Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
The palace throne room was empty at this hour. Kaen had just returned from visiting the Asgar Training Academy. Moonlight spilled through the broken lattice of the high windows, carving pale lines across the obsidian floor. The banners hung still. The air itself seemed to wait.
Kaen stood at the center of the vast chamber, alone except for the echo of his own breathing. His reflection rippled faintly in the polished marble, a young man carved from charm and precision, wrapped in gold and crimson. Handsome. Controlled and destined for the crown.
And yet, he felt only the hollow ache that came when he looked upon his father’s seat and imagined never being enough to claim it. A faint wind stirred behind him. It carried a voice. Low. Cold. Familiar with the way nightmares are.
“Still chasing shadows, little prince?”
Kaen turned sharply. “Who’s there?”
The voice chuckled, soft as the sound of silk tearing. “Someone who knows what it is to be unseen.”
The torches guttered. Shadows lengthened along the marble, pulling toward the dais like oil. From the dark between two pillars, a figure emerged. He couldn’t really see who it was due to the large cloak that shadowed the figure in front of him.
Kaen’s hand went instinctively to the dagger at his side, though something in him whispered that it wouldn’t matter.
“You’re trespassing in the royal palace,” Kaen said evenly. “Say your name.”
The figure inclined its head. “Names are masks. But if it pleases you, call me Lyssara. I speak for the ones who move beneath the Rift.”
The prince’s eyes narrowed. She moved closer to him. She was beautiful. “Are you some kind of sorcerer?”
“More of a messenger.” The voice was smooth as water, and the air around it pulsed faintly with illusion magic. “Your father fears the dark. He teaches his sons to hide from it. But you—” Lyssara tilted her head. “You are not afraid, are you?”
Kaen didn’t answer. His pulse betrayed him.
The figure’s shape shimmered, momentarily splitting into three shadowed silhouettes before merging again. “Something is sleeping beneath this realm. Something that could make you king in more than name.”
“I am already heir to the throne,” Kaen said, jaw tightening. “I don’t need help from shadows.”
“No?” The voice slithered closer. “Your father favors another, your brother, the soldier, the golden flame. He calls him the protector of the realm. He is a warrior. Strong and fierce. Commander Dareth’s most skilled weapon and the real future king.”
Kaen’s expression flickered, just once.
Lyssara smiled, though her mouth was only a suggestion. “You crave what they deny you. Power. The kind that answers to no crown.”
Kaen stepped forward, forcing steel into his voice. “And what would this power demand in return?”
The shadow’s answer came like a whisper of silk and storm. “Only what you are already losing, your faith in their light.”
He hesitated. The chamber dimmed further. The shadow reached out a hand, not quite solid, not quite smoke, and laid it against the air between them. A flicker of light appeared in Kaen’s palm, unbidden. Black fire, cold and mesmerizing. It burned without pain. Kaen couldn’t look away.
“This,” Lyssara murmured, “is the first truth of power. It does not destroy what you are. It reveals what you’ve always been.”
Kaen’s fingers curled around the flame. “And if I take it?”
“Then you will never kneel again.” The shadow retreated, fading back toward the columns. “The Sovereign, Morcarion, watches. He rewards those who are not afraid to take what they deserve.”
“Morcarion?” Kaen questioned softly. The name tasted like sharp iron and ash.
Lyssara’s voice drifted in the air. “He has seen you, Prince of Fire. When the Veil weakens, the world will need a king unbound by fear. Choose your side before your brother does.” Then the figure was gone, leaving only silence and the faint scent of scorched air.
Kaen stood unmoving for a long time. The moonlight had shifted across the floor, falling now across the empty throne. His hand trembled once before he hid it behind his back. The black flame still burned inside his palm. Small. Contained. He smiled faintly. Just enough.
Outside, in the lower sky, a whisper carried on the wind, inaudible but for those born of darkness. “He has taken the first spark.”Beneath the Rift, Morcarion and the dark magic he possessed stirred in response.