Prologue
Author's Note: I decided the original prologue was boring and the first few chapters of this story needed refinement. These were chapters I wrote a long time ago so I decided my first update after returning to this project is to rewrite the beginning. I hope you enjoy!
“You swore she would last another century.”
Queen Lysaria’s voice was ice, her golden eyes sharp with fury as she blocked the chamber door. The torches lining the corridor flickered, their flames twisting in the wake of her anger.
Kaelion did not sigh. He did not roll his eyes. He simply stood there, his expression impassive, as he had every time they fought over this.
“Three centuries, Kaelion,” his queen spat, “that is what you promised me. But this mortal has barely lasted two.”
“The cycle is unpredictable. She has lasted longer than most.” His voice was even, though his jaw tightened as she folded her arms across her chest, preparing for battle.
Lysaria was a formidable Fae, born to the high nobles of the North, where ice and winter reigned. Her pale hair and frost-kissed complexion stood in stark contrast to Kaelion, whose raven-dark hair and moon-silver eyes made his title as King of Shadowspire all the more fitting.
They were opposites in every way, yet bound by the same unyielding pride, the same stubborn streak a mile wide, and the same fierce, unshakable love for their realm. It was, perhaps, the only thing that still tethered them to one another.
Their union had been one of convenience and strategy, of course, as all royal matings were. Love had never been part of the bargain, only duty, power, and the relentless preservation of their people.
“Do you truly expect me to accept that?” Lysaria shook her head. “The embarrassment of her trials is barely forgotten and already you prepare for another. I can see it, Kaelion. You are practically salivating at the thought of practicing your seduction.”
His patience thinned. “I do not enjoy this.”
“I do not believe you.” Lysaria scoffed, stepping closer, her gaze flicking toward the corridor that led deeper into the dungeons.
She turned back to him, baring her teeth, a sharp, vicious thing. “With the power you siphon from the sleeping Celestial, there is no reason for her to wither.”
Kaelion’s silver eyes flashed, his own teeth barely visible in the faintest curl of his lips. A silent challenge.
Lysaria held his gaze but dropped her voice to a whisper. “Three centuries, Kaelion. You swore it.”
Kaelion didn’t hesitate. “And you swore to produce a male heir,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “But we cannot predict what gifts will be given and which will be taken, can we, Lysaria?”
Lysaria’s jaw tightened, but she schooled her expression before he could catch a glimpse of anything raw beneath it. When she finally met his gaze again, her mask was firmly in place. As it had been for millennia.
“It has always been so,” Kaelion replied.
Lysaria exhaled slowly, fingers smoothing the fine embroidery on her gown as if brushing away dust. “Then I suppose I shall leave you to your pet.”
Kaelion’s eyes flickered, but he did not rise to her bait.
She stepped past him, a whisper of frost in her wake, pausing just long enough to glance toward the chamber doors. “Try not to get too attached this time.”
Then she was gone, swallowed by the darkened halls.
Kaelion stood still, staring at where her form had been, for longer than he should have. Her words tracked mud through his mind, unwelcome and clinging.
He exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers at his sides. He had been drawing from the sleeping Celestial for centuries, draining power from a god, and still, it was not enough. The Conduits kept withering, slipping through his grasp like sand, no matter how tightly he held.
And he could not tell her.
Not because she would mock him, though she undoubtedly would, but because to admit weakness was to invite ruin. The Fae did not bend. They did not stumble beneath the weight of their burdens. They conquered. They endured. And he was a King of the Fae.
He was a King.
With a measured breath, he straightened his shoulders, severed the unpleasant thoughts like a scythe through straw, and pushed open the chamber doors.
The chamber stank of sickness, barely masked by the trace of lavender lingering in the heavy air. The scent clung to the walls, the bedding, his skin. The flowery perfume a futile attempt to hide the slow rot of mortality.
Nhayla lay where she always had, her frail body enshrined in silk, as if the fabric could soften the decay hollowing her from the inside out. Her once-rich golden hair had dulled to brittle strands against the pillow. Her ashen skin stretched tight over sharp bones, the hollows of her cheeks stark in the dim candlelight.
