4. One

My father's body was still warm when my half-brother came to murder me.

The entire east wing of the palace was on alert, my personal guard stationed at the only entrance to my chambers. Only four of my best men stood between me and certain death.

We had barricaded the door with all the furniture we could lift, carrying dressers, a table, and several chairs over to slow the inevitable. My half-brother and his rebel mages were coming through that door one way or another. It was only a matter of time.

I shifted my grip on my sword as a guttural scream tore open the night. Clangs of steel on steel echoed down the hall, closer with every breath. The copper tang of blood hung heavy in the air. Soon, the gold filigree and silk sheets would be covered in it.

A braver man might've turned his sword on himself and died with some dignity. We couldn't win the fight coming through those doors. I might've been the superior swordsman, but my brother had more men. In the end, the numbers were all that would matter.

I swallowed the bile and fear coating my tongue, eyes drifting to the helmed head of my most ardent protector. "Torrin, if we don't survive this—"

"I will protect you, my prince," was all he said.

My heart clenched, knowing full well he was about to die for me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I flinched as the chamber doors trembled with the impact.

A voice on the other side demanded, "Bring it down!"

A breath later, the door and barricade splintered against whatever spell Michail's mages had thrown at it. With a shout, two of my guards threw themselves into the fray, slicing wildly through the air. It was a pointless endeavor. The mages at the front twitched their fingers, silver taps on their wrists glowing with magic, and my guards were thrown back. A whole company of kingsguard rushed into the room in their gleaming silver armor and blood red cloaks, slicing through the few loyal men who remained at my side with barely any resistance.

Torrin parried a downward strike, but he was no match for the bolt of lightning that found him. Someone screamed his name. It took me too long to realize it was me.

I lifted my blade and threw myself into the fight, intending to cut down as many as I could. Yet before I could bring the sword down on the kingsguard's neck, an invisible rope of magic slithered around the pommel and jerked the blade out of my fist. Armored guards—men whose names and faces I had known all my life—grabbed my arms as I struggled. My head crashed into a helmet so hard I saw stars. My fingers curled into fists, and I fought to free myself from their grip. I punched someone's face, and he cursed, turning away. They finally got my hands pinned behind my back, but I wasn't done.

I surged forward, teeth snapping closed around a mage's outstretched hand. He screamed and tried to unleash a spell, but his taps flickered and died, out of magic. I wrenched my head to the side and clamped down. The bitter taste of blood coated my tongue, but I didn't let go, not until I felt the bones shift enough that I could bite straight through. Only a punch straight to my jaw loosened my hold on the mage's finger, but it was too late. I'd already bitten the damn thing off. It was enough to send me reeling, though, and to give the kingsguard the upper hand.

"That's quite enough," came Prince Michail's smug voice as they finished subduing me with a spelled rope.

The kingsguard in their bloodied silver armor parted and my half-brother strolled through, his hands folded behind his back. He wore a black doublet with a high collar that only made his pale neck look even more vulnerable. Michail's dark hair was swept all to one side, flowing down past his chin and covering his milky left eye. A golden mask covered the blackened side of his face, though there was little he could do about the smell. Even with all the perfume he wore, I could smell the Rot from across the room.

He paced into the room, surveying the dead and dying before his eyes settled on the nine-fingered mage still whimpering in the corner while the pale blue light of a healing spell emanated from another mage's fist. Pale, almost white eyes settled on me, and I fought a shudder. Whenever Michail looked at me, the air chilled and frost slowed my blood to a crawl.

The silence stretched, becoming thick. My throat itched to hurl insults at him, but it would do me no good. I couldn't hurt him, not with a weapon, and certainly not with words. We had been sparring with both since we were boys.

"Orders, my king?" one of the guards eventually said, breaking the silence.

Michail's lip twisted sourly, and he glared at the kingsguard who'd spoken before his eyes fell on me, his gloved fingers flexing. "Did you bite off Felir's finger, brother? How crude! I should've known you'd behave like the feral beast you are."

"Spare me your speeches and kill me already," I spat through gritted teeth.

His eyebrow shot up, meeting his hairline. "Kill you?"

"That's what you came to do, isn't it?"

Why else would he be there? With the only legitimate heir–our half-brother, Prince Andrej–dead, I was the only remaining threat to Michail's rule. He had to know he'd never rule Ostovan, not so long as I drew breath.

Michail broke out into a dark chuckle that left my skin prickling and then tisked. "Oh, no. You're not going to die, Elindir. I have something much more special planned for you."

He reached to pick something off my armor, and I snapped my teeth at him, pleased when he jerked his hand back. Coward.

