To Kill A Prince (What Lies Between Stars #1)

Chapter 1 Wren

Although I’m not entirely averse to murder, I really hope no one had to die today to get me here, standing before the great iron-wrought gates of Caerthalen Castle.

The royal keep looms above the city like a mountain of pale stone, its towers stretching toward the grey sky, its green-gold banners hanging limp in the windless morning.

Ivy spills down the towers, dotted with tiny purple flowers.

I’ve seen it before, from a distance, when my grandmother pointed it out with quiet, simmering contempt.

“Behold Serawen,” she’d whisper, in the same voice I remember mortal grown-ups using when they told a chilling story, “the home of our enemies. The killers of our kind. Where your father’s murderers sleep.”

The fey love stories as much as the mortals, but my grandmother never told me bedtime tales, nor did anyone sit around the campfire telling ghost stories. The truth has always been far more terrifying.

I tighten my fingers around the strap of my satchel and straighten my back. No hesitation. No doubt. I’ve been given instructions. And I’ve always obeyed.

Well—mostly. My instructors might say otherwise.

A guard approaches, eyeing me up and down. “State your name and business.”

“Serawen Thornvale,” I say smoothly, repeating the name I’ve borrowed for the occasion. The first name’s true enough, even if I rarely use it. “Here for the position of the prince’s bodyguard.”

I hand him the slip of paper with my credentials. Forged, of course. Done by hand rather than magic. The Crown always expects the fey to use magic; it makes them less prepared for good old-fashioned mortal trickery.

The guard barely hides his scepticism. He’s probably expecting someone broader, someone who looks battle-worn or scared, and dresses in more than mud-splattered clothes and a travel-stained cloak.

I could’ve glamoured my appearance. Just a light one—to give me a few extra inches, make my muscles more pronounced, my clothes look a little shinier, a little more respectable.

But I don’t want to confuse anyone if I can’t keep the glamour up indefinitely.

Be yourself as much as you are able, my grandmother told me. Tell as few lies as you have to.

So I’ve glamoured nothing but my eyes, dulling the gold flecks amidst the deep brown that makes up the rest of my irises. As for the clothes… they hardly matter. I’m the only one applying for the position.

The other applicants, I’ve been assured, won’t be in attendance today. I hope my kinfolk didn’t kill them. A sudden illness would do. Weakness in the limbs. A minor memory-muddling curse or a horse throwing a shoe…

Murder is messy. I’m not against it, but I do prefer exhausting other methods first. Some people deserve to die—this I know. I doubt anyone applying to guard the prince is one of them.

“Place your hands on the gate,” the guard instructs.

I hold up my hands and place both against the criss-crossed metal.

Iron, of course. No fey can touch it without burning, or cross over a solid ring of it.

The gates of Caerthalen Castle are a feat of engineering.

When down, it forms a perfect circle deep in the rock beneath the foundations.

It prevents any attack either aerial or underground.

It’s hard not to be a little impressed by the humans, and the ways that they manage to get by without relying on magic.

“Lift!” the guard demands.

I remove my hands from the gate and present my palms. Not a mark in sight, thanks to my mortal mother. Iron has never burned me.

Nothing has.

The guard mutters something to someone else, and then the gate begins to lift. It groans and shudders.

I try not to smile as I step inside.

Phase one, complete.

Inside the gates, the scent of damp stone and oiled steel clings to the air.

Servants hurry past in neat lines. Knights stride through the courtyards, their armour gleaming even beneath the thick cloud cover.

I follow the guards through an arched hallway, my boots near-silent on the cobblestone floor.

The Crown hasn’t said much about the accident that blinded Queen Alessandra’s second son, Prince Cassiel, six months ago, just that it was an unfortunate injury sustained in service to the kingdom.

Whatever the reason, it doesn’t really matter.

The point is that his mother has decided he needs protecting.

The irony is not lost on me.

I’ve not been sent here to protect Cassiel. I suspect I’ve been sent here to kill him. My grandmother wasn’t exactly forthcoming on the details.

“You won’t tell me what you want me to do?” I’d asked her.

She’d folded her tattooed hands into her lap, the brown skin etched with white and gold. “No,” she said. “Not yet, little bird. I wish you to guard the prince. Befriend him, if you can. Trust is always a useful thing to gain.”