The violet Orinthiel markings on her wrists flickered weakly, pale and sputtering like the last embers of a dying fire.
Kaelion approached in silence, his shadow spilling over her frail form like a creeping stain. He despised this part. The waiting. The decay. The slow unraveling of something he had worked tirelessly to preserve.
Lysaria might believe otherwise but he loathed them. He loathed humans.
Her lips parted, voice dry and thin. “Come to watch me die, Kaelion?”
His fingers twitched at his sides, though he kept his expression unreadable. She should have lasted longer. He placed a vial on the table beside her, setting it down with deliberate precision.
“I am ensuring you stay alive.” His tone was clipped, betraying nothing. “Your presence is vital to the Fae Realm, to our balance.”
A brittle laugh cracked from her throat.
“Balance?” she whispered, something like amusement curled at the edges of her clouded eyes. “That’s what you call this?”
“You misunderstand your purpose,” Kaelion said. “Without you, the Mortal Realm would drain us dry. Your life is a dam, holding back the flood that would destroy everything we have built. The balance must be maintained.”
“You speak of balance as though it is something you control, but by its nature cannot be controlled.” She turned her head slightly, her milky irises locking onto his with unsettling clarity. “You are no more than a thief, Kaelion. A thief who hoards what should be shared. Magic flows because it must, not because you will it. These were not meant to be shackles!”
Her hands lifted in defiance, the markings on her wrist winking at him from pale, sagging skin. Even that small movement drained her, but her lips pressed into something almost smug.
“They’re fading faster now, aren’t they?”
Kaelion did not respond.
She was right.
The marks should have held steady. A slow, controlled decline. A century more, at least. Instead, they flickered like a candle caught in a dying wind. At this rate she had months, possibly weeks left.
Nhayla exhaled a slow, rattling breath. “You feel it, don’t you?” Her voice softened, almost pitying. “You’ve held on for so long, pretending you are stronger than the cycle itself. That you control it, haha!”
Her laughter devolved into violent coughing, and for a moment, it seemed as though she might break apart entirely. When she finally stilled, she turned toward him again, something eerily calm in her expression.
“But eventually, even gods, even you, must answer for crimes rendered.”
“You are wrong,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “Magic flows because I allow it. The cycle bends to my will.”
Her laughter came again, weaker this time but still cutting. “You think yourself a god,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding. “But you are merely delaying the inevitable. The cycle is older than you, older than the Fae. Each Conduit grows stronger than the last. You have postponed the tide, but it will rise. And when it does, it will wash you away.”
Kaelion’s pursed his lips. “Your words are meaningless.”
“No.” Her whisper shifted, something in her tone changing. Her gaze cleared, the haze lifting as her focus sharpened on something beyond him. Then, slowly, a great grin of joy unfurled across her weathered face.
“I see her.” Nhayla’s voice was stronger now, eerily certain. “I see the one who will follow me. She is unlike any Conduit before. Her power will be unmatched… and she will be your undoing.”
Kaelion’s fingers curled at his sides. “I will not entertain the taunts of a desperate, dying woman.” His voice was quiet, razor-edged. “You will drink.”
Nhayla stared at the vial, lips pressing together before curling into a slow, knowing smile.
“Why don’t you make me?”
Kaelion did not move. He could not force her. The magic required a willing participant, no matter how tenuous that willingness was.
This was not the first time she had goaded him. He had always ignored her barbs, always remained above the bait. But this time was different. This time, he reached for the Celestial tether.
And found nothing.
He could see it, feel it, hovering just beyond his grasp, a current of stolen power he had drawn upon for centuries. But when he reached for it, it did not answer.
A whisper of unease ghosted down his spine.
Kaelion turned sharply, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the door.
Nhayla’s expression shifted, a flicker of surprise cutting through her amusement. Not once, in all the centuries they had spent together, had he ever let her go without drinking.
“Drink or do not.” He did not slow, did not look back. “The next will take your place soon enough.”
Nhayla exhaled a slow, wheezing breath. “I don’t doubt she will take yours as well, Kaelion.”
Her voice was light, almost gleeful, and it chased him into the hall like a curse.
