Page 41 of The Shadow Prince's Ruin
“Ah, the one sent here to grow old and stale, just like me?” Tassarion asks as an ugly grin stretches his lips. I struggle to keep my eyes on him. I have seen plenty of humans with wrinkles, but they look so unnatural on an elven face it makes my blood pump faster. Isthisthe future Lord Kyran wants for me?
“I have so much sympathy for your plight. It has only been two months for me in the human realm, and I already sense it seeping my life force. I cannot begin to fathom what you have been through. I know I’m lucky that my banishment is not meant to be permanent.”
Tassarion shakes his head. “I heard all about it. Fifty years. You will be a husk by the time you’re allowed to go back. Time doesn’t stop just because you’re a royal.”
I clasp my fingers in front of myself to fight the urge to bite my nails. “That is why I’m here. I need to go back, and I need my shadowcraft. You’re the only one who I know of who can take off this collar.” I unbutton my shirt to show him the contraption on my neck.
Tassarion steps closer to inspect it. “And why would I do that when I’ve been left to rot here? Your family has been greatly diminished.” From up close I realize he even smells more like a human now, of musk and salty sweat.
I swallow when he slides his fingers under the collar and runs his thumb over the crest etched into it. “You owe my family the favor. I wasn’t even born yet when you were banished, so there’s nothing I could have possibly done for you, but my mother fought for you. Lord Arsen wanted to execute you for experimenting with Sunlight fire, but thanks to her intervention, you were banished instead.”
The grimsmith leans against the wall, but at least he lets go of my collar. “After thirty years here, I’m not sure if that was a favor or a curse,” he says bitterly.
“And yet here we are. You are alive, and if you play your hand right with me, you might still have a chance to come back to the Nocturne Court. My mother and I are the only Goldweeds left, and I don’t even toy with the illusion that I may fight Lord Kyran for the throne, but Iwillhave power at court. I have new means to redeem myself. And when my position’s reestablished, I will do what I can to bring you back. Lord Kyran was only a child at the time of your transgression, so it will not be that difficult for him to forgive you once he sees how useful you could be.”
Tassarion lets out a raspy laugh. “You? I’ve heard your talent for shadowcraft is the most insignificant in generations. On top of that, you took part in a plot to assassinate Lord Kyran. He will want nothing to do with you.”
I drown the urge to lash out, because I need his help and I’m in no position to fight a man twice my size. Story of my life. Always forced to pull back. “He knows my siblings were most at fault, and as for my talent or lack thereof… I have a plan. Do you not wish to be part of a future in which the son of your tormentor iscut down?”Thatis a fantasy I indulge for his pleasure, because I will get rid of the collar by any means necessary.
The grimsmith rubs his chin, assessing me from head to toe, but then walks over to his tools with a smirk. “I have plans of my own to find my way back to the Nocturne Court, but I do owe your mother a favor, and an enemy of my enemy is my friend. I will have use for a Goldweed ally. Come here, princeling.”
I hate how patronizing it sounds. When Hawk calls me that, his voice is filled with affection, but from those parched lips it’s nothing short of condescending. But I won’t gain anything by expressing this sentiment, so I approach his collection of tools and eye the unfinished dagger resting on the anvil. It’s no longer red-hot, but seeing it brings me back to the moment when the damn collar was first closed around my neck. The thought of hot tools once more working so close to my skin has my stomach dropping, but I can’t get my life back otherwise. Who wouldn’t trade off a moment of fear and discomfort for freedom and a new chance at life?
The tools of Tassarion’s trade cast deep shadows on the walls, but both of ours are gray, mine even more faded than the smith’s. This mirror of my form has always been a source of great shame, and even the simplest of peasants could easily spot my weakness at a glance.
But that won’t matter any longer when I can use what little shadowcraft I possess to bind myself to the hollow darkness of Hawk’s shadow. It will make up for everything I lack, and the Nocturne Court will be forced to respect me.
“Sit,” Tassarion commands as he pulls several vials out of a cupboard. He might have been here for decades, but unlike me, he was allowed to keep his shadow powers, and jealousy eats at me. I watch him form a long needle out of nothing, then dip it into each of the bottles. He lets the shadow spill onto a set of cutters, and runes marking the tool awake with a blue glow.
I can only imagine what his shadowcraft was like at the peak of his power, before the human realm exuded its crushing force on him.
“Lean your head back,” he instructs, and I’m painfully aware of the lack of any pleasantries. He’s making a point of not using my title. One day, I will get even for it, but I suppose the life he’s been forced to live is punishment enough.
I expose my throat to him.
He snorts with laughter and taps his fingers where the purple sparks bit into my skin. “You were trying to get it off with human means.”
“An attempt as good as any,” I groan.
“My tools will do the job, but they’re old, and like me, not what they used to be. They might scrape you, but that will be much worse if you flinch. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to be restrained?” I sense the smirk of satisfaction without even looking at him. And no, I most definitely don’t want to be anymore at his mercy than I already am.
“I will manage.”
Tassarion shrugs and picks up the glowing cutters. When I sense their hot radiance so close to my skin, my thoughts drift to Hawk, who’s still waiting for me in the other room. His distrust still hurts, but if he wants proof, I will be able to deliver it to him the moment the collar is off. I imagine him holding my hand in his overgrown paw, and that reduces the fear coiling in my guts like a snake.
But when metal slides against flesh, burning the side of my neck, I utter a frantic shriek.
I stay still, despite the tears pooling in my eyes and my heart beating out of my chest.
“Just the other side now,” Tassarion mutters, and I might be wrong, but I have a feeling he’s being careless on purpose. He wants a royal to suffer, and I’m the closest thing he can get.
I don’t dare to nod and wait for more pain, watching his lips quirk as the umbrasteel burns my flesh the second time. It’s an excruciating sensation, similar to a stab, but I squeeze the armrests, and by the time the collar rolls off me and clatters to the floor, I know it was worth the pain despite the humiliating tears in my eyes.
I’m as free as I can be.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it, princeling?” the smith asks, casting a shadow over me as he leans forward.
I’m still catching my breath, exhausted by fear and the tension lingering in my muscles, so I respond by shaking my head and try to focus my gaze on the unnatural face looming above.
