you’ve already lost.”
The magic forced its way through him with every beat of his heart. Kell tried to fight it back, but it was in his head now, whispering in
Vitari
’s voice.
Let me in.
Pain shot jaggedly through Kell’s chest as the darkness hit his heart, and in the distance, Rhy collapsed.
“No!”
Kell shouted, reaching toward his brother, uselessly, desperately, but as his hand brushed the nearest person, the darkness leaped like fire from his fingers to the man’s chest. He shuddered, and then collapsed, crumbling to ash as his body struck the street stones. Before he hit the ground, the people on either side of him began to fall as well, death rippling in a wave through the crowd, silently consuming everyone. Beyond them, the buildings began to crumble too, and the bridges, and the palace, until Kell was standing alone in an empty world.
And then in the silence, he heard a sound: not a sob, or a scream, but a
laugh.
And it took him a moment to recognize the voice.
It was his.
* * *
Kell gasped, lurching forward out of sleep.
Light was filtering through the patio doors, glinting off a fresh dusting of snow. The shards of sun made him cringe and look away as he pressed his palm to his chest and waited for his heart to slow.
He’d fallen asleep in his chair, fully clothed, his skull aching from his brother’s indulgences.
“Dammit, Rhy,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. His head was pounding, a sound matched by whatever was going on outside his window. The blows he—well,
Rhy
—had sustained the night before were a memory, but the aftereffect of the drinks was compounding, and Kell decided then and there that he vastly preferred the sharp, short pain of a wound to the dull, protracted ache of a hangover. He felt like death, and as he splashed cold water on his face and throat and got dressed, he could only hope that the prince felt worse.
Outside his door, a stiff-looking man with greying temples stood watch. Kell winced. He always hoped for Hastra. Instead he usually got Staff. The one who hated him.
“Morning,” said Kell, walking past.
“
Afternoon
, sir,” answered Staff—or Silver, as Rhy had nicknamed the aging royal guard—as he fell in step behind him. Kell wasn’t thrilled by the appearance of Staff
or
Hastra in the aftermath of the Black Night, but he wasn’t surprised, either. It wasn’t the guards’ fault that King Maxim no longer trusted his
Antari.
Just like it wasn’t Kell’s fault that the guards couldn’t always keep track of him.
He found Rhy in the sunroom, a courtyard enclosed by glass, having lunch with the king and queen. The prince seemed to be managing his own hangover with surprising poise, though Kell could feel Rhy’s headache throbbing alongside his own, and Kell noted that the prince sat with his back to the panes of glass and the glinting light beyond.
“Kell,” Rhy said brightly. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep all day.”
“Sorry,” said Kell pointedly. “I must have indulged a little too much last night.”
“Good afternoon, Kell,” said Queen Emira, an elegant woman with skin like polished wood and a circlet of gold resting atop her jet-black hair. Her tone was kind but distant, and it felt like it had been weeks since she’d last reached out and touched his cheek. In truth, it had been longer. Nearly four months, since the Black Night, when Kell had let the black stone into the city, and
Vitari
had swept through the streets, and Astrid Dane had plunged a dagger into Rhy’s chest, and Kell had given a piece of his life to bring him back.
Where is our son?
the queen had demanded, as if she had only one.
“I hope you’re well rested,” said King Maxim, glancing up from the sheaf of papers in front of him.
“I am, sir.” Fruit and bread were piled on the table, and as Kell slid into the empty chair a servant appeared with a silver pitcher and poured him a steaming cup of tea. He finished the cup in a
The magic forced its way through him with every beat of his heart. Kell tried to fight it back, but it was in his head now, whispering in
Vitari
’s voice.
Let me in.
Pain shot jaggedly through Kell’s chest as the darkness hit his heart, and in the distance, Rhy collapsed.
“No!”
Kell shouted, reaching toward his brother, uselessly, desperately, but as his hand brushed the nearest person, the darkness leaped like fire from his fingers to the man’s chest. He shuddered, and then collapsed, crumbling to ash as his body struck the street stones. Before he hit the ground, the people on either side of him began to fall as well, death rippling in a wave through the crowd, silently consuming everyone. Beyond them, the buildings began to crumble too, and the bridges, and the palace, until Kell was standing alone in an empty world.
And then in the silence, he heard a sound: not a sob, or a scream, but a
laugh.
And it took him a moment to recognize the voice.
It was his.
* * *
Kell gasped, lurching forward out of sleep.
Light was filtering through the patio doors, glinting off a fresh dusting of snow. The shards of sun made him cringe and look away as he pressed his palm to his chest and waited for his heart to slow.
He’d fallen asleep in his chair, fully clothed, his skull aching from his brother’s indulgences.
“Dammit, Rhy,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. His head was pounding, a sound matched by whatever was going on outside his window. The blows he—well,
Rhy
—had sustained the night before were a memory, but the aftereffect of the drinks was compounding, and Kell decided then and there that he vastly preferred the sharp, short pain of a wound to the dull, protracted ache of a hangover. He felt like death, and as he splashed cold water on his face and throat and got dressed, he could only hope that the prince felt worse.
Outside his door, a stiff-looking man with greying temples stood watch. Kell winced. He always hoped for Hastra. Instead he usually got Staff. The one who hated him.
“Morning,” said Kell, walking past.
“
Afternoon
, sir,” answered Staff—or Silver, as Rhy had nicknamed the aging royal guard—as he fell in step behind him. Kell wasn’t thrilled by the appearance of Staff
or
Hastra in the aftermath of the Black Night, but he wasn’t surprised, either. It wasn’t the guards’ fault that King Maxim no longer trusted his
Antari.
Just like it wasn’t Kell’s fault that the guards couldn’t always keep track of him.
He found Rhy in the sunroom, a courtyard enclosed by glass, having lunch with the king and queen. The prince seemed to be managing his own hangover with surprising poise, though Kell could feel Rhy’s headache throbbing alongside his own, and Kell noted that the prince sat with his back to the panes of glass and the glinting light beyond.
“Kell,” Rhy said brightly. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep all day.”
“Sorry,” said Kell pointedly. “I must have indulged a little too much last night.”
“Good afternoon, Kell,” said Queen Emira, an elegant woman with skin like polished wood and a circlet of gold resting atop her jet-black hair. Her tone was kind but distant, and it felt like it had been weeks since she’d last reached out and touched his cheek. In truth, it had been longer. Nearly four months, since the Black Night, when Kell had let the black stone into the city, and
Vitari
had swept through the streets, and Astrid Dane had plunged a dagger into Rhy’s chest, and Kell had given a piece of his life to bring him back.
Where is our son?
the queen had demanded, as if she had only one.
“I hope you’re well rested,” said King Maxim, glancing up from the sheaf of papers in front of him.
“I am, sir.” Fruit and bread were piled on the table, and as Kell slid into the empty chair a servant appeared with a silver pitcher and poured him a steaming cup of tea. He finished the cup in a
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