It’s not the first time I’ve been given an order without the reason. The fey are incapable of lying, after all.

But I’m not—thanks to my human mother. I can lie. I can disguise myself. I can pass all tests.

I’m a perfect spy.

The perfect assassin.

The guard leads me across the courtyard to the barracks.

Inside, the captain of the guard sits behind an oaken desk, its surface neatly arranged with stacks of parchment and a single, half-melted candle.

He’s broad-shouldered, with the weathered face of someone who’s spent most of his life in armour.

His greying hair is cropped short, and his gaze is sharp despite the deep lines carved around his eyes.

“Captain Fellwood,” the guard announces. “A candidate for the position of the prince’s guard.”

The Captain barely glances at me. He takes the papers the guard is holding out, and ushers him away before gesturing for me to sit. I do, clasping my hands lightly in my lap—the picture of composed professionalism.

It will probably not last long.

Maybe I should have brushed off some of the mud.

“Serawen Thornvale,” he says, reading from the parchment in front of him. His voice is slow, deliberate. “Formerly employed at Lord Everard’s estate in Thornvale. Left with a reference six months ago, before it burned to the ground, the lord perishing with it. How convenient.”

I offer a small shrug. “For me, ser.”

He lets that hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “Where did you go afterwards?”

“Home, ser,” I say, repeating the story I’ve memorised. “My mother was sick.”

“Is she better now?”

“She died. Three months back.”

Fellwood’s eyes stay on me. Watching. Weighing. “And you’ve done what since?”

“Odd jobs, ser. Guard work where I could find it. Nothing worth putting to paper.”

He makes a thoughtful sound and leans back in his chair, studying me.

“You’ve got the experience for the role, if what’s written here is true.

But guarding a prince isn’t the same as standing at a nobleman’s door.

Prince Cassiel needs someone sharp. Resourceful.

Someone who knows when to hold their tongue—and when to speak. ”

I incline my head. “I understand.” Even though, honestly, holding my tongue has never been my strong suit.

What’s the good of lying if you have to blurt out everything like we do? Zeph scolded me once, like my inability to keep my thoughts to myself was a personal insult to him.

But Grandmother wouldn’t have sent me if she didn’t think I could manage it.

“Do you?” the captain asks, steepling his fingers. “His Highness is… particular. He won’t suffer fools. He won’t abide disloyalty.”

“Then it’s fortunate I’m neither foolish nor disloyal.”

He lets out a small, dry huff of breath. “That remains to be seen.” He flips the parchment over and sets it aside. “All right, Thornvale. Let’s see how you fare in a fight.”

The training yard stretches wide—packed dirt underfoot, bordered by racks of training weapons and scattered groups of guards and knights running through drills.

The captain leads me to the centre, where a tall, broad-shouldered man waits.

He’s got dark hair and a scar down his cheek, wearing a plain tunic and training leathers.

His arms are folded as he watches me approach.

“Dain Hollowbrook,” the captain says. “One of my best.”

Dain gives me a short nod and a quick grin. “You any good?”

I smile faintly. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

The captain gestures toward the weapons rack. “Choose your weapon.”

I select a standard training sword, test its weight, then settle into a loose stance. Dain picks a similar blade and moves to face me. Around us, the other guards turn to watch, murmuring.

The captain gives a curt nod. “Begin.”

Dain moves first, testing my defences with a flurry of controlled strikes.

He’s stronger than me—most people are—but I trained with the fey.

I’m as swift as the wind and twice as cunning.

I meet his strikes with minimal effort, letting him push me back a few steps, making him think he’s in control—then turn the tide in a blink.

A feint. A sidestep. A flick of my wrist.

His sword spins from his grip, landing in the dirt a few feet away. A hush falls over the yard.

Dain stares down at his empty hands, then lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Well,” he says. “That was humbling.”

The captain doesn’t so much as blink. “Again.”

We spar twice more. I win both times, though Dain adjusts, adapting to my speed. He lasts longer in the third round, but in the end, I best him again.

This time, when I step back, there’s something like respect in his eyes. “You’re quick,” he says. “I’d hate to fight you when you’re actually trying.”

Captain Fellwood doesn’t praise. He shows no signs of being impressed at all. If anything, he seems almost annoyed. He gestures to a group of nearby guards. “Four of you. With her.”

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders. A test, then.

Good. I welcome it.