Chapter 1
CASTELIS
In the Autumn Court, we do not mourn.
I’m glad Prince Rylian is glaring at Duke Alred instead of me.
Above his piercing amber eyes, the prince’s dark brows slant in disapproval, forming angles as sharp as the Tyri Peaks that surround our valley.
“When my father died in battle, it was the greatest thing that ever happened to this land,” he says.
“Surely,” begins Duke Alred, “you would not want people to think you celebrate your father’s death.” He doesn’t look up from the book he’s paging through. “You’ve yet to even take the throne, sire.”
Rylian’s scowl only deepens. I shouldn’t think of him like that, so familiar, like a brother or a friend.
I’m a mere human mortal in his fae world.
But I can’t help myself. He may be dark and brooding at times, but somehow, I’ve always found myself drawn to him.
Perhaps that’s a result of living immersed in the magic of the Autumn Court my whole life.
I also can’t disagree with his annoyance.
Lord Alred might be my mentor, but he’s also a damned worm.
I busy myself with taking notes and measurements. I’ve got three careful schematic drawings of different angles of the shining blue crystal that floats in the air over a crimson pillow, atop an oaken pedestal in the center between the three of us.
“You make the King’s Heart sound like it’s a curse, but it’s not.
It’s a blessing!” Rylian says, the edge in his voice unmistakable.
The frustration. I’m not sure how much power Rylian holds to make that edge in his voice cut.
He might not be sure either. He’s not been crowned king yet, though the coronation isn’t far. His power has not yet been tested.
For all our sakes, I hope it won’t be.
“Only great tragedy can create an artifact this powerful,” Duke Alred says mildly. “We mustn’t make his death sound like a wonderful boon.”
“I loved my father,” Rylian snaps. “No one knows the pain of his loss better than I. But this Heart will be a greater legacy than he or any of his successors could have hoped to achieve through their rule alone. What we do as rulers mostly dies with us. But this… His power will live on. Prove he was as great as many of us believed. It will protect the Autumn Court from all who would threaten us. My father’s last great gift to his people.
And to me.” His voice has grown quieter, soft with sadness.
“Of course, sire. Of course.” Alred backs down. But he’s toeing that line. He’s always toeing the line with Rylian. What is he hoping to achieve?
My gut tells me—nothing good.
If I were a genuine fae member of the Autumn Court, or a fae of any Court really, I might know better what the machinations mean.
But as a human mortal, I’ve barely worked my way above a thrall here.
I know only that my heart and my loyalties lie with Rylian, and something in me curdles when Alred spits his biting words, the angry rants I’ll surely hear later.
And deeper than that, there’s a gnawing fear, like I am off balance on the edge of a precipice.
I may not have been born here in the palace, or been born a fae, but the Valley of Autumn Court has always been and will always be my home. And Prince Rylian will be its king. My king.
He’s pacing back and forth, then stops to peer at the crystal again.
Or, no—through it. Rylian’s eyes briefly lock with mine.
His shoulder-length mane is as dark as pine bark, and his ears are sharper than those of any fae I’ve ever met.
It makes him look particularly cross, even for a fae. But for me, his gaze softens.
I freeze, a doe with an arrow trained on her heart.
His eyes swirl with shades of amber, their colors lost in a fantasy of copper and bronze and gold. He peers at me through the precious gem, the Heart, and it’s like he’s on the other side of some crystalline wall of water.
Why? What is he looking for?
His eyes narrow just a little, but not suspiciously. It’s a subtle acknowledgment. A nearly imperceptible visual nod. And I have the strangest sense that he’s gathering support from me, somehow shored up by my gaze.
I long to nod back, but I have the strangest sense he’d prefer I didn’t. Alred’s presence feels large in the room. Large, overbearing, and dangerous.
It’s just a moment, then it’s gone. I duck my head. Back to making my notes, as I should be.
That’s my job. The metal nib scrapes along the vellum until I hastily dip the pen again for ink.
I may be a mere mortal, but I am here for my research and archival skills.
Studying the archives under Duke Alred is a great privilege.
Among my many skills are tolerating his tirades and being able to balance necessary supplies while making proper notes.
Completing the color notes, I set down my supplies on a nearby table and move forward to take measurements.
The crystal has grown each time we’ve measured it, three times now, but I don’t think it will grow more.
When King Cresian—Rylian’s father—suffered a mortal injury in an ambush at Ragan Pass, his wardens fought to bring him back here, to the palace stronghold at the River Larzen in the Tyri Valley. But King Cresian resisted, pressing the fight.
Or so they said. There were other accounts, rumors. Perhaps he knew Rylian was ready to rule or was hoping to make his sacrifice heroic enough that his heart would turn to crystal. Formation of the crystals is never a certainty. Perhaps he thought he could win and survive.
Well, he didn’t. The great King Cresian fell in battle with the Winter Court on that bitter day, not so long ago. When his heart—the literal beating muscle in his chest—stopped, his fae magic condensed, concentrated, crystallized.
And this crystal before me remained. Wardens pulled it from the king’s bloody remains. Three weeks later, it is still growing.
“One more sagewidth wide,” I murmur.
Rylian’s smile energizes me, but I don’t show it. “You see, Alred,” he says. “His legacy grows with every passing day.”
“Indeed, sire. Indeed, it does.”
That answer twists my stomach. It feels like a warning, like he’s raising the hammer to strike it down harder in the next breath. I hate it when he gives me that sort of answer. But to the prince who will be king, he seems to be compliant.
A glance at Rylian makes me think he’s not fooled, for he’s frowning again, brows as sharp and angular as his ears.
“Another half a sagewidth tall,” I mutter, scribbling it down. I am not the arbiter of some game between them, but it feels that way, as if one is rooting for me to say it has grown and the other that it’s shrunk. Why?
The larger King Cresian’s heart, the better for everyone.
Crystals formed by the powerful dead have long powered the barriers that protect our Autumn Court, and several of the oldest have cracked over the last few years.
Everyone had thought they couldn’t crack, but perhaps after centuries, their magic had finally run out.
A new crystal of any size is a boon to our kingdom. But this one… it is both beautiful and remarkable.
“Quarter sagewidth deep,” I say, making my final notes. It’s easy to see the trend line. “Growth appears to continue unabated, sir. According to my calculations, it appears to be at a continuous linear rate.”
Alred scowls. I’m supposed to leave the discussion of science and mathematics to the fae and keep my opinions and analysis to myself. “You will do those calculations more carefully and draw up a report. Do not make hasty judgments on behalf of our future king.”
I duck my head. “Of course, sir.” In spite of Alred’s reproach on Rylian’s behalf, my prince hardly looks grateful or in agreement with my mentor. He’s frowning yet again.
That does more than a little to ease the sting.