The Shadow Prince by Bree Despain
chapter one
HADEN
I did the unforgivable the day my mother died, and for that I’ve been punished every moment of my life.
He’s too weak-minded.
Impulsive.
He’s too much like her.
He’s too human.
It has been ten years, and regardless of everything I’ve done to try to change their minds, the Court still speaks of me as if I am unworthy of my birthright.
I try to lock away my doubtful thoughts as I watch the Oracle make her way up and down the ranks of Underlords. She is here to help Choose the Champions, and despite the fact that Rowan and the other Elites make it a point to tell me that I will never be Chosen, I intend to be one of them. This moment is what I’ve been preparing for. It’s what I’ve lived for.
The Oracle has passed two entire rows of Underlords without stopping to inspect a single one. Her presence is accompanied by a buzz of energy and excitement that flows through the crowd of spectators. Most of us have never seen an Oracle before, and to hear one speak is a rarity usually reserved for kings and priests. To be Chosen by the Oracle would be an honor unparalleled by any other in this realm. One collective question occupies everyone’s mind: Why would the Oracle deign to participate in the annual Choosing of the Champions?
Perhaps the rumors are true.
Something more important is going on—this year’s Champions will be required to do more than procure new Boons for the Court’s harem.
The Oracle passes two more Elites without even glancing their way, and then stops abruptly beside Rowan, King Ren’s prized son, and the favored of the Court. Surely he would be their first choice for one of the Champions if the decision were left solely to them. The Oracle reaches out her pale blue fingers and touches Rowan’s forehead. He looks stunned for a moment, blinking his eyes. As the Oracle pulls her hand away, she pinches her fingertips together as if she were pulling a thread out of Rowan’s skull. She cups the invisible thread in her hand. Her face is shrouded in layers of gauzy veils to protect her holy visage from our unclean eyes, but I can tell that she’s studying what she holds with great interest. Master Crue told us that an Oracle can draw memories and thoughts from a man’s brain—take a sample of his soul, so to speak—with only her touch.
Rowan’s surprised expression slips away and a smug smile plays on his lips. Whatever thought or memory of his the Oracle tasted is one that makes him feel even more confident in his position. No doubt one of his many victories—like the time he slaughtered the gladiator, an untrained sap, before the man had even had a chance to draw his sword.
I ache to knock that smug look off Rowan’s face, but then the Oracle brushes her hands as if wiping his memory from her fingers. She leaves his side and proceeds on with her task. I catch his eye and smirk. What did he think, she was going to stop the Choosing Ceremony right then and declare him the sole Champion? Rowan glares back at me and starts to make a crude gesture in my direction. Master Crue must have caught our exchange, because I hear him clear his throat. He makes a stern, “eyes forward” gesture. I snap to attention, with my shoulders back and my arms straight at my sides, one of them resting against the ceremonial sword in my scabbard. As much as I want to keep watching the Oracle as she makes her rounds, I keep my focus trained on the back of the Underlord standing directly in front of me.
I notice that one of the leather straps holding up his bronze breastplate is twisted, as if clumsy hands had put it on. He’s shaking, too. I wonder if it is nerves. Is he anxious about being Chosen? Or anxious about being passed over? I don’t recognize him from behind, but from his size, I guess he is only fourteen. He has two more chances to be selected after this year—unlike myself. I am almost seventeen. I’ve been passed over twice before, and this is the last year I am even eligible for Champion. Anger creeps up inside of me. How dare this boy be nervous?
I almost want to bring the flaw in his armor to the attention of one of the Heirs. The boy would receive a beating for sure for his ineptitude. But then I realize that the way his muscles tremble isn’t from nerves, but from strain. It seems he is unaccustomed to wearing the heavy bronze armor of the Underlords. That’s when I know that boy must be a Lesser—a second-or third-born son of an Heir, bred purely to serve the Court. The only time they wear the armor of the Underlords is during the annual Choosing—when they get to pretend they’re like the rest of us for the night. I don’t know why the Heirs allow it; it’s not like a Lesser has ever been chosen as Champion.