No Fury

Prologue

The prince was born in his mother's lavish rooms three days before I emerged on the dingy floor of the ale house. The queen expired during delivery; my mother swaddled me in an apron, and handed me off to Da to hold until she'd finished the mash.

Over the years I saw how the kingdom grieved their queen. The king never remarried. Even now, people speak of those first years of our lives as if they were spent beneath a constant swarm of clouds: the loyal subjects watched their cherished prince grow up without a mother, watched his father-king consumed with holding off war.

The only thing that eventually brought us out from beneath it all was the undeniable sunshine of him. Dark curls, eyes the most brilliant green, and a smile that pulled dimples deep into his cheeks.

And I grew up with the innate sense that he was mine.

You know how that can feel? When you look at someone and they tug at a secret, possessive thrill inside you? Up close, or far away, you know somehow they're yours.

Don't look at him, you want to scream to everyone else. Don't pretend to see him the way I do.

But that had to be my private heartbreak. Everyone loved the prince. Everyone felt he belonged to all of us—when he was born, a collective gift had been bestowed. They all loved him as their own, you see, because it was impossible not to. He was sun, and wide open sky. He was joy, he was rain, he was music.

No one else suspected that when the queen died, the Gods had quickly taken the baby boy my mother expected and put me inside her instead.

A commoner, brought to life, just for him.
A prince, cupping the stars, just for me.

I didn't know how I knew that—or how my prince seemed to know it just the same—but the truth of it was our salvation, and our ruin.

~~

I hope you love this one.

~Spark