Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

in shadows deep where mortals rest
they say there walks the Lady Death
she'll take the souls who dared not fight
without a soul, there is no life

- "The Second Lady," Verse 1

I dream of Leómadura's office. Not the first nightmare I've had since it happened, but this time I do what I should've done then—I fight.

I'm on my stomach on the floor, and when I feel the hard ache of his body press down on me, I scream. Throw back an elbow. The weight doesn't cease and I squirm, try to roll over, manage it somehow. His face is inches away from my own, cold and calculating, hard gray-green eyes penetrating as steel. I throw a knee between his legs, drive it upward with as much force as I can muster. It doesn't hurt him like it should—he barely reacts. Wraps his hands around my throat and I can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe—

"I've got your marble, Whoreson." His voice is smug. "Do you know what that means?"

My hands claw uselessly at the grip on my throat. Stars explode before my open eyes, and my vision blackens around the edges.

"It's old magic—ancient, really." He's closer, now—we're chest to chest, and the heat of his breath tickles my ear. "Magic from Lady Love herself. Virtue is a powerful gift, you know, and I've got yours. I owned you then, and I own you now. I know everything you say, everything you do, every thought you think. There are no secrets between us. When you go into the mirror, I'll be watching."

I thrash. I flail. I try to scream again, but there's no air. No oxygen. His fingernails press hard points into the sensitive flesh of my neck—pain, so much pain, and then there's the pressure.

"You ruined my life," he says—a purr, not a snarl, almost thoughtful. "I can't wait to return the favor."

"Brother!"

My eyes fly open. I sit up, swing a punch. It makes direct contact with Linden's cheek—he's standing over me—and he stumbles backward. My injured right arm—still bound in straps from the shoulder down—screams at the impact, and I shake out my fist. He's dressed in civvies—a black, tailored double-breasted jacket with metal clasps and matching silk trousers, decorative stitching among the seams. His long blond hair is down around his face, with the top pulled back and portioned off into a thin braid.

"Sorry," I say, panting, cradling my right hand. "Shite…sorry. Your face…"

His cheek is red. He rubs it. "Thanks for that."

"You startled me."

"Remind me to wear a helm the next time I'm sent to wake you."

"Are we deploying?"

"Yes—as you can see, I'm dressed for combat." Sarcasm drips from his every word—he must be angry about the blow. "No, little brother, the ceremonies are beginning at noon, and the Septemvirate is meeting beforehand to discuss arrangements for the rest of the week. Killián wants to get there early—no doubt he hopes to inconvenience King Audrin as much as possible. We're going with him."

"To a Septemvirate counsel?" I stare at him. "Why?"

"Killián wants three of Lady Death's representatives to be present, and the older elites have seniority to get out of it," he says. "Aside from Lefe, obviously, but he has to be there—he's Lord of Fate. It should actually be you and Kempe going to assist Killián, but she's working on some secret side project for Bard. No idea what that's about. Either way, I've drawn a short straw here—it's going to be boring as Hel."

"Maybe they'll burn me at the stake," I say gloomily. "They're on me for deserting the Church of Loss."

He smiles, too-straight teeth and perfect dimples. "That would add some interest to the proceedings."

"I'll hit you again."

"Hilarious." He tosses a pile of fabric in my direction. "Get dressed. I brought you formals."

The garb is identical to the clothes he has on—black, silk, the crest of a deadcrow embroidered on the jacket's chest. It's a little big on me—I wonder if it's a spare set of Linden's. Linden waits outside while I change, and then we make our way down the winding staircases and out to the front of the palazzo. Once we cross the moat, I see the gate has already been raised—a chaise is waiting for us, complete with a driver I don't recognize. Linden opens the door to the carriage. Killián is waiting for us inside.

"What happened to your face?" he demands when he sees Linden.

The red mark has blossomed into a purpling bruise, and his right eye looks a little bloodshot.

"Ko decided I was too pretty," he says.

The general's gaze swings to me. "You hit Linden?"

I slide into the carriage across from Killián and fold my hands over my chest, shrinking in on myself. "Accident."

Linden moves into the seat beside Killián, who opens the curtained window. A glow from the rising sun trickles into the compartment. He puts a hand under Linden's chin and angles him toward the light.

"This is indecent. You look terrible."

"Blame Ko!"

"I am blaming Ko," he says. "Put some cream on it."

Killián draws a canister of healing salve out of his kitbag, and Linden goes to work doctoring his eye. I watch him carefully, guilt churning in my stomach. Maybe it's because I haven't eaten or maybe it was the dream, but I feel faintly nauseous. My mouth fills with saliva and I wait for acid, but it never comes.

