Page 119 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
Damian touches his bloody neck, and I notice the swirl of circles and lines now adorning the back of his ear, black as night.
“The Mark of the Gods,” Ezra breathes, his voice barely a whisper next to me.
“The Shadow King is dead.” I beat my chest with a closed fist, the panicked glares of the villagers and students prompting me to restore order. “Morpheus has made his will known. Damian Sombra has been called to rule.”
“The gods have spoken,” Ezra says quickly, and the others follow.
“The gods have spoken.”
“The gods have spoken.”
Damian blinks, as though waking from a long, heavy sleep. He clenches and unclenches his fists and meets Zeke’s horrified glare head on.
I clear my throat and address the Shadow Prince in a muted tone. “My condolences, Zeke. Your father was a fine king.”
Despite all our differences, this is a momentous occasion, and I will not dishonor the gods—or my mother. As the highest-ranking impartial royal present, it’s my duty to lead by example.
The only thing worse than learning of your father’s death in front of the entire school is discovering, at the very same moment, that you’re not destined to take his place on the throne. It must sting beyond belief, a humiliation that cuts deeper than any blade.
“Yes. Sorrows. Prayers,” Ezra snips, feral.
I throw him a warning glare, but Zeke ignores us both.
His focus is locked entirely on Damian as he barrels closer, fists clenched at his sides. “I should kill you here and now.”
“I worked my whole life for this. My sympathies for your father, but you’d make a pitiful king,” Damian replies with unshakable poise, his calm delivery raising goosebumps on my arms.
I shudder as his eyes swirl with liquid gold, shadows twisting over his shoulders and arms, alive with the power imbued by the Mark of the Gods. It’s as though Morpheus himself is lending Damian his cloak of night ahead of his coronation, the God’s choice clear and undeniable.
His time to rule has come far sooner than any of us anticipated, and while he’s outshined me yet again, I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything in the worlds. Not if it meant living a life of duty so young.
“I challenge you!” Zeke roars, shoving Damian hard enough to send him stumbling backward. But the Crow regains his footing quickly, his dark eyes narrowing in warning.
“Zeke, take a minute—” I begin, my voice low but urgent.
The Shadow Prince slices his arms through the air, puffing out his chest with reckless bravado. “I won’t let you steal my crown! I challenge you, Damian Sombra, and in ten days, you’ll be dead.”
His words ring out, sharp and deliberate, the official challenge crackling with magic that lingers in the air like an aftertaste of smoke and steel. Every witness tenses, the weight of the ancient ritual settling over us, as the reality of what Zeke has set in motion becomes impossible to ignore.
Beth gasps, my Songbird standing barely a few feet away. Her ocean-blue eyes are wide, and frost glazes her cheeks, a chilling testament to the shock coursing through her veins. Every instinct in me screams to comfort her, to brush away the ice and pull her close, but I can’t. Not here. Not with everyone watching. The secrecy of our relationship chains me in place, forcing me to do nothing when all I want is to warm her with my touch.
We exchange a fleeting glance, a silent understanding passing between us. The students stand more rigid and silent than usual, their posturing and bravado stripped away by what they’ve just witnessed. We play games, we taunt, we posture—but this? What Zeke has done will have egregious consequences.
In ten days, the new Shadow King will be crowned, with either Damian or Zeke poised to claim the throne. And if the past is any indication, as the High Fae of the Shadowlands provinces cheer for their new king, the corpse of the loser will be lowered six feet under.
Chapter 37
Wedding Plans
SONGBIRD
The smell of dead crows—of blood and feathers and entrails—lingers in my nose. Acidic. Pungent.
An hour ago, I was sneaking around with my secret boyfriend, having the time of my life. Now, I’m petrified.
Willow keeps a firm hold on my arm, guiding me away from the bleachers and into the gardens toward our apartments. The scene we just witnessed weighed heavily on us both. What should have been a lighthearted, unceremonious ballgame turned into an impromptu gathering to mourn the fallen Shadow King, with the promise of more death looming ahead.
“Ninety-seven percent of crown challenges end in death,” she whispers.