My attention drifted to the squat little man picking his way carefully through the bodies. He was bald but for a single stripe of hair running through the center of his chin. Modir Caracas, the royal physician and cleric of the Sower. It was he who sat by my beloved older brother's bedside months ago, watching the prince and heir grow sicker and sicker, and he who was there when the same mysterious affliction took my father's life. I had no doubts he was behind it, though I hadn't had time to prove it before Michail acted. Of course that snake would show his blunted fangs only after the violence was done.

He stopped next to Michail and snapped out a white handkerchief, pressing it to his mouth and nose as if he couldn't stand the smell of the very blood and viscera he stood in. "I wish to register my objection to this plan a second time, your grace. Leaving him alive is unwise."

"When I want your opinion, Modir, I will ask for it," Michail snarled, stepping forward. A beam of moonlight struck his golden mask, making watery light dance on the wall. He held out his hand. "Give it to me."

Modir hesitated at the order. "Your grace, it hasn't been sufficiently tested. Perhaps—"

Michail glared at the physician. "Perhaps you were about to volunteer to test it on yourself, then?"

Modir paled, his hand closing around his own neck. "B-but my king…"

"I didn't think so. Bring me the collar. Now."

Modir turned and snapped his fingers. The slave woman waiting in the doorway bowed deeply and rushed away.

"Coward!" I fought against the guards restraining me and the spelled rope around my wrists, even though I knew neither would budge. "You will never be the true king of Ostovan," I spat as the guards jerked me to my feet. "The people will never bow to a monster like you!"

The good side of Michail's lip quirked up in a smirk. He might have been a weak coward, but his slap had plenty of force behind it, enough that my head snapped to the side and my lip split open. Blood raced down my chin and blackness throbbed at the edge of my vision.

His hand closed around my chin, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. "A monster I may be, but not for long. This face was beautiful once." He touched a gloved hand to his mask. "And now, thanks to you and this collar, it will be again."

The slave returned clutching an ornate wooden box to her chest. Modir snatched it away roughly and held it out to Michail, falling to one knee. The oil on his bald head shimmered in the low light. "I am ever your servant, my king."

Michail's eyes gleamed as he reached into the box.

What he drew out was no mere slave collar. Instead, it was a gleaming band of gold fashioned to look like a serpent eating its own tail. Positioned prominently in the serpent's mouth was a large, gleaming bloodstone. Tiny needles jutted inward from the thin band, their points so fine they were barely visible in the moonlight.

I jerked away when he turned toward me, collar in hand, and nearly pulled my arm out of its socket fighting against the magic rope. I didn't know what the collar would do once they put it on me, and I didn't want to find out.

"Hold him," Michail snarled and snapped open the collar at the ruby.

Someone grabbed me by the hair, yanking my head back so that my neck was exposed. I cried out as the collar settled over my neck, and again as it snapped closed. Dozens of tiny needles bit into my throat, drinking up the blood and feeding it to the bloodstone, which began to glow. The next moment, my shout was cut short. Though I was certain I was screaming at the top of my lungs, no sound emerged. Each time I opened my mouth, the needles only dug deeper into my flesh.

Michail took a step back. "Do it."

Modir rose and extended his hand, careful to stay out of my reach. Words tumbled out of him in an unknown language, the syllables all sharp as knives. Power curled in the air, tightening around my throat, and crackling in the air as the cleric worked his magic. Whatever dark tongue he spoke for his spell, it was not any I knew, and I had always been a scholar of language.

A sickening feeling washed over me, my muscles growing weaker with every word until I hung limply in the guards' grip. Whatever he'd done, it'd sapped me of all my strength.

When he was finished, he stepped back. I groaned weakly as Michail forced my head up.

"Marvelous," Michail said in awe. "I can feel it working already."

Modir lifted his chin proudly. "The effects will only improve in time. The more blood it draws from him, the faster your flesh will regenerate and the stronger you will become."

Michail turned my face from side to side, studying me. "How long until the effects are permanent?"

"Semi-permanent," Modir corrected, fidgeting. "As I said before, my king. The collar is untested, and based on such ancient magic. I can't say with any certainty. However, the longer it stays on, the more difficult the connection will be to break."

"How long until my face is as it was before?" Michail snarled, impatient.

That's what this was all about? Some spell to drain strength from me and lend it to Michail so he could fight the Rot slowly claiming his face? A bitter taste coated my tongue as I realized I had been collared for Michail's vanity and nothing more.

"Very soon, my king," Modir replied, wringing his hands. "And it won't matter. The elves will be here to collect him soon, and once they have him, it's never coming off."

Michail released me and stepped back. "Take him to the breaker. I want him broken and ready to go with the rest of the tribute when they arrive."