SOUL BOUND HEIR

Donald never knew the mountain would cost him something. The wind came hard across the ridge, carrying the sharp scent of pine and wet stone. