And the truth of your hatred looks us both in the face, his lady mother answered silently.
Vesper clasped his lord father’s larger hand. He wouldn’t admit she was right. That seeing King Kiran had been like staring into a mirror. A mirror Vesper would’ve once busted into a thousand pieces, to roll within the shards until they ground him down, until his flesh thinned and his veins rose to the surface. Anything to pass as one of midnight’s children—skin forged from moonlight so finespun the paths of their heartbeats were showcased like maps for all to see, and eyes of glittering stardust that could pierce any darkness.
He himself had looked upon the silvery plait of hair and the vial of violet tears King Kiran had brought as proof of his daughter’s tragic predicament. The sunking had called it a sickness. Vesper snarled. Sickness . . . there was a time he would’ve traded his future crown to contract such a malady; to finally be accepted and embraced without fear, suspicion, or wonder.
Now, standing next to his lord father’s prone form, the defiance Vesper had so long wrapped within to stay warm frayed to threads. He needed to provide anchorage for his people, as Sir Andrian said. He would earn the respect that came with the crown by warranting his kingdom’s devotion and love, like the king who had ruled before him.
And his differences would play a bigger role than anyone had imagined.
Only Vesper could equip Nerezeth with the sunshine it required. But a blood pact with their rival kingdom wasn’t the way to accomplish this.
Vision blurring, the prince lifted his father’s limp hand and placed it atop his head. Three months ago, on the celebration of his fifteenth name day, this very palm had ruffled his hair when Vesper defeated a sparring partner, and applauded when the prince and Lanthe moved as one and hit all the targets dead-center during the equestrian archery contest.
Making his father smile, winning his laudatory touch . . . such moments had been few and far between. Tonight was the last opportunity. Although the king had slipped into the great sleep and lost the ability to connect, vocally or telepathically, perhaps he could still sense his surroundings.
Sniffling, Vesper returned the king’s hand to his sunken chest and moved closer to the luminary, basking in its radiance, drawing strength from its sovereign potential—something he’d always felt unworthy of but was ready to claim as his own.
“I would be alone to meditate. You may lead the processional.” He glanced at the guards, to ensure his lady mother took them as well. Both of the men’s gazes turned down the moment they were met by his.
“You won’t accompany us?” the queen asked, one silvery eyebrow raised.
“Leave a lantern and my fur. My place is by my king’s side, until his final breath.”
Queen Nova’s lips formed a whistling-chirping sound—calling the white-and-black crickets to her. They hopped onto her silk skirts, forming alternate tiers with the molted nightingale feathers and spider’s lace already in place. The combination of fabric and nature glistened and rustled as she strode to the door.
Vesper rested his hand on his scabbard again.
“Make your father—your king—proud,” his lady mother murmured, somewhere between a thought and a word. “Let him leave this world on a bed of tranquility, knowing you’ve accepted your differences as the blessings they are, and have embraced your obligation to our kingdom.”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do, fair Lady Mother.”
She gave him one last look, as if measuring his sincerity, then said, “I’ll have Cyprian wait by the iron door to accompany you back to the castle.” She stepped out with the guards at her heels. The kingdom’s assembly of mourners followed in their wake.
Vesper waited long enough that they would be out of earshot. Casting aside his gloves, he opened his palms—scarred from battles with cadaver brambles and frostbite—then stared at the backs of his hands and wrists. Beneath his clothes, the rest of him reflected the same reddish-brown depth, as if he spent every moment outside in the day realm . . . despite that he lived in a moonstruck land and had never faced the sun’s true light. This contradiction no longer dampened his spirits. Instead, it gave him courage.
He dragged his lord father’s broadsword from the hook. It took both hands to lift, and every budding muscle to swing. He strained against the weight and hammered the luminary. Harsh clangs reverberated through his arms and spine. With three solid hits, he broke the brass’s seal. The large gold bubble within held its form. Using the sword’s tip, he pierced the membrane and the incandescent liquid began to seep like molten jelly.
Vesper dropped the blade. If anyone had heard his clanging, there was no time to spare. He knelt and cupped his hands to capture the sticky flow. It wasn’t unbearably hot, only warm enough to singe. As he held it up to his lips, he smelled the pollen—nectarous and raw with a roasted edge—and his mouth watered to taste it.
If a tiny insect could sup upon the mixture and channel its radiance, why couldn’t he?
His eyes focused on Nerezeth’s banner again, on the large silver star seated next to the moon, on the background and smaller stars—as eternally black as their sky. For fifteen years he’d questioned his existence . . . why he looked so different. Why he was the only one in his kingdom who couldn’t find his way in the dark. All along he should’ve questioned why he was the only one never ill-affected by the light.
At last he understood what Madame Dyadia had meant, what his “monumental” calling was to be. He wasn’t born to be Nerezeth’s evening star. He was born to be their sun. Pure and unfiltered. And after tonight, they would never need to rely on Eldoria for anything again.
He tipped his head back and poured the essence of daylight and flowers into his mouth, gulping it down until his body went to flame and his mind to ash.
He awoke to blinding flashes of light. Shouts of horror echoed in his ears, Cyprian’s voice blending with the guards, before he succumbed to darkness again. A nightmare folded around him like ink smearing in water, brilliant red and gloomy gray in turns—a summer sky chasing the winter. Fire embroiled his veins and he writhed in agony. A full body shiver followed, bones and skin ablaze with frostbite. The stench of roasted flesh, scorched hair, and burning blood singed his nose.
When the pain became so excruciating he would die, he heard someone chanting—an ancient discerning voice. The sound elevated him, and his eyes opened to find he floated above his body, a tethered spirit. Magic was at work here: a veil of gray mist as substantial as glass stood between his consciousness and the happenings below. Two outlines stood over his naked form where it lay atop an altar beside a background of glistening ice. He’d been brought to the mystic caverns.
“Did you tell him the details of the prophecy?” It was the voice that had been chanting, and it belonged to Madame Dyadia, the royal sorceress.
“He was being too stubborn to listen.” The second voice—frantic and remorseful—was his queenly mother’s. “If only I had! It would have prevented this.”
“The result would have been the same. A prophecy will be fulfilled, taking whichever detour it must. Our prince unknowingly aided in his effort to prove worthy of his kingdom. Though he chose the deadliest path for himself.”
The sorceress’s silhouette skimmed her hands across his body. Radiant, reddish-orange flares leapt beneath his skin, lighting up his veins and all the organs laboring to keep him alive. His spirit stayed safely above—a witness to his own undoing where no pain could reach him as puffs of black smoke rose from his nostrils. Flames crackled in his ears and molten gold seeped from the soles of his feet then spread from his toes to his ankles, coating them with a metallic sheen.
The queen sobbed, falling to her knees beside the altar. “Please, can you save him?”
“The damage is not without, but within.” The sorceress withdrew a blade and made an incision in his skin above the metallic coating. The sensation was distant, more of a throb in a dream. His skin returned to its natural state as the gold leaked out from the slit, becoming liquid sunshine to be collected in a vial. “This is just the beginning.” Madame Dyadia cut off several strands of Vesper’s dark hair and wound them about a spool where they multiplied into a coarse thread. Using a fine needle, she sewed the opening closed; the moment she knotted off the thread, the stitches disappeared and a fully healed scar stood in their place. “The sun will try to overtake his humanness in increments. He must be strong enough to withstand the thrashes of gold. He’ll have to bleed it from his flesh, like a snake’s venom, to purify his blood. Though we cannot prevent it, the incisions can slow it. And there is a way I might tender the agony of the intrusion.”