Page 37 of Prince of Shadow and Ash

Chapter 13

THE DOOR CLICKED SHUTand the Prince of Shadow and Ash leaned against it, allowing himself to catch his breath. Curse it all. He would never let on to Hargreaves that torturing him wasn’t effortless. It wasn’t terrible—already most of the expended magical energy had returned—but how often he needed to divert power into controlling Hargreaves made him irritable. At least it had some benefits.

He smiled, cherishing the agony on Hargreaves’ face, the scream his slave had tried to suppress. A welcome diversion from the monotony of planning his vengeance.

He had known Hargreaves would choose pain for himself before he allowed any of his men to be harmed. However, torturing Hargreaves through the bond was far less draining than taking control of his body—especially with the fight Hargreaves put up. The man’s mental thrashing whenever the Prince took over gave him a headache for hours afterward. He would rather not spend the requisite energy to force Hargreaves to hurt his own friends. But Hargreaves needn’t know that. The threat was enough.

Fear was a powerful motivator.

The Prince ascended the stairs that wound around the interior of his tower, the top piece of the staff tucked under his arm. Willing slaves were considerably easier to control. He had required someone with a good heart to get past the magical enchantments around one of the other pieces, but he hadn’t expected a mercenary to be so stubbornly moral. The ones he had sent to slaughter Monparth’s mages had been bloodthirsty and grateful for the bond that let them dole out violence without risk to themselves. They had begged him not to release them, but he’d had no reason to let them leech from his sorcery after the mages were obliterated. Meanwhile, Hargreaves was desperate to lose his bond.

The Prince snorted.Idiot.

He set the gold oval topper next to the three rods that formed the rest of the staff. Only one piece left. He was close to deciphering its location. Some of what he’d discovered made him nervous, though. Potential complications to retrieving the final piece. Ah, well. He would solve that riddle when he heard it. Nothing would stop him from achieving his goal. Not this time.

The Prince sat at his desk and opened a faded leather-bound journal, marked with water stains and discolored with age. The brittle pages crackled. He laid his new journal open next to it, dipped his quill in ink, and returned to the arduous task of translating the old Monparthian.

He had work to do before he could unleash his vengeance on Monparth.

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