Page 1 of To Charm a Dark Prince

PROLOGUE

The nightmares had returned.

Mordred stalked the halls of his keep like a caged animal, his armored boots thumping on the wooden floor of his home as he moved from room to room like a shadowy nightmare. His dark cloak whispered upon the polished surface; the hood was pulled over his face to obscure his features, though it did not hide his emotions.

His servants knew better than to come near him when he was in one of his restless moods. He could not sleep. He could not rest. While his insomnia that night certainly was not uncommon, his anger this evening was.

He could not stop dwelling on the pure and simple truth that haunted his waking and unwaking hours.

He could feel his control of Avalon cracking. Literally and figuratively. It was just a matter of how much time he had left.

What was a soldier like him to do, without an enemy to fight? He was built for war—forbattle.It was all he had ever known. It was what he had honed his body and his mind for over the centuries of life he had led. He was perhaps the greatest knight his world had ever known. Very few could best him in a contest of strength. And by rights, heshouldbe king. But that was not why his mood was so foul.

It was because, despite all his efforts and sacrifices, Mordred was unsure if he could hold on. His furious wanderings sent him down the winding stone stairs, deep into the bowels of the cliff on which his keep had been built.

He had to see. He had to know. He had to make doubly sure that tonight would not be the night it all fell apart.

Like jagged, rusted, abandoned knives, the sharp claws of his gauntlet scraped against the stone walls as he descended into the darkness. It was a habit of his that brought him some manner of peace. The sensation somehow reminded him that this world belonged to him. That he wielded the power. That healoneheld the destruction of the isle at bay.

The weight of his heavy iron armor was a comfort to him as well. It was familiar. Its burden was nothing to him anymore.

Pausing for a moment, he let out a breath and let his armor dissipate, save for the gauntlets he preferred to keep. As the iron in its liquid form receded, the chill of the lower levels met his bare skin. It was oddly comforting. It reminded him of what this placereallywas, in the end.

It was a tomb.

He studied the doors. They were the only guards he allowed to stand watch over the precious item within. No one else, not even his own creations, could be trusted.

The tangled, jagged spirals sculpted into the surface looked as though they had been guided by the hand of an artist whose work had been overgrown with wild vines. Natural and unnatural. Orderly and chaotic. There was no rhyme or reason to their appearance—only instinct. Pressing his metal palm to the surface, he sighed.

Pushing upon the door, it answered its master and opened, gliding silently on its hinges despite its towering size. No locks were needed. No locks would help. The doors would open for him, and him alone.

Stepping inside the chamber, he squinted against the glow as his eyes adjusted to the glare. The metal of his boots clinked against the floor as he walked, the sound mixing with the whispers that filled the air.

The whispers that wept and begged for freedom. That cursed his name and vowed revenge. The whispers that cried for justice. He sneered as he approached the glowing pool in the center of the room. He wouldneverspeak an answer to the words that surrounded him. They would not listen to reason. The Ancients knew how many times he had tried.

Pillars surrounded the circular pool in the center of the room, silhouetted harshly against the shimmering, crystalline substance within it. From each pillar ran a thick iron chain to the true quarry of the chamber.

His Crystal.

The prison for the magic of Avalon.

The cage for that which wished to tear his world to pieces.

Assembled from a trick of his magic—iron turned to a crystal-like quartz or amethyst—it hung suspended over the pool that collected the shards that leaked from it. No matter how hard Mordred worked to seal the cracks, some always seemed to form, like condensation upon a glass.

In a thousand of his nightmares, he had seen his creation crack, deform, and shatter. He had seen the terrible power within set free to wreak its havoc upon the world.

Lifting his hands, he began to work his will on the Iron Crystal, repairing the splits and reinforcing the sections that looked weaker than the others.

He watched as a small drop of the opalescent liquid formed upon the outside, coalescing from one of the seams in the metal panels, hardened into its solid form and fell from the surface into the pool with a quiettink.

The Crystal was degrading faster and faster as time went on. Hence the nightmares that plagued him. But for now, it seemed it would hold fast. For now, he could take some peace in the fact that the end of Avalon was just a little longer delayed.

Turning on his heel to leave the room, he froze. And his second of hesitation might have cost him everything.

* * *

The Prince in Iron had come. The window for escape was narrowing. The man who stood and beheld his work was a nightmare and a dream in the same vision. The opalescent glow of the captive magic cast sharp shadows across his features. Features whose firm, handsome lines did nothing to belie his age but could not hide his coldness. Nor his resolve.

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