Page 37 of Wicked Prince of Shadows
I remained just far enough behind to watch him, half expecting him to see me at any point. He didn’t look back. Not even once.
Every line of his body was taut, as if waiting for something. His shoulders stayed squared, his hands clenched at his sides.
I followed at a distance, keeping to the shadows even though the hallways stretched empty. No guards. No servants. Just cold wind slithering through the stone corridors and the soft pad of his boots ahead of me. How had he not noticed me yet?
The deeper we went into the palace, the stranger it felt.
Lifeless.
I’d thought it eerie before, but now it was worse. The walls swallowed sound completely. No echo of footfalls, no whisper of life. It was like moving through a forgotten mausoleum that had once held court and color. Even the shadows hung differently here—thicker, tighter to the floor. Sometimes they stirred as he neared them. But that was the only other sign of life.
Why was no one here?
He reached a heavy door carved from dark wood, then pressed against the handle. He grunted as he shoved it inward, dragging across the stone. Then he stepped inside.
The door started to close slowly. My hands fisted, and my lips pressed tight. I shouldn’t do this. This was wrong. But I darted forward anyway.
The edge brushed against me as I passed through into his chambers, the air cool but still rich with the scent of parchment, cloves, ink, myrrh, and cedar.
Though I hadn’t really given much thought to what his chambers would be like, this wasn’t what I expected. It looked like a gathering area that had been converted into a study, lit only by moonlight pouring through a high window and framed with heavy black velvet curtains.
Books lined the shelves and were stacked on almost every surface, most ancient and in varying states of decay. The cabinets had been carved and marked with runes and sigils. In the center was a massive table, covered with parchment, candles burned down to puddles, dried herbs, opened books, and numerous other items.
Only one chair was near the table, though four other chairs had been pushed up against the wall and filled with books. A black cloth hung halfway over a massive mirror, and several black boxes stacked awkwardly on one another. Multiple paintings hung on the wall, the frames elegant and carved butthe paintings themselves gone. The earthquakes had obviously disheveled a fair bit of the room, but it seemed to me that it was probably always chaotic these days.
He stood in front of the table now and placed the fruit on a piece of parchment.
I crouched down and crept closer, hidden in the shadows and partially by a cabinet that jutted out into the hall.
From my vantage point, I could see his profile, lit silver by the moon. His face was drawn tighter than I’d seen it—tense, unreadable. The stitches along his jaw flexed as he worked.
He picked up a long, slender knife from the table. Then he made a long, clean cut through the center of the fruit. The thick rind split open with a soft crackle. The inside gleamed faintly.
A familiar tart scent reached me, and I suddenly realized what the fruit was.
A pomegranate.
Or at least something like one.
I’d seen whole pomegranates a few times, and their rinds hadn’t been so leathery or dark. But that smell was unforgettable. It made my mouth water at once.
He crushed one of the seeds under his thumb, pressing it into the paper. His brow furrowed as he leaned closer.
His body went rigid, his shoulders locking. Then his head dropped.
A low, guttural exhale escaped him, and the sound turned into something darker. Angrier.
The muscles in his arms coiled. His fingers clenched. And then—roaring, he flipped the entire table.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ifroze, clapping my hand over my mouth as all those papers, books, ink, and candles went crashing across the stone floor.
Books slammed against the far wall. Glass shattered. The heavy table struck the ground with a thunderous crack that reverberated through my chest. Ink splattered in dark arcs across the marble, spreading like blood. Heavy tomes crashed to the floor, their spines breaking, pages fluttering like wounded birds. Some of the pages no longer had writing on them.
The Hollow King seized a heavy wooden chair and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the stone wall, splinters exploding outward. His wings flared wide, smoky tendrils lashing like whips as he stalked about the chamber.
"Worthless!" he roared. He seized a heavy book and hurled it across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, its spine cracking. "All for nothing!"
