Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Callan
The bruise on my knuckles bloomed before the one on his face would. Still, I consoled myself with the fact that I’d left him damaged. And laced with a little magic, it would last long enough for her to see it. To be forced to think of me when she looked at him.
It was a small comfort.
The great hall was empty, though I felt anything but alone among the ghosts that clung to this place.
The echo of the door closing behind my half-brother still vibrated through the stone.
It sounded like laughter. His, probably.
He’d looked almost satisfied when I struck him—like he’d been waiting years for proof that I was exactly the vile creature he thought I was.
Or maybe my father’s spirit taunted me from the Afterlife.
I flexed my hand. The pain was small, sharp, mercifully quick to heal. It wouldn’t do for a king to be wounded that easily.
Outside, Grey Oak groaned under another cold wind.
The vines on the outer walls were dying, leaves crisping to ash instead of amber.
A sign of the Winter queen’s reach, the advisors said.
Another reminder that everything my father built was rotting faster than I could pretend to save it.
Even with the donation centers operating at full volume, it would not be enough.
My father must have known it and had done nothing about it except try to trap a Summer heir to drain instead.
Now, for better or worse, I had no plan at all.
“Majesty.”
Lemuel’s voice could sour wine. My father’s advisor appeared in the doorway, already mid-bow, already displeased. Thin, gray, smelling faintly of mildew and superiority, he looked at me like I was the runner-up.
“What?” I demanded flatly.
“You dismissed the prince rather abruptly,” he said.
“I struck him and tossed him out,” I said. “Let’s call things what they are.”
Lemuel’s mouth flattened. “The court will expect an explanation about your brother’s expulsion and his role in what happened here.”
“The court can expect silence. They thrive on it.”
He drifted closer, hands tucked into his sleeves. “Your father would never have tolerated—”
“My father is dead.” I hadn’t meant for it to sound like that—relief disguised as a statement—but it did.
Lemuel’s eyes narrowed. “May his spirit judge us all,” he murmured, the ritual phrase sharp as a knife. “And may you prove a stronger king than he believed you could be.”
I turned away, retracing my steps back to the table where I stared down at the maps of the villages Heliconia’s soldiers had burned.
According to our scouts, she’d entered our borders three days ago, attacking every village along the way, taking no prisoners.
It was concerning, the Winter queen’s sudden act of war, and required a king’s response.
But mostly, I stared at the maps, unseeing, because I refused to let Lemuel’s words find a mark.
“He left you a kingdom bleeding from the roots,” Lemuel went on. “If we do not enrich our borders before the Winter queen finishes sucking the life from the land, Autumn will rot.”
“And what would you have me do? Drain our people? Empty their life force so thoroughly that I no longer have subjects to rule?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The suggestion hung between us like a specter. Increase the donations. Imbue yourself with power. At any cost.
“Close the donation centers,” I said.
“Your Majesty?” Lemuel blinked. “What will we do—”
“We will allow our people to retain their magic so that they may fight and defend their kingdom,” I snapped.
The advisor hesitated.
“Do you defy your king’s commands?” I asked, debating the merits of simply putting my hand on his arm to make it so.
But the elder sorcerer shook his head. “No, Your Highness.”
“Then do as I say.”
Lemuel swallowed but said nothing. When he finally bowed out, the silence he left behind felt heavier than his oppressive presence ever had.