Page 1 of Wicked Court

Prologue

ELARA

I kneel blindfolded in a sea of hushed anticipation, acutely aware of the weight of unseen eyes upon me.

My heart races, a captive animal within my chest, betraying my feigned calm. Auburn locks cascade over my shoulders, a stark blaze against the shadowed quiet, marking me as different, as other, despite my longing to blend in.

Then, there’s a shift in the air, charged with a tension that tightens like chains around my wrists.

“Elara,” comes a rasp from the darkness, a sound that shouldn’t reach me but pierces straight to my core.

A shiver traces my spine like a lover, born not of cold, but of a terrifying recognition.

The voice carries a mixture of desire and anger so potent it feels as though a storm is about to break over my head.

I shouldn’t be here. I’m not one of them. Yet, here I am, caught in a ritual I barely understand.

Footsteps descend the staircase, each one echoing like a gunshot in the charged silence, drawing nearer.

I tilt my head, the slightest movement, as he approaches, as if part of me can still hear the continued whisper of my name, feel the intensity of someone’s unwavering focus.

A large, calloused hand cradles my chin, tilting my face upward. A gasp escapes me, surprise and a flicker of fear mingling with the certainty that my time has come.

“Hello, butterfly.”

Chapter 1

Cav

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

Engraved in blood and ink, our motto reads: Veritas in Umbris. Truth in Shadows.

An apt reflection of our existence.

As the Consul and second-in-command to the three Sovereigns of the Cimmerian Court, I’m given power and influence that only the dark arts could match.

You wouldn’t know it at this moment.

I’m on my knees before the three Sovereigns. My shirt was ripped off while being dragged through the woods and marched underneath the Great Hall on campus down a hidden stairway, my wrists bound by torn shreds of my bedsheets. The others were used to blind and gag me.

I don’t need to see or speak to understand my current predicament. My ears may be bleeding from the unnecessary boxing I received when being woken up by one of my so-called ‘brothers,’ but I can hear just fine.

A hushed murmur ripples through our ranks, circling my bowed form, laced with reverence and an eerie fear. I assume I’m near the dais where the Sovereigns enjoy holding court, their elder faces obscured by porcelain masks and their thousand dollar suits covered by velvet cloaks of deep crimson, with runes and other symbols woven through by gold thread.

There’s a shuffle to my left and then my right.

“Kaspian?” I mutter through split, bloody lips. “Axe?”

“Here,” a voice rumbles on my left, said with such reluctance it’s as if we’re attending homeroom and the teacher is going through the attendance roster.

“Yeah,” a low voice confirms on my other side.

So, Kaspian Valenti and Axton Devereaux, my brothers-in-arms, were also thrust in front of our leaders at fuck o’clock in the morning.

“Don’t forget, I am also excited about our Court’s version of an alarm clock,” comes another familiar voice. “How’s everyone doing this lovely morning?”

My shoulders stiffen. They also got to Wilder.

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