The Shattered Throne

Chapter One

The air smelled of iron.

Azreal noticed it before she understood what it meant. It mingled with the dust of the square, the smoke from the cookfires, and the perfume of summer flowers crushed beneath too many passing feet. Beneath it all lay that sharper scent, faint but unmistakable.

Blood.

Her hand tightened around her father’s arm.

King Lucien continued through the crowded square without breaking stride. His cloak brushed against Azreal’s skirts as they walked, dark blue velvet stitched with silver thread and set with enough jewels to catch the afternoon light at every turn. The display was deliberate. Kings were not expected to appear humble before their people.

The people bowed as he passed, yet there was little warmth in their faces. Their smiles were dutiful and brief, offered because guards watched from either side of the royal procession. Some lowered their eyes too quickly. Others kept their attention fixed upon the King with an unease they tried, and failed, to conceal.

Azreal felt it everywhere.

The unease had been present from the moment they entered the square, an absence of celebration where celebration had been expected. The people cheered because the heralds called for it.

Her father either failed to notice or had decided it did not matter.

Lucien paused to greet a merchant whose eldest son served aboard one of the Crown’s warships, asking after him with practiced concern. A few paces later, he stopped for a widow whose brother held a seat upon the royal council, then moved on once courtesy had been satisfied.

Nothing the King did was without purpose.

Every name he remembered and every favor he granted had its place in some greater reckoning. Loyalty was rewarded, disobedience punished, and affection rarely entered into either.

Even with her, there had always been calculation. As a child, Azreal had mistaken his scarce approval for love: a nod during a lesson, a hand briefly placed upon her shoulder, a quiet word when she remembered some difficult law. Those moments had seemed precious then.

They seemed smaller now.

Azreal glanced up at him. His dark hair had begun to grey near the temples, but little else had softened with age. He looked as though the weight of the Crown had been shaped for his shoulders alone.

Her mother had once told her Lucien laughed easily when he was young. Azreal had been too small to remember it.

The crowd shifted ahead of them.

A movement near the edge of the square caught Azreal’s eye.

At first she saw only a dark cloak among brighter garments. Then the man beneath it lifted his face.

He was not bowing.

His stare settled upon Lucien with such naked hatred that Azreal felt a chill despite the heat of the day.

The man’s right hand was hidden beneath his cloak.

“Father,” she said.

Lucien turned slightly toward her, impatient at being interrupted. “What is it?”

The stranger moved.

Someone screamed.

The square erupted before Azreal could point him out. People scattered in every direction, knocking baskets from stalls and overturning a cart near the fountain. The guards surged forward, but the panic itself became a barrier. Bodies pressed between them and the King as the assassin forced his way through the confusion.

Steel flashed in the sunlight.

Lucien twisted at the final moment, but not quickly enough.

The dagger sank beneath his ribs.

His body jerked against Azreal’s hand.

For a breath, neither of them seemed to understand what had happened. Then blood spread across the front of his silver-threaded doublet.

“Father!”

Lucien shoved her behind him.

The movement nearly sent her to the ground. By the time she found her footing, he had seized the assassin’s wrist and driven his forehead into the man’s face with a force that broke bone.

Lucien tore the dagger from his own body. Blood poured over his hand, yet fury held him upright as he struck the assassin across the face and forearm. For the first time, Azreal saw the warrior her father had once been—the man who had broken a rebellion and led soldiers through the northern passes.

The assassin went to one knee.

The guards finally reached them.

One seized Azreal around the waist and pulled her backward.

“No. Let me go.”

“Your Highness, we must take you from the square.”

“My father is hurt.”

The guard dragged her farther away.

Lucien lifted the dagger again, but his arm no longer obeyed him as it had moments before. His strike went wide. He swayed, caught himself, then looked down as though surprised by the amount of blood upon his clothes.

“Help him,” Azreal shouted. “Why are you standing there? Help him!”

A second guard took hold of her arm.

