Page 1 of The Jasad Crown
CHAPTER ONE
ARIN
Arin firmly believed an attempt on one’s life was the highest form of flattery.
Becoming a threat by the very virtue of your existence, inspiring the sort of mad dedication that drives men to murder… what could be more of an accomplishment?
His father endured at least two dozen assassination attempts a month—more than the rest of the rulers combined.
Arin had waited impatiently for his turn. On the eve of his tenth birthday, it came.
A commotion had erupted outside his chambers, and Arin followed it into the hall. His guards had shouted for him to return to his room, occupied trying to hold back the intruder.
Preposterous—as if Arin were some fragile bird in a glass cage. Only cowards hid.
Besides, he had waited for this. Planned for it. At ten, Arin had begun to grasp the role he played in his kingdom. The power he stood to inherit. The fact that someone had come to the Citadel seeking to kill him meant others had begun to realize his power, too.
Later, he’d learn the assassin was one of fifteen sent to infiltrate the Citadel on the eve of the Champions’ Banquet, which was being held in Nizahl that year. The others were apprehended before they ever reached the Citadel’s grounds.
When the assassin spotted the Nizahl Heir, a manic light had brightened in his eyes. He darted around the guards and reared his arm back.
The knife flew.
Arin could have avoided it. Unlike his graceless guards, Arin could measure exactly what movements he needed to avoid injury. One twist to the right, a collapse of his right knee, and he would have been out of harm’s way.
Except, Arin didn’t want to avoid the knife.
Arin knew his flaws—they were frequently recited to him. Cold, heartless, stubborn. Arin’s mother called his shortcomings by kinder names than Arin’s tutors. To Isra, his shortcomings werea keen regard for precision. A personal standard that demanded nothing short of perfection.
But his worst flaw, universally agreed upon by all, was Arin’s curiosity. Once a question blossomed in the Heir’s mind, he could not rest until he found an answer. His curiosity eclipsed everything—his sense, his reason, his very sanity.
So Arin stood still for the knife. He pulled his arm over his chest, drawing his shoulder over the fatal points of entry. The knife cleaved into him. The suddenness of the impact temporarily whitened the world.
Arin had screamed. He barely registered the guards jumping onto the assassin or the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. His arm hurt. Everything hurt terribly.
The next time he had opened his eyes, he was in his own bed, the wound hidden beneath a thick bandage. His mother was fast asleep next to him.
“You scared her,” Rawain said. He stood in front of Arin’s window. “You know I detest when she cries.”
Tear tracks had indeed dried on Isra’s cheeks. Arin moved to wipe them away and stopped when Rawain glanced over. The Supremedisliked it when Arin showed his mother affection or let her fuss over him.
Without ever being told, Arin understood that Rawain did not love her.
Arin withdrew his touch, because loving his mother meant losing a little bit more of his father.
“You let him hurt you,” Rawain said, staring out the window again. His hands were clasped around his scepter, fingers tight above the glass orb. Arin did not have to peer closely to make out the raven’s wings, the black feathers unfurling above the two swords clashing at its feet. The symbol of Nizahl, cast in exquisite gems at the head of his father’s scepter, always seemed alive enough to glare at Arin.
His heart pounded. “I did notlet—”
“Arin,” Rawain interjected lightly. Too lightly. “What is my first rule?”
An all-too-familiar weight pressed down on Arin. He fought to breathe through it. “I am not lying, my liege.”
“One last chance.” Rawain turned, moving from the window to hover over Arin’s bedside. Terror closed Arin’s throat, the slow suffocation rendered infinitely worse beneath his father’s knowing gaze. The raven’s beady glare pierced into him. “Why did you let him hurt you?”
Resignation settled like a shroud over Arin. Punishment was inevitable. The only variable Arin could control now was its severity. Telling the truth would mean months of grueling training and the confiscation of his books and maps.
But lying would sentence Arin to the Capsule.
