Page 3 of The Uncrowned Prince

But she was focused on the wrong threat.

The people of Farhall understood that their new queen was a mage, but the true nature of her power had not been made public, for many reasons.

Chief among them? There were many advantages to being underestimated.

Evaraine went limp and allowed her head to fall to the rug. Her eyes closed to mere slits as the assassin circled Danric, preparing for a deadly thrust.

She never got the chance.

Evaraine’s uninjured hand darted out with the speed of a striking viper. She grasped the treacherous maid’s ankle and dropped the chains that held her power in check.

Like a roused dragon, it roared to the surface, and in her fury, Evaraine held nothing back. The hunger within her sank its teeth into the life beneath her fingertips and gulped it down. The maid’s eyes went blank, the knife fell, and she collapsed, like a puppet without a master.

Danric flung the tray to the ground and fell to his knees at Evaraine’s side.

“Go!” he barked over his shoulder at the second maid, who remained frozen in her position by the door. “Guards. Healer. Now!”

The maid bolted, screaming for help as she raced down the hall, and Evaraine met Danric’s eyes with a valiant attempt at a smile.

“That should do the trick,” she murmured, gritting her teeth against the pain from her hand, which was beginning to spread up her arm. Her body felt curiously limp, and the light was growing fuzzy.

“Hold on,” Danric said, eyes dark with fear as he stroked her hair and picked up her other hand to hold it against his chest. “The healers will be here soon. They’ll be able to fix this.”

Someone had tried to poison her husband. Perhaps had tried to poison them both.

But no matter. The assassin was dead, and Danric would live, and those facts filled Evaraine with a warm sense of satisfaction.

“You know that I love you, right?” she murmured.

“I know.” Danric was trying to remain calm, but his lips trembled and tears shimmered in his eyes. “I know, love. Please, don’t try to talk. You’re going to be all right, and you can tell me everything later.”

“You’re mine now,” she whispered. “And I’ll never let them hurt you.”

The look in his eyes should have torn a hole in her heart, but all she could feel was the terrible burning in her hand, her arm…

There was a commotion at the door. Running feet and shouting.

Danric’s tears were the last thing she saw before falling into the comforting arms of oblivion.

* * *

The King of Garimore gazed thoughtfully into the mirror, eying every stitch of his newly completed royal mourning robes. They had to be perfect—lacking ostentation, but suggesting opulence through understated detail. Dignified, but giving the appearance of hasty preparation. It was a difficult balance to strike, but this latest effort… This one was perfect. An elegantly draped shroud of unrelenting darkness, with a mere hint of silver thread to highlight the silver in his beard.

He’d been adding more silver hairs each day, only a few at a time, and by the time of the funeral, he would appear at least ten years older. Grave and wise, with new lines carved by grief.

It rankled to appear so decrepit, but at least this form looked good in black.

He always had—even when he’d worn a different face and been known by an entirely different name. But now, the color lent him kingly dignity rather than making him appear interestingly pale.

Finally satisfied, the king removed the robes and placed them carefully in the locked chest in his personal chambers. No one could be allowed to find them yet, not even his servants. There would be no way to explain how he’d known to prepare such things in advance.

If only his magic were strong enough to create such things when needed, but it was not, and so he had learned to be resourceful. Once the tragedy unfolded, he would “order” royal mourning robes from a favored tailor, and later stage their delivery through a special courier who knew better than to ask questions.

It was yet another detail to attend to, but nearly the last. The funeral plans were already complete, and the attendees had been carefully selected. Now there was little more to do but wait for the right moment to twist the knife—quite literally, in this case.

And the right moment would come… soon. Everyone was in place, and the signal had been sent. All was in readiness for the chaos he had planned so meticulously.

But who would be the first to mourn? Eddris, perhaps?

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