Jack Staples and the City of Shadows by Mark Batterson

him, he seemed preoccupied and irritable. Had she done something wrong or made him angry somehow?
    Alexia was free to explore the palace and all of Thaltorose. Yet since the day the Assassin had opened the curtains, she’d been too afraid to even look out the window, let alone leave the palace. What she’d seen was burned into her memory.
    The sky of Thaltorose was an unearthly yellow, and winged monsters filled the air. Black spires rose impossibly high, and the streets had been filled with shadows and sickly looking humans and creatures. But it hadn’t been these things that scared Alexia so, at least not entirely. Everything about the city felt … hollow, as if a heavy wind could blow it all away. The buildings, the gold and gemstone streets, even the people and creatures had been lacking in … substance.
    The palace, though unnerving at first, was becoming familiar. Like the room she slept in, the palace was solid gold and encrusted with every jewel imaginable. Every inch of it was glaringly bright. And though it should have been something from her dreams, it all still felt wrong somehow. She’d learned to ignore the shadows at the corners of her vision. Something dark always seemed to be slithering just out of sight, but whenever she turned to look, nothing was there.
    Her father told her every servant in the palace belonged to her. “You can command them to do anything and they will do it,” he’d said. “Tell any citizen of Thaltorose or any member of the Shadow Army to stop breathing—and they will.”
    Alexia’s stomach had turned at her father’s example, but it was true. At least so far. When Alexia was hungry, she could choose any servant in the palace and ask for food. At first it had been like a dream—ice cream and cake and sugar cookies and strawberry pie had come to her by the table load. Yet as the days passed, the whole thing began to feel absurd.
    The only thing expected of her was to meet with the Assassin for a few hours every evening. It hadn’t taken long to realize he was injured and sick. He tried to hide it, but his hand was often pressed against his stomach, and if he forgot to dab at his face with a kerchief, sweat dripped steadily from his chin. When he came near, the smell of rotting flesh emanated from his belly. Alexia guessed he’d gotten the wound when Jack had stabbed him in the stomach.
    Alexia always met the Assassin in his throne room, which was enormous. Thousands of torches lined the walls, and at least fifty fire pits burned throughout. Gemstone-encrusted pillars rose to impossibly high ceilings; the floor was rich marble. Standing near the balcony was a golden statue of the Assassin, so enormous the head was lost in the shadows of the vaulted ceiling. Only its fiery eyes were visible from below. The golden throne was the size of a small house and encrusted with diamonds.
    Each time Alexia walked in, she found the Assassin sitting atop the mammoth throne, caressing a small wooden box. It was not much larger than a fist and so plain that it looked completely out of place. Whenever Alexia entered the throne room, the Assassin would drop the box and turn his attention to her. The moment it left his fingers, the box floated beside him. As it hovered there, shadows detached from the throne and slithered around the box, making it almost impossible to see.
    After the strange box was safely away, the Assassin would stand and walk down the golden stairs of the throne, extending his hand. Each time she wrapped her fingers around his, her skin crawled. Yet she made herself hold on because her father wanted her to get to know the Assassin. She spent hours walking through the throne room, talking with him.
    During one visit, she found the courage to ask a question that had been burning in her since her arrival. “Did you kill Megan Staples?” she asked, feeling her chest tighten at the memory.
    â€œI did not,” the