The man who had once whispered prophecies into my so-called father's ear. The man who had warned me that famine and ruin would descend on Elaria if Thorne took the crown. A warning we all now felt pulsing in the very earth beneath our feet.
I passed a pair of guards at the far end of a corridor and ducked into an alcove, pressing myself against the cool stone. The shadows swallowed me whole. They passed without incident, too focused on securing the palace to notice the Shadow Prince weaving through their defenses.
The emperor’s quarters were quieter. More ancient. This was where the former emperor had once kept his most trusted circle. Including Malachar.
A heavy door marked with old runes stood at the end of the hall.
Two guards were posted outside.
They hadn’t seen me. Not yet.
I took a slow breath and slipped along the opposite wall. One step at a time. A whisper of movement. Nothing more.
When I reached the nearest column, I held my position, waiting for the moment they turned their backs.
The guards shifted.
“Can you believe it?” one muttered. “Flowers rotting? Thunder from nowhere?”
“Keep your mouth shut!” the other snapped. “You want to be next?”
They both faced away.
I moved.
A silent rush.
A pinch at the back of each neck.
They slumped to the floor quietly, unconscious before they hit the marble. I caught one by the collar, gently dragging him to the side, then did the same with the other. No blood. No noise. Just silence.
I pressed my palm to the runes on the door. Its magic resisted at first, like a stubborn beast testing my worth. But the shadows recognized me. Bent for me. The door softly groaned open.
And there he was.
Malachar.
The seer sat slumped in a chair, wrapped in tattered robes that once shimmered like starlight but now clung to him like withered parchment.
“Ah,” he rasped. “Shadow Prince. You have returned.”
I stepped into the chamber and shut the door behind me. “You look like hell,” I said.
His laugh was weak but real. “So do you.”
I knelt in front of him, searching his face. “Why are they keeping you here? What do they want?”
“To silence me,” he said simply. “My visions displeased the crown.”
“Thorne,” I growled.
Malachar nodded. “He fears prophecy. Always has.”
“You told me there would be famine if he wore the crown.”
“And you witnessed the first omen yourself.”
I remembered the flowers, the dying grass, the thunder that cracked the sky like a whip. “Why, Malachar? Why does the land turn against him?”
