice.
“Lord DeBurne. Have you—have you—” A long pause, and then he coughed weakly. “The artifact?”
I shook my head and sighed. “Lord DeBurne is dead, Father.” I watched the hollows of his cheek suck in with his whine. “But he has a family surviving him. We will find what we are owed.”
“How ever d-disappointing.” He wheezed again, his shaky hand poking through the blanket in the direction of his water. I glared at it, long and hard, before standing with curled fists.
“Father, why do you think the shore follows Vespera as it consumes our world?”
“S-stupid boy… I d-do not concern myself with such things.” A cough. “Wa-water.”
I harshened my glare into slits, picking up the water and observing the droplets that remained. I slowly tilted the cup so it was over his head, watching the water hang off the edge before dripping onto his lips. His wrinkled, dry tongue darted for it, and I let the glass clatter onto the bed next to him. When I released my hold on the glamour concealing his decay, he returned to the vision the healers knew.
“My theory is that the shadows know how hungry a dying man is for water. You are no different than the poorest beggar struggling to outrun the storm.”
My father moaned in pain, and I thought about putting him out of his misery. In fact, the only thing keeping me from it was knowing what came after such a death—I would not mourn, no. I would, however, be forced into the ritual the University of Arcane Magics had spent decades preparing me for.
“Drink your water, let the herbalists toy with you. I do not care. You are ruined, Father.” I turned and breached beyond the curtains.
Erynna waited for me on the other side, the black mask in hand with a frown on her face. She handed it to me slowly.
“Why the long look on your face?” I asked with a bite in my tone, snatching it from her.
“There’s been a murder in one of the morgues, Aster,” she said quietly. I raised a brow, but I didn’t need to ask why I should care. Erynna took a step closer, out of earshot from the nearest nurse. “There’s another shadow-wielding arcanist. A woman.”
My face settled, heart pounding in my chest. “That’s impossible. You’re certain?”
“Positively.” Erynna’s gaze sunk to the mask in my hands, and though she looked distraught, a small smirk etched into her features. “Morgana Kyllingham is the woman fate seems to have waiting for you, my prince. Our murderer just so happens to match the scent left on that mask.”
I paused long enough for the truth to weigh my shoulders down. I turned to tell the healers, “Fetch water for your king before his veins dry up,” and moved past my sister to find our latest criminal.