Page 44 of The Jasad Crown

Around the bend, the path opened into the Awaleen’s memorial courtyard.

Three towering figures loomed in the center of the courtyard. Green vines twined through the wood and wicker limbs of Baira, Dania, and Kapastra.

Dania held an iron axe over her shoulder, its weight against the hollow wooden frame of its owner a defiance of logic. Baira’s hands curved around her face, the red roses blooming from her empty eye sockets rustling in the breeze. Thick vines snaked through Kapastra’s ribbed chest, winding around the interlocking branches like one of her beloved rochelyas.

Arin always went out of his way to avoid this courtyard. Six and a half hundred years ago, the Supreme had seen fit to invite architects to build a monument to the Awaleen. A gesture to commemorate Nizahl’s roots in magic. The architects had lived in the newly built gardens for months on end, knitting branches together, coaxing vines to grow. Their magic had saturated the courtyard—and the creations left behind. The thin branches working like tendons in the Awaleen never rotted. The vines never browned or withered.

Magic still lived in this courtyard. Arin could feel the soft thrum of it all around, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

The Awaleen’s heads blotted out the moon. A red petal floated from Baira’s right eye, landing on Arin’s boot.

When Arin became Supreme, this courtyard would burn.

“My liege?”

Arin clenched his teeth. Without looking at Wes, he resumed his walk. The petal slid from his shoe.

The crunch of their footsteps was the only sound for long minutes. The brightness shining from the Citadel’s tower lit the night like a falling star.

If even his guardsmen were having doubts, Arin was in more trouble than he realized.

At the end of the grove, Arin turned to address his guard. “I apologize if I’ve given you reason to doubt how much I value your service, Wes. Your concern is appreciated, but I assure you it is misplaced.”

“Sire—”

“Do you think I would still lead our kingdom if I truly believed my judgment compromised?”

Wes hesitated. After a minute, he dipped his chin—an acknowledgment, an acceptance. “I should not have spoken out of turn. Perhaps I’ve spent too long in Jeru’s company.”

Arin forced himself to smile. “Jeru grew up with seven siblings. He thinks every thought—no matter how benign—should be a token for discussion.”

At the door to the east wing, Wes broke off from Arin. “Enjoy supper, my liege.”

Arin shot him a sour look, and Wes grinned.

Servants startled from their card games at Arin’s entrance. He waved them down. The east wing was usually reserved for the recruits’ ascension ceremonies, which only happened three or four times a year. The staff came here to relax, and Arin wouldn’t begrudge them their not-so-secret hideaway.

Given the tripling rate of conscription, Arin ventured their opportunities for leisure were rapidly dwindling.

Arin laid a hand on the banister. He’d always dreaded dinners with Rawain, but never quite to this level. The thought of sitting across from his father and telling the truth made him sick. But the thought of lying…

Arin had climbed exactly one step when the sirens went off.

The walls shook, sending the servants’ playing cards sliding across the floor. Dust rained over them as the siren shrieked from the tower, its reverberations thundering beneath them. Shocksuspended Arin for a fraction of a second before he burst into motion.

Arin grabbed a frazzled servant. “Get everyone to the cellars. Go!”

Outside, chaos had erupted. Swarms of recruits flooded from the compounds and pooled around the foot of the tower. Only a handful were in proper uniform; the rest looked like they’d run out while preparing for bed.

The first row saw Arin and snapped to attention, and the awareness rippled over the crowd until each recruit stood perfectly still, awaiting orders.

Orders Arin couldn’t deliver, since he did not have the faintest clue what was happening. He’d only heard the tower’s siren once before in his life—the day of the Blood Summit. The alarm was engineered alongside the wicker figures of the Awaleen centuries ago, seeded with magic to go off only when Nizahl was under severe attack. The thought of what the alarm might have deemed threatening enough to the kingdom’s security to sound for the second time in two and a half decades turned Arin’s stomach.

A swell of guards stormed out of the tower, Rawain sheltered between them. “Arin!” he called.

The guards parted to allow Arin into their circle of protection and swiftly closed again.

“You are unharmed?” Rawain raked a panicked gaze over Arin.

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