Page 39 of Between Smoke and Shadow

“Today, the fifteenth day of Flood Season, I officially renounce my chosen heir. The successor of Savoa, from this moment onward, is no longer Prince Harrick.”

The anxious breath in my lungs explodes into a pained grunt, as if the Architect has shoved a dull spear through my chest. I don’t know how the crowd reacts. A high-pitched buzz fills my ears and radiates into my throat until I can’t hear anything else. My consciousness is trying to rip from my body, and I wish it would. I’d like nothing more than to pass out and wake far away from the gaping mouths of my subjects.

Despite cycles of Malek’s prodding and snide remarks from my cousins, I never truly thought I’d lose it. Now, the Architect’s words cut through every nerve ending and my body pulses with the realization that I have failed. I have truly lost. And to someone as heartless, as cruel as Malek. He swept in likeeveryone warned he would, and I have no excuse for it but my own inadequacy.

“Kneel for your future leader and king, Heir Malek Ademas!”

My brother claps a hand against my shoulder as he stands. I blink the crowd into focus, and they’re bowing. All of them. Even those who seemed skeptical about today’s gathering kneel as he comes to the podium. I’m not sure if they’re happy to gain Malek as their heir—but they’re certainly not sad to lose me.

My skin is hot and my blood is cold. The desperation to disconnect, to disappear, still vibrates through my chest, but something else—something angry, spiteful, violent—awakens. It pushes through my bones, right between the marrow and the magic, and threatens to consume me. I don’t fight it. I let the anger swell and blister until my thoughts don’t feel entirely like my own.

No.

Everyone in the room stares at me. I’ve said it out loud, shouted it maybe. I’ve stood without meaning to.

“No.” I say it again. My voice is a strike of thunder in this gaping room.

I look away from the crowd, and I ignore Tora’s whisper of a touch on my arm. Malek and the Architect shift as I stride forward, centering myself in front of our people. They are more blurry outlines, tinged red with my shaky vision, than they are human.

“I am the rightful heir,” I say. The words vibrate around me. “You cannot take my title without a challenge.”

“I’m not sure you want to do that, brother,” Malek says. His voice is low and warm, as if this is all in good fun. He’s not wrong though. He’s the better fighter—I know that more than anyone.

“If you want the crown, you will pry it from me,” I spit. The words don’t sound like mine. They’re cold and sharp, snappingbetween my ears. Looking at the Architect, I steady my voice. “I have the right to a challenge.”

The Architect doesn’t respond for a long moment. He tilts his head and lets out a slow chuckle, like I’ve surprised him.

“Very well,” he says finally. He sounds more amused than offended, as if I’m a disobedient child, and he’s willing to humor my defiance.

“Fine,” Malek says. He rolls his eyes, making a show of it. “Have your challenge, Harrick. You’ll only bring more disgrace upon yourself.”

“I’d rather fall in disgrace than willingly condemn all of Savoa.”

If Malek responds, I don’t hear him. The high-pitched buzzing is back in my ears as I storm off the stage and into the adjacent corridor. A pair of eavesdropping elites scramble out of the way, first for me and then for Tora a moment later. She’s a step behind me, heels clicking on the marble floor, calling my name between sharp breaths. I ignore her, pressing toward the stairwell and praying none of these elites get in my way.

“Harrick!” she yells again. There’s a brief pause as she kicks out of her heels. Then, she’s running—no, sprinting—past me, gasping as she braces herself against the stairwell door, blocking my way.

I could hurl her halfway across this floor if I wanted, and she knows that, but she stands tall, a scowl distorting her features. I wonder, distantly, if this hesitation is my greatest weakness. Malek certainly would’ve thrown her by now.

“Move, Tor,” I say. My body is still shaking, cold with a million foreign emotions.

“Mother will fix this,” she insists. “She’ll talk to the Architect. He clearly?—”

“Move, Tora,” I snap again. I shouldn’t be surprised at her lack of faith in me. Of course she thinks I need Mother to protect me, to protect Savoa. I let the hurt and shame swell in my chest.

Tora doesn’t move.

I shove past her and rip the door open, knocking her off balance. She stumbles into the stairwell behind me and our footsteps echo as we descend. Once we reach my quarters, I punch my code. It’ll only be a matter of time before he claims my home too.

“Harrick,” pants Tora. “You can’t challenge him. Youcan’t.”

I stop, hand trembling on my partially opened door. Away from the gathering, the violent anger slips from my system, draining out through my toes. She’s right, of course. If I challenge Malek, I’m going to lose. Regardless of who has more magic, he’s always bested me. He’s always been the better fighter, and if I battle him in front of our people, they’re only going to feel more confident in the Architect’s decision.

Maybe itwouldbe a better idea to ask for Mother’s help.

“Harrick—”

“I heard you,” I snap. My limbs feel like deflated balloons, like dying flowers. “I can’t take it back, Tora. I won’t.”

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