Page 6 of The Prince of Power

Damian

“What did the Sacred Light call you for?” Kane asks. He brushes his overlong blond hair from his forehead, and for a moment, his green eyes burn right through me.

Instead of answering, I hold his gaze, hoping to draw out his agony.

We’re in Thornecroft’s basement, seated around an old wooden table. The four of us—used to be five, back when Ben was still Prior—gather here because it’s tucked deep below the foundation, away from prying ears.

It was designed to look like a meeting room for kings—stone walls, iron sconces, and a table that looks like it remembers every secret ever whispered across it.

My great grandfather had a flare for ostentation. He designed this house—full of history and precious art—as a bid to ascend into The Four Hundred. As if a house could ever be enough for a group of the most powerful people in the world. Thank God his descendants were much wiser.

“He chose me,” I finally say.

Kane’s eyes darken, but he smooths his expression in an instant. A practiced move, but it’s not enough.

I’m on my guard, but I don’t know if it’s because of Kane or his father. I lean back in my chair and tap my fingers on the table. I let the silence stretch to make him speak first.

Across the table, Hunter and Asher have barely moved, barely changed their expressions. They already knew. Of course they did. Why else would the Sacred Light have summoned me?

“Did he tell you why?” Kane eventually asks, and I can’t help but smile. What a pointed, uncouth question. His father would probably hit him for asking it if he were here. Kane’s always been the most volatile of us, even when he’s doing everything within his power to stay calm. To not reveal how much he hates me.

I meet his eyes. “He thinks I’m coolheaded.”

That hit its mark. Kane’s jaw twitches.

“It’s nepotism,” Asher says, probably trying to ease the tension in the room. His dark hair slips across his eyes when he tilts his head, just enough to look careless—probably on purpose. “You’re not the best, Cross. But you’re the best he’s got.”

I smile. He’s right. I didn’t earn my place—I inherited it. It all came down to luck. Out of everyone, only the four of us were ever serious contenders for Prior of Thornecroft. Our laws are archaic. Even with the Sacred Lights trying to enforce order, bloodlines still carry more weight than merit.

Ben was an unusual choice for Prior. A once-in-several-decades pick. His parents weren’t particularly notable. Not connected. Not in The Four Hundred. Our Sacred Light is wise enough to know that if you don’t throw a bone every once in a while to people clamoring to ascend, they’ll think the game is well and truly rigged.

But people like Ben get killed. They get killed because they don’t have anyone powerful to protect them.

“Were you blindfolded?” Kane asks.

“Of course.”

I was blindfolded before I even stepped on the plane. And from what I’ve heard, the pilots take strange routes so that flight times vary.

No one can learn where the Sacred Lights keep their compounds. They’d be in danger if anyone found out. When you interpret laws for four hundred of the most powerful men in the world, a lot of people want to kill you.

“So you’ll have to find your virgin,” Hunter says. He’s as composed as ever. Built like a statue, voice flat as iron. Never emotional. Never unprepared.

I nod.

“Where are we supposed to get her?” Asher frowns. “From the streets?”

“From the scholarship students,” I say. “Obviously.”

Hunter’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t like that we’ve been drawing from the same pool of expendables for over a hundred years. He thinks it’s a tactical mistake. Only so many middle-class college students can disappear before people start asking questions.

He’s wrong. You can get away with almost anything when everyone is already looking elsewhere. A missing person here. A drug overdose there. Who cares when the world is on fire?

The Four Hundred creates the fire, or fans it, just enough to blur the edges so no one sees what’s quietly happening in the smoke. They stir conflict, feed distraction, keep the world fighting over noise while the real power slips quietly through back doors.

And in the chaos they create, they do whatever they want.

“Rhett is our in with the scholarship students,” Asher says, pulling me out of my head. “My guess is that’s why you have him waiting in the conservatory.”

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