Page 1 of Essence of the Throne

Prologue

Raine

My head throbs as consciousness creeps back, each pulse more painful than the last. Through the fog, I try to remember what happened—where I am. The last clear memory I have is from bed… I woke to someone covering my nose and mouth with a pungent cloth. But that’s it. How long has it been? Is this the third trial?

Cold metal presses against my bare back, sending ripples of discomfort through my muscles. When I attempt to move, leather straps bite into my wrists and ankles. Something covers my mouth, strapped tightly around my head.

Panic surges through me as my eyes snap open. Harsh light assaults my vision, forcing me to squint against its intensity. Dark shapes move at the edges of my sight, but I can’t turn my head enough to track them.

This is without a doubt not the third trial.

“—strongest from the trials. His essence readings were off the charts.” The voice is familiar, though I can’t place it through the fogginess filling my head. “If this one doesn’t work…”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I yank at the restraints. The leather holds firm, only succeeding in rubbing my skin raw. I try to call out, but the strap around my face muffles my voice to meaningless sounds.

More figures move around me, their features blurred by the tears gathering in my eyes. Not one of them even bothers to look at me as I struggle.

Healer equipment lines the stone walls, though it's obvious this is no standard healing room. The tools laid out on nearby tables look more like instruments of torture than healing. Needles, blades, and strange vials are arranged with unnerving precision, and my heart races faster with each item I see. My nose scrunches at the reek of chemicals in the air—sharp and sour, like burnt flesh and rotting food.

“Begin the prep work.” This voice I recognize in an instant—King Thalion. “I want to start as soon as possible. I need to leave for the arena soon.”

Footsteps approach, and a face finally comes into focus. The man peers down at me with austere detachment, his eyes black voids behind wire-rimmed glasses. He prods at my chest with gloved fingers, mapping out something only he can see.

“Remarkable muscle density,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “The physical conditioning from Valoria’s guild provides an ideal foundation. It’s too bad we do not have access to the other two.”

I move my lips to demand answers, to ask what’s happening, but only muffled grunts escape. The man pays no attention to my attempts at communication, continuing his examination as if I’m nothing more than an interesting specimen.

My eyes dart around the room, desperate for anything familiar. Through the gaps between people, I spot another figure propped against the far wall. They’re slumped forward, held up by thick chains, with some kind of metallic device protruding from their chest. Even from here, I can see the dried blood caked around the entry point.

By the Angel.

Terror claws up my throat as one man wheels over a cart carrying an identical device. The metal is dull and twisted, with sharp prongs extending from its base. They can’t possibly mean to…

“Hold him still,” the man with glasses orders. “This part is always unpleasant.”

Hands press down on my shoulders and legs, though I’m already restrained. A woman approaches with a thin blade, perfectly crafted for precision cutting. She doesn’t meet my eyes as she positions it over my sternum.

“Remember,” the king’s voice cuts through my rising panic, “we need the connection point to be perfect this time. The last three failed because the device wasn’t properly seated.”

Last three? What happened to them? I thrash against the hands holding me down, but it’s useless. The blade touches my skin, and pain explodes through my chest as the woman begins to cut.

I scream behind the gag, my body arching off the chair as much as the restraints and hands allow. The woman works in a proficient manner, slicing through layers of muscle and tissue with practiced ease. Blood runs down my sides, pooling beneath me on the cold metal table.

Through the haze of agony, I hear the distinctive crack of bone. They’re breaking through my sternum. The sound drones through my head, mixing with my muffled screams until I can’t tell which is which anymore.

“Device,” the woman commands, holding out her bloody hand.

The twisted metal contraption is passed over, and I watch in horror as she positions it over the gaping wound in my chest. The prongs align with the broken edges of my sternum, and then she begins to push.

If I thought the cutting was painful, it isnothingcompared to this. The device burrows into me, the prongs spreading out to anchor themselves in my flesh. My vision whites out repeatedly as wave after wave of agony crashes through me. I’m dimly aware that I’m still screaming, though my throat feels shredded.

“Good,” the woman says with a bright smile after what feels like hours. “The connection is solid. Begin essence transfer preparations.”

I lie hopeless, wheezing, tears streaming down my face as my body trembles with aftershocks of pain. The device in my chest pulses with my heartbeat, each throb sending fresh spikes of agony through me.

The king moves into view, looking down at me with an expression that might be pity. “You should be honored, Raine,” he declares, though his words sound distant through the ringing in my ears. “Your sacrifice will help create something magnificent.”

Sacrifice? The word bounces around my head as the group bustles around me, connecting things to the device. What are they planning to do?

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