My hand clenches around the curve of my throne.
The councilman who just spoke has served in this court for eight hundred years. It’s only that tenure that allows him to keep the tongue in his mouth.
Tynan, a warrior I’ve wanted to kill for my entire reign, speaks up. “He’s right. These are uncertain times. Tradition must be continued.”
Tradition.
The tradition of a Nightshade ruler having dozens of heirs who fight to the death.
Tradition of lining up women to sleep with, then discarding them after they’ve given birth.
A sliver of emotion lances through the prison I keep around my feelings, an arrow spiraling through the gaps in my armor, and I catch it. Turn it to ash. Smother the memories.
This isn’t the first time my council has brought up the issue of succession. It’s happened every few decades, as more and more have died from the curses.
Now, a danger far worse for our realm than our curse has put it right in the forefront.
I faced that danger last night. I shift to the side, gritting my teeth against a flash of half-healed pain, skin still stinging where talons nearly shredded me.
I don’t want children. I never wanted to continue any of these twisted traditions. I never wanted to rule at all.
Still—I can’t postpone this conversation any longer. The scar across our land, keeping winged beasts called the dreks at bay, has begun to tear open in earnest. The curse has begun to affect my power. My lands are weaker and my people are dwindling.
The dreks could kill me at any moment, and then my entire line and people will be dead. Unless I have an heir ...
Sometimes, even that thought doesn’t move me to action. But if they all die ... if my realm is lost ... then everything that came before meant nothing.
Memories again, choking me. Blood spilling across those halls—
The ancient councilman is speaking again. “Your father had thirty-two heirs. They were weak, of course, worthless other than you, but he—” His voice breaks off in a gurgle. He claws at his neck, and I watch, bored, as he mouths voiceless pleas. As his feet slowly leave the ground. As my shadows wrap around his neck.
I just stare at him, not feeling anything. No guilt. No pity. No remorse. Just an endless expanse of nothing.
Not even when I twist my finger and his neck breaks. His body falls to a heap on the ground. Eight hundred years of life, lost.
I can’t bring myself to summon even a shred of giving a shit.
The room is silent. Even my own guards have gone still.
“Fine,” I say, standing, then stepping over the body as I stride through the throne room, black cape curling behind me, shadows following. “I’ll have an heir.”
Sweet-poisoned envy radiates from my guards as I pass through the hall. It makes me scowl.Fools. They think I’m lucky to be heading toward a line of women ready to sleep with me, eager to be part of the ruling blood.
I would rather be at the scar, battling dreks, instead of this.
I’ve had many women, and it has been a pleasurable, yet fleeting distraction. This is different. This has a purpose.
I’ve never been with a woman more than once. It’s against our rules, to keep from getting attached.
As if I would.
Love. It almost makes me laugh. What fool would put themselves in that position? For what, a person to bed more than once? To be nagged at and fussed over for eternity?
Some men in my court have taken wives.
I pity them.
I reach the end of the hall and sigh.