The carriage rumbles forward down Royal Road, heading north. The sun is low over the Pinenuts—the brown hills rise up in the distance like anthills. Killián is wearing identical garb to me and Linden, but he's carrying Yosif's scythe—it curls up over his back. Maxims gleam on the curved blade. The di Vivar family motto: Protect the Innocent. His battle cry: Strength Lies in Honesty. The blade is larger than the one Brid commissioned for me, black metallite, razor sharp and gleaming in the sunlight. It's rumored that one touch from that blade can steal the soul from a man—he can kill with the lightest of brushes. I wonder if it's true. Maybe I should've brought my own blade.

We turn sharply right and cross a bridge—rushing water cuts steeply through banks on either side. Entering through a huge set of gates—pure gold and sharply pointed into spear-like tips at the top—we approach L'Angly's palazzo. The Lord of Love's chateau is massive and gleaming, crafted from pale stone and marble. Rippling fields of emerald grass surround us on all sides. At least eight stories, balconies and terraces jut out with wrought-iron railings and hanging planters overflowing with flowers. The roofs are steep and covered with dark slate tiles. Turrets and towers rise above the main body of the fortress—the highest one, centered above the main complex, has a stained-glass window that must measure twenty feet in height. It depicts a radiant woman, blond, draped head to toe in strategically knotted rubies. A crown of doves encircles her head, and the starry sky behind her is illuminated by glowing golden apples. She looks a bit like the gorgeous woman I saw in my dream—Lady Love.

"Is that Queen Adelaide?" I ask, moved by the sight of it.

"Adelaide is—was—an incarnate," Killián says. "That's the Lady proper, although no doubt romanticized. In their truest forms, our Ladies appear demonic. Not human."

"Isn't Queen Adelaide still the primary incarnate for Love?" Linden says. "Just…y'know. From the Lands of the Dead?"

"Audrin has yet to remarry." Killián's expression is impassive. "There will be a new incarnate—give it time. No doubt she'll be impossibly beautiful and ridiculously young, perhaps one of his nieces. I do hope I'm not asked to give a speech at the wedding. I barely made it through his first nuptials."

Linden grins. "Bard told me you got drunk and called Queen Adelaide a whore. To her face."

The carriage draws to a stop in front of a large, flat set of stone stairs leading up to the palazzo proper. Killián opens the carriage door, but we don't get out.

"Brid Naya'il hadn't been in the ground for two months, and Adelaide had been pregnant for twice that," he says. "She was already showing, and Jebah informed me the night before it wasn't his. I was protecting the honor of my siblings."

"It's a miracle they didn't put you to death for treason," Linden says. "You'd think the king and queen would be more sensitive."

"Adelaide was Brid Naya'il's best friend," Killián says. "More to the point, she was Jebah's fiancée. She knew what she'd done was unforgivable."

"Did she try to explain?" Linden asks.

"No—she just cried." Killián's expression twists. "I don't want to talk about this, Linden. Let's go inside."

We walk up the stone stairs. The doors at the top are twice my height, curved at the top, with brass rings instead of knobs. A painted mural is displayed over the wood—a pair of white doves, intertwined. The shadowing on their wings gives the illusion of feathered texture, and a vine of berries stretches between their beaks. Killián takes one of the rings and knocks loudly, twice.

A boy around Brid's age answers the door in pleated trousers and a crimson Ivo Lorsan sweater, IL embroidered on the chest in black calligraphy. He's skinny, about half a head shorter than me, with limbs too long for his torso and his face is sharply pointed. Judging by his hair he's recently left bed—the blond strands are in disarray around his striking features. A wine-colored birthmark drips down the right side of his face, starting at his upper cheek and ending at his jaw. The corner of his mouth twitches when he sees Killián—it's not quite a smile, and the off-center quirk makes him look equal parts mischievous and demonic.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"Prince Lucian." Killián's voice is courteous. "We're here for the meeting."

"You're early," he drawls—a posh, rich-person accent. "Father isn't expecting anyone for another half hour. How's that delightful, well-mannered daughter of yours?"

"Brid is still Brid," Killián says, tone becoming short. "How's your sister?"

Blue eyes widen in mock surprise. "Much too young for you. Aren't you pushing fifty?"

"I'm thirty-seven, thank you, and inquiring as to the welfare of a princess can hardly be counted as solicitation." Killián looks like he'd quite like to throttle the kid. "I'll have you know that Brid is recently engaged. We're all quite satisfied with the arrangement."

"A gent actually agreed to hitch himself to that lit hollowood bomb?" Lucian demands. "Who?"

"Lucian, meet my lieutenant—this is Staffmaster Ko." Killián gestures to me. "Ko, this is Prince Lucian. I'm sure you two will be well acquainted with each other before Veneer Week is over."

Should I bow? Linden puts a fist over his heart and bows his head, so I copy the gesture. Lucian looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on my shoulders and waist. He seems to be sizing me up. After a long moment—too long—he raises his eyes to meet mine.