She fought them both.

Lucien’s knees struck the stones.

He had always seemed incapable of kneeling, even before the gods. Yet there he was in the dust, blood slipping between the fingers pressed to his wound.

Azreal screamed his name.

He turned toward her.

The anger had gone from his face. Pain had replaced it, and beneath the pain was something she had never seen there before.

Fear.

Not for himself. She knew that with a certainty she could not explain.

For her.

A silver chain slipped from beneath his torn collar as he bent forward. The pendant hanging from it struck against his chest and caught the sun.

Her mother’s pendant.

He had worn it hidden since the Queen’s death and never permitted others to mention it. Azreal had seen him hold it only once, years before, when he believed himself alone.

Now the pale stone was stained red along one edge.

“Father,” she said again, though her voice had nearly failed.

Lucien raised his head.

His eyes found hers through the confusion.

His lips moved.

The crowd was screaming, the guards shouting, and steel rang against steel somewhere nearby. Azreal could not hear the word he tried to give her.

She saw only the shape of it.

Then the assassin rose behind him.

A guard’s blade had pierced his side, yet hatred drove him forward. He drew a second knife from beneath his cloak.

Azreal saw the blade lift.

Her father did not.

“No!”

The knife came down.

Azreal woke with the scream lodged in her throat.

She sat upright so quickly that the chamber tilted around her. Her hands clawed at the blankets, searching for stone, blood, anything that belonged to the square, but there was only linen damp with sweat and the carved wood of her bed beneath her fingers.

The room was dark except for the dying fire. Heavy curtains stirred in the cool air before dawn.

Azreal knew where she was.

Her body refused to believe it.

Her heart beat wildly, and each breath scraped through her throat. She pressed one hand to her chest and found the pendant there.

The silver was cold beneath her palm.

Her mother had worn it first, then her father. Now it belonged to her, though she would have surrendered every jewel in the kingdom to return it to either of them.

“Father,” she whispered.

The word sounded childish in the stillness.

He had been dead four nights.

Four nights since the square. Four nights since the guards had dragged her through the palace gates with his blood across her gown and his final unheard word repeating in her mind.

The court had allowed her little time to grieve.

There had been councils before his body was buried and arguments beyond her chamber doors. A kingdom could not remain without a ruler, they told her. The army needed command. The nobles needed reassurance.

Azreal needed six months.

Six months remained until her eighteenth birthday, when the law would permit her to take the Crown without another ruling in her name. Until then, she must appoint a regent.

Every man in court seemed eager to remind her of it.

They offered advice before she asked and promises no honest man could have meant to keep. Some wanted the regency for themselves. Others wished to place a son or brother near enough to seize it.

Veyra wanted Darius.

That had surprised no one.

Azreal’s stepmother had spent years persuading the court that her son possessed every quality required of a king. Darius had never held command in battle or endured any burden he could pass to another, yet he walked through the palace as though the Crown had merely delayed in recognizing him.

Azreal closed her fingers around the pendant until its edges pressed painfully into her skin.

A knock came at the door.

Three quick taps. A pause.

“Majesty?”

Mira.

Azreal shut her eyes for a moment, gathering what remained of her composure.

“Enter.”

The door opened quietly.

Mira stepped inside and closed it behind her. Her grey hair had been braided neatly, though the hour was early, and she wore the plain black gown required of the royal household during mourning.

She bowed.

The gesture lasted only until she looked at Azreal.

“Oh, my poor girl.”

She crossed the chamber at once.

Azreal intended to say she was well, but the lie vanished when Mira sat beside her and drew her close.

Azreal clung to her.

The grief came without dignity, shaking through her until she gasped against Mira’s shoulder. Mira did not tell her to be calm or remind her that queens must be strong. She simply held her as she had when Azreal was a child.

“It keeps happening,” Azreal said when she could speak. “Every time I sleep, I am there again.”

“I know.”

