PROLOGUE
Erin carried the tome through the castle, gold hemmed robe scraping against polished marble. Despite the metal sabatons he wore, often hidden beneath his robe, he made no noise as he moved. He made his way through polished hallways adorned with countless oil paintings. His sudden presence startled and silenced pairs of hall guards.
Breath turned to mist as he entered a side chamber. Concentrated moonlight shone down from a hole far above, illuminating a lone stone pedestal. Around it, in a circle, stood painted statues of previous Omen Holders. The statues each had the same short, blond hair. Each wore the same blue gold hemmed robe.
Erin heaved the book over his shoulders. It slammed against the pedestal and unfolded on its own, flipping through its stone pages like they weighed nothing and bending like any normal parchment would. Each page carried only a single phrase. Written on one was, “The harvest shall be bountiful,” and so it was, feeding all three districts for the year and even bringing in more trade.
The tome stopped on a blank page. Then the writing came. It struck like lightning, tearing across the yellowed parchment with a furious power. He paused as he read the words that appeared. Then he read them again. For a moment, Erin forgot to breathe. He waited for the writing to continue—but it didn’t. It simply stated: The child, Sable the Lightless, must die tonight.
The monstrous tome found its place on Erin’s back. Leather straps snapped into place, securing the precious book and distributing its weight. He turned and left the Room of Communion. His next destination was across the castle. Despite the weight of the tome and the constant ache from carrying it around, he was rather swift and knew his way around.
He continued through the castle, though something bothered him—a feeling in the back of his mind nagged at him, pulled at him. It refused to settle.
I’ve delivered omens of impending wars, he thought. It was abstract enough. Clean in structure; cities, borders, numbers—untold amounts of nameless death. All things that could be carried in a sentence without catching on anything inside of him.
This sat differently. A child. The word refused to move on.
Why name her like that? Why mark her like that?
His pace slowed without him meaning it to, his hand tightening on the strap across his shoulder.
I am an Omen Holder. Not a judge. Not a voice. Only the reading. Only the reading...
Silent feet brought him to the front of a room with rows of filled benches, hundreds of piercing eyes staring at him, unblinking. He paused in the doorway. He’d never paused.
At the end of the room sat three thrones, occupied by the castle’s royalty. One was vacant, but the other two were present—the mother and father of the prince. In his early years, Erin had been intimidated by the presence of the royals, but he’d gotten used to the daggerlike stares that pricked the back of his neck as he presented the book.
Erin walked to the end of the room, onto the stage where he’d present what was written in the book. Too slow, like an iron chain had attached itself to his foot, dragging him backward. His thoughts. They repeated. I am an Omen Holder. Not a judge.
Once more, he pulled the tome from his back and laid it onto a stone pedestal in front of him. The presence of concentrated moonlight was enough to animate the book, but in the audience chamber, no such thing existed. He grabbed the thick leather cover and pulled it open. Finding the proper page in the massive book was like a ritual. His fingers counted the stone pages, his fingers calloused from the constant rubbing. Once he found the right one, he pulled the book open, the muscles in his arm bulging from the weight.
Erin cleared his throat. “The child by the name of Sable the Lightless must die tonight.”
The words rolled across his tongue like poison, the bitterness passing across the room. Speaking them aloud for the first time stirred the unease within him again. A child. Not a kingdom. Not a war. A child. He pushed the thought aside as he studied the countless faces before him.
Merchants wanted trade. Nobles wanted prosperity. Warriors wanted conquest. An unknown child offered none of them anything. Eyebrows rose. Quiet murmurs spread through the chamber. He performed a quick bow and turned. Experience had taught him to leave before the arguments and questions began. That was for the real royals to deal with. But a sudden pressure on his shoulder halted him.
Prince Vladrian.
Erin had met him only once before, as he wandered the castle, but the chance encounter had stuck with him. From his face to his feet, countless scars spiderwebbed across his body.
His voice was soft, the sort that if you’d heard it around the corner might belong to a woman. Face to face, it had confused many, as they’d never associate male royalty with such a feminine voice. “Tell me, Erin,” he said, “What are your thoughts on this omen?”
Erin searched his mind for the right words. The only other person who’d ever been named by the book was Vladrian, twenty-one years ago. And the wording bothered him; “Lightless”. He couldn’t piece it together.
Erin sighed. “I wish I hadn’t read it. It could have been crops, trade, even war. Instead it names a child. A child, Prince Vladrian. And calls her Lightless.”
Vladrian grinned. “Far worse omens have disgraced us. The life of one person is nothing compared to the suffering before my birth. Surely you’ve read the records?”
Erin shook his head. “No, my prince,” he said.
“Tsk, tsk. I expect you to read up on this ‘Lightless’ title, and to study your history.” Erin was off at once, tome heavy on his back.