"Blink twice if you need a one-way train ticket to the Fifth Circuit," he says.

"Prince Lucian?"

"You're the one who deserted the Church of Loss."

"I worship Death."

"Deserter," he says. "Loss remembers, and she holds a grudge. Big mistake letting Killián rope you into that troth—his daughter's a nightmare. You know she once told me I had the bone density of a pickled salamander? I lie awake every night trying to think of an adequate response. It haunts me."

"Care to invite us in?" Killián asks.

"If I must," he says flippantly. He pivots on a heel, leaving the door open behind him. The entrance hall is expansive, with high ceilings and frescoes depicting the same blond woman who marks the stained glass of the tower—riding on horseback, rising from a pond of lilies, cradling the skeletal form of Lady Death. The floors are marble, inlaid with intricate patterns of roses and hearts. Elegant chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their crystals casting a soft, warm light that dances across the room. Servants bustle around the entry hall, carrying everything from platters of food to piled bed linens. They take care to avoid the prince as he leads us forward, bowing their heads and avoiding eye contact.

We follow Lucian down a hallway lined with graceful arches and columns wrapped in ivy and flowers. Beautiful arrangements of roses, lilies, and lavender are placed on tables in alcoves—the air smells sweet and floral. Rich tapestries displaying lovers, mythical creatures, and pastoral scenes adorn the walls. Passing an open doorway leading into a library—filled with shelves of books and scrolls—we turn sharply right and descend a staircase. At the bottom is a set of double doors. Lucian pushes them open, revealing a candlelit room with a large table in the center, surrounded by chairs.

"The war room," he says. "Make yourselves comfortable. I doubt anyone will join you for a good long while."

The table is circular, and we sit down. Linden takes the seat beside Killián, and I sit on his other side. There are two sets of doors at opposite ends of the room—the ones we entered through, and the ones on the opposing side. Both sets of doors are reinforced with metal bands and are intricately carved with motifs of swords and hearts. The table is intricately inlaid with a detailed map of the realm, complete with markers and tokens at various intervals. The chairs are comfortable, high-backed and richly upholstered with red velvet cushions. The walls are adorned with portraits of fallen kings and queens, each labeled neatly with their names and years of reign. I examine the portrait of L'Angly and Mariette, the first one in order, which is directly across the room from me. He's tall and sinewy, seated on the metallite throne, his wife seated beside him. His arm is around her, and his expression is haughty—hers is distant and a little sad. The painter managed to capture every detail of their faces; they look so lifelike I'm half convinced they could move at any second. The room is well lit—three twelve-pronged chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and there are wall sconces placed at regular intervals. Shaped like blooming flowers with candles rising from the bulbs, they cast a gentle, flickering light over the portraits.

From the doors to the right of me—the ones we didn't enter through—there's a loud banging noise; another door, behind these, slams open. Voices echo from the adjoining room, loud enough to discern the words.

"Put on tea," someone is saying. "A kettle of rose and hibiscus for Galtero, and lavender chamomile for the rest of us."

"Do I look like a servant to you?"

I recognize that voice. Jebah. My mind flashes suddenly to the tent near Gidad—his voice, low and cruel, penetrating as he cut the flesh of my hand. We need to cut off all of them, just to be safe…I have no idea which nails were affected. At ease, Ko—you're safe.

I glance at Killián, who's looking at the door with interest. He presses a finger to his lips; Linden and I nod.

"My servants are all busy preparing for the Feast of Affirmation—I'm asking you to make tea, not scrub my floors." The first voice sounds amused. "Here—I'll help you. We can do it together."

"I don't understand why you invited me to this," Jebah says. "Last time I checked, I won't be a lord until I best Killián on Monday."

"You could do that," says the first voice. "Or you could quit your job and take up the position of Grand Vizier."

"I belong on the frontline, Audrin." Jebah's voice is firm. "I could never be happy in politics—I need a sword in my hand and blood on my leathers."

"If you want to slay Killián—fine." King Audrin laughs, a silky sound. "But don't pretend it's about the lordship. You hate how Brid Naya'il must serve him, and you want her all to yourself."

"It's a matter of policy," Jebah counters. "He advocates for cautious and strategic retreats when he should be pushing for all-out attacks, regardless of the costs. He supports humane treatment of conquered territories—enemy territories—when subjugation and exploitation of resources could further our causes. He prioritizes minimal casualties over relentless warfare to expand territory and power. I could lead Lady Death's guard into the next great age with Yosif's scythe; he's barely managed to maintain our current borders."

"So this has nothing to do with Brid Naya'il?"

"Well. She's unhappy."

"This is L'Anglimar," Audrin says. "No one's happy."

"Bold and inspiring words from our sovereign, my king."

"Do you actually think you can defeat him?"