“I see the man before he moves. I know what he is going to do, yet I still cannot stop him.”

“You warned your father.”

“Too late.”

“No.” Mira drew back enough to see her face. “Do not make their failure yours.”

“I saw him.”

“For the space of a moment.”

“I should have shouted sooner.”

“The square was crowded, and you did not know what you were seeing until the danger was already upon you. The guards were charged with protecting the King. You were not.”

Azreal looked away.

“He said something to me.”

Mira’s hand stilled.

“I could not hear him,” Azreal continued. “I have tried to remember the shape of the word, but every time I think I know it, it changes.”

Mira studied her for a long moment. Grief sat heavily in her face as well, though she had done her best to conceal it.

“Perhaps you heard it well enough,” she said.

Azreal frowned. “I heard nothing.”

“Not with your ears.”

“Mira.”

“Your father was a difficult man, and I will not insult you by pretending otherwise. He was proud, often cruel, and so certain of his own judgment that he mistook obedience for devotion. Yet he loved you.”

Azreal’s mouth tightened.

“He never said so.”

“No,” Mira replied. “He should have.”

The answer hurt, though not in the way excuses would have hurt.

Mira did not ask her to forgive him or claim Lucien had shown his love through duty. Azreal had heard enough of that from others.

She rested her head against Mira’s shoulder again.

After her mother’s death, Mira had become the only person in the palace before whom Azreal did not have to remain composed. She had sat beside her through childhood fevers and soothed her through storms.

The court called Mira her First Attendant. Azreal had never thought of her as a servant.

After some time, the worst of the sobbing passed.

Mira eased her upright and wiped the damp hair from her face.

“What hour is it?” Azreal asked.

“Just past sunrise.”

The chamber still lay in shadow, though grey light showed along the curtains.

“You might rest a little longer.”

Azreal’s stomach tightened at the thought.

“No. I would only return to the square.”

Mira nodded, accepting the answer without protest. “Then we shall prepare for the day.”

She rose and turned toward the wardrobe.

Azreal caught her hand before she had taken more than a step.

“I do not want to lose you.”

The admission escaped before pride could stop it.

Mira turned and took her hand between both of hers.

“You will not,” she said. “Not while there is strength left in me to prevent it.”

Azreal tried to smile, though it felt uncertain upon her face.

“You speak as though I might dismiss you.”

“You are stubborn enough to try.”

A small, unsteady laugh rose from Azreal before grief could silence it.

Mira’s own smile appeared briefly. “There. I knew you had not forgotten how.”

She released Azreal’s hand and went to the wardrobe.

The colored gowns had been removed after Lucien’s death. In their place hung black silk, velvet, and lace in the severe cuts demanded by custom. Even grief had rules at court: proper shades, proper jewels, and a proper number of days before one could appear without a veil.

Mira chose a gown of heavy black silk, its high collar embroidered with dark thread. The weight of the skirt made Azreal feel as if she were dressing in chains.

She climbed from the bed and allowed Mira to help her into fresh linen.

“You have lost weight,” Mira said quietly.

“I have eaten.”

“You have moved food around a plate.”

“That is nearly the same.”

“It is not.”

Azreal lacked the strength to argue.

Mira fastened the gown, adjusted the sleeves, and tugged once at the bodice.

“Too tight?”

“No.”

Mira looked at her.

Azreal sighed. “A little.”

The laces were loosened.

When the gown sat properly, Mira guided Azreal to the mirror and combed through her tangled white hair, easing each knot loose rather than pulling.

Azreal watched her own reflection.

She looked pale even for herself, her violet eyes swollen and shadowed. The court had always found her appearance unsettling. White hair and violet eyes inspired stories among common folk and suspicion among the nobility.

Veyra had once suggested that her hair be darkened with dye.

Lucien had refused before Azreal could answer.

“She looks as her mother did,” he had said.

It was one of the few times she remembered him defending her without attaching some lesson to it afterward.

Mira arranged her hair away from her face and placed the mourning veil over it. The black silk softened the starkness of her coloring without hiding it.

She then opened the carved box of powders and paints.

“Nothing elaborate,” Azreal said.

“I know what mourning permits.”

“I did not mean—”

“You meant you do not wish to look vain while the kingdom buries your father.”

Azreal met her eyes in the mirror.

“Yes.”

“You will not.”

Mira applied enough powder to hide the worst of the sleeplessness, then traced a thin line of kohl along Azreal’s lashes. Her movements held a new deliberateness, as though each small act helped construct the face Azreal would show the court.

When she finished, Mira rested both hands upon Azreal’s shoulders.

They looked at the reflection together.

“There,” she said.

Azreal waited, uncertain what judgment might follow.

Mira’s eyes shone.

“You look like your mother.”

The words entered more deeply than any praise of beauty or queenship could have done.

Azreal lowered her gaze to the pendant.

“Was she ever afraid?” she asked.

Mira’s brows rose. “Often.”

Azreal looked up.

“Your mother was not fearless,” Mira continued. “She simply refused to let fear make her choices.”

The answer settled somewhere within Azreal, quiet but firm.

Mira stepped away and began returning the cosmetics to their box.

“Your uncle should arrive before midday.”

For the first time since waking, Azreal felt something ease in her chest.

Ronan.

She had sent for him on the night Lucien died. If the roads remained clear, he would have ridden without rest.

“I need to speak with him before the council does.”

“They will have sent riders of their own.”

“Then I pity the riders.”

Mira’s mouth twitched.

Ronan had little patience for courtiers and despised men who disguised ambition beneath courtesy. Lucien had relied upon him more than any other commander.

Azreal trusted him for a simpler reason.

He had never lied to her.

“He will refuse the regency,” she said.

“It is likely.”

“Because of the army.”

“Because he believes his duty lies with it.”

“My father is dead, the throne is empty, and half the council would sell the kingdom for a more comfortable chair. Where does he imagine the army’s duty lies now?”

Mira gave her a patient look.

Azreal looked away. “That was unjust.”

“It was honest.”

“Those are not always different.”

“No.”

Azreal rose from the chair and smoothed the front of her gown.

The young woman in the mirror wore black from throat to floor. Beneath the veil, her pale face and white hair seemed almost spectral. Her eyes appeared far too young.

Seventeen.

The council would see her age before they saw anything else.

The noblemen would see a girl six months short of power. Veyra would see a grieving child to be guided or frightened. Darius would see the final obstacle between himself and the Crown.

Azreal lifted her chin.

Her hands were trembling.

She allowed them to tremble.

Mira had told her that courage did not require the absence of fear. Her mother had been afraid and acted despite it.

Perhaps that was all courage had ever been.

Azreal closed her fingers around the pendant.

Her father had not taught her tenderness. He had taught her law, restraint, and the nature of power: every favor carried a price, every command invited resistance, and every weakness shown at court would be remembered.

Those lessons had often wounded her.

They might now preserve her.

She straightened her shoulders and met the eyes of the girl in the glass.

The court would come for her soon enough.

Let them come.

“Mira,” Azreal said before the attendant reached the door.

Mira turned.

“There are matters I want arranged before my uncle arrives.”

She crossed back to the writing table and took up a wax tablet. “Of course, Majesty.”

Azreal looked once more at the girl in the mirror, then away. If she remained before it much longer, she feared she would begin to see only her age.

“I want the library cleared after breakfast. Have the Master Archivist bring every law concerning regency, along with the records of every regent appointed during the last three hundred years.”

“That is a considerable number of documents.”

“Then he had better begin at once.”

The faintest curve touched Mira’s mouth before she lowered her stylus.

“I want the original records,” Azreal continued. “Not a summary prepared by the council. I want to know how each regent was chosen, what authority was granted, what authority was taken, and how the regency ended.”

“Some of