Prologue
Isael balanced on the balcony railing, his eyes turned to the heavens. The afternoon was cloudy, the sky gray in the places where the fading sunlight had retreated. The air tasted as it always did, as of late.
Stale.
Not for the first time, Isael wondered how high he could fly. He thought he could at least rise above the clouds, high enough to see the sun, the waxing moon, and the blanket of starlight. By then, his lungs would begin to burn, but surely he could go higher. High enough that frost would collect on his robes and his muscles would freeze into rigidity.
At what point would his magic fail him?
The notion of reaching for his power and being unable to grasp it was almost unfathomable. Yet also enticing. What would it feel like to give a command that wasn’t heeded? What would it be like to be utterly powerless?
He would fall. It was the way of things. Not even a dragon could deny the pull of the land forever. He would fall down, hurtle, even. The real question was what would happen when he hit the ground? Would the descent warm his body to the extent that he would remain intact, merely breaking bones that would inevitably mend in the space of an hour?
Or would he shatter?
Would he die?
Death.
The end of himself.
What a strange notion.
To be…simply finished with existence.
To not have to lumber into his bed each night.
To not have to run the gauntlet of his dreams.
To not have to wake to the weight of a thousand years of memories bearing down on him like a winepress.
“Uncle?”
Isael lifted a foot from the railing and turned. Esodir stood in the doorway, his shoulders squared and his hands clasped behind his back. Lately, when Isael looked at him, he saw Esodir’s father, and his father before him.
It didn’t bode well.
Soon enough, his nephew’s light eyes and dark brows would begin to narrow and tighten whenever they regarded him. His elegant lips would turn downward when Isael spoke. His pale hair would sway, the fine tips catching the sunlight as he swung his head in disapproval, finally fed up with his uncle’s“antics.”
Soon enough, but not yet.
“What is it?”Isael asked.
Esodir nodded over his shoulder.“They need your vote.”
Isael looked past him, into the chamber where the councilors sat at the long yew table. Most had been looking his way, but put their heads down, feigning interest in their papers or striking up a conversation with their neighbor as Isael peered at them.
With a sigh, Isael stepped down from the ledge, his boots landing soundlessly on the balcony. Esodir moved aside, allowing him to pass into the council chamber.
The air smelled of parchment and sweat.
“Do you need my vote?”He asked, prompting the councillors to fall silent.“Have I not made it abundantly clear where I stand on this issue?”
A few exchanged looks, as if he’d asked a non-rhetorical question. The rest had the good sense to say,“Of course, mir aesolin,”in unison. The others were quick to parrot them.
“Then do as you are meant to,”he said, striding toward a set of double doors.“Execute my will.”
Isael pushed open the doors and stepped out of the cell, only to find himself in the corridors of his personal dungeon. Light from the window murals cast hues of purple and blue onto the ornate tapestries and the gold-flecked marble floor.