"Palsy is starting to affect him," Jebah says. "He denies it, but I saw his hands shaking at the war council in Zaranea. Who knows how much time I have left before it comes for me? Now is the time for an usurpation."

"Who would you bring on?"

"I'd keep Segolé, Belén, and Kempe—the former two for their experience, and the youngest because she's a delight," he says. "The old usurpers would have to go—they're too loyal to Killián. It would be a pity to lose Bardic—I do believe there's not a better healer in the realm, and his management of the frontline treatment camps is unrivaled—but I doubt he'd stay on if I murdered Killi, and I could never trust him. Lefe, Péri, and Torrense are replaceable—I'd swear titles to my top pridemasters and promote them. There are a handful of three-titled denmasters who Killián's kept off the guard—they might make nice additions. Évrard Larousse. Reine Kemaigre. Leómadura Tiberius."

Linden and Killián look at me. My gaze drops to the table. I can't meet their eyes. I can't do anything but breathe, slowly, try to keep myself composed. I don't want to be here, listening to this conversation. Definitely not with other elites looking at me with that expression on their faces.

"My cousin?" Audrin says. "I'd pause a beat on that promotion if I were you. They're saying he's a rapist."

"Really?"

"He was dismissed from L-DAW after the Battle of Gidad."

"Leó was there for that?" Jebah seems to hesitate. "Well…Gidad was a massacre. Can't blame a soldier for getting a little rowdy when the smell of blood is in the air. Primal urges come with the taste of battle—it can't be helped."

"Don't talk like that, Jeb—it makes you sound like a war criminal."

"I'm not saying I've done it, I'm just saying it happens." There's a loud clank, as if someone is setting a kettle on a coalpot. "You think I'd be stupid enough to play the mirror game if my marble count was over three?"

"Four."

"Ásca's marble isn't worth shite—it was a one-night fling, and I'd never use it," he says. "Besides, we were wasted—it's not like someone could pull the memories from me, I barely have them. I'm more worried about Killián getting his hands on the ones from Brid Naya'il—"

Killián stands up so abruptly that his chair turns over with a crash. He walks over to the doors, throws them open. The room beyond is a small kitchenette—a row of coalpots, a shelf of wines, a display of glasses. Audrin and Jebah are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of two kettles. The king of L'Anglimar is clad in navy sleepwear, silk—a matching set with clouds embroidered on the sleeves and hemline. He's not even wearing a crown. Jebah's wearing black leathers. He's not wearing the feathered cloak, but the scythe blade of his bistaff curls above his head.

"Good morning," Killián says, voice impossibly tight. "Your Highness. Jebah. Do you gentlemen need any help with the tea?"

They exchange a glance. "What are you doing here, General?" King Audrin asks.

"We got here early," Killián says. "Your son let us in."

"You were eavesdropping on a private conversation between the king and his Grand Vizier?" Jebah looks amused instead of annoyed. "You do realize you're all asking to be hanged?"

Audrin looks at him quickly. "You're taking the job?"

"Might as well." Jebah yawns. "Not quitting the guard, though."

"It's a time commitment."

"I'll make it work."

"So the death duel isn't happening?" Killián asks suspiciously.

"Of course it is—I can be a general and an advisor to the Darkbloom family." Jebah grins a self-satisfied smirk. "Some of us can multitask, brother."

"Is that so?" Killián's voice is cold. "What were you saying about Brid Naya'il before I interrupted you? Please, continue."

"She got into her fair share of trouble when she was at finishing school," Jebah says smoothly. "You'll have to get through Galtero and Ra'mes if you want the details from Audrin. If you're interested in scheduling that mirror bout, however, it will have to be before Monday. You won't be able to play once you're dead."

"You'd need to find a fourth player." Audrin adds leaves to one of the kettles, then fills a pitcher of milk from one of the iceboxes. "If, that is, you retire Leómadura."

"Torrense can step in." Killián's expression is impassive. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

Jebah folds his arms over his chest. "Last time I checked, you were hosting a party for the Day of Deceased."

"Contrary to your earlier assertions, I am capable of multitasking," Killián deadpans.

"We almost killed Torrense last time he tried to play," Audrin says. "He abandoned Love—he's no match for her—and his allegiance to Death has always been questionable. I love my brother dearly, but the mirror game is not his strong suit. He has too many marbles, too many sins, and not enough ancestors willing to shield him. Are you really willing to risk his life?"

"Word around the court is that Lefe becomes more unstable by the day," Jebah adds. "You're short on players, Killi. You could never take us on."

"Bard and I will find a team," Killián says. "Tomorrow—as soon as the remembrance rituals end, we'll meet in the crypt. My challenge, my territory."

Audrin and Jebah exchange a glance.

"We'll be there," says Audrin. "I'll let Galtero and Ra'mes know when they get here."

The doors close.

Killián returns to his seat at the table.

If Audrin and Jebah are still there, they stay silent.