Page 1 of Stolen
Prologue
ALARIC
The Eyrie—Nightfall
The storm above us is cosmetic. I should know,I summoned it.
A touch of drama never hurts when four would-be kings are gathered to bicker like old crows.
Lightning flashes beyond the obsidian walls of the Eyrie, my personal stronghold at the edge of Nightfall’s skyward border.
Below us, the realm churns with unrest.
I can see it in the haze of magic seeping into the atmosphere from all sides of the Endless Forest.
Nightfall is a place of mystery and magic. It is to be respected.
I learned that at the hands of the old Prime, when I was barely old enough for my wings to carry me.
Fuck, I miss that old man. And I vow to have my vengeance on those who killed him.
The SoulTakers creep in closer with every passing day, and the seat of the Prime grows colder still.
With the absence of a Prime, the realm is vulnerable. Our people suffer. And up here?
We argue like boys in a schoolyard.
“Why are we here? What makes Alaric, Lord of Air, think he can summon us to his little kingdom like we’re his servants?”
Thorne, Lord of Fire, frowns as he spits his venomous words. His flame-colored eyes flash with his anger, but I know he is every bit as sorrowful as I am about the fall of our Prime.
“You know, your bitter words don’t make you a leader, Thorne,” I say with a smirk, propping one boot on the ancient obsidian table. “They just make you more irritating than usual.”
Thorne’s molten eyes narrow. Fire dances along the edge of his skin, licking at the air like a warning.
“At least I don’t hide behind trickery and illusions.”
“Please,” I scoff, spreading my hands. “Illusions are simply truths waiting for a good story.”
Kael sighs from his side of the table, broad arms crossed over his sea-glinted armor. His horns catch the light when he shifts.
“You two are children.”
“And you’re a puddle with a crown fetish,” Dagan mutters from his corner, wings folded tight as stone slabs behind him. “We’re wasting time. The realm needs a Prime.”
“Then go find a mate already and see if you can wear the crown,” I say lightly. “Unless you’re afraid the Fates won’t fall for your brooding routine.”
His almost pure white eyes meet mine, full of violence and contempt, but also—amusingly—a spark of worry.
Because we all know the same thing:
To claim the crown, we must be mated.
Not just joined.
But truly mated, and with all the blessings of the Fates themselves.
Only a pure matebond will awaken the crown, grant the Prime’s magic, and keep Nightfall from tearing itself apart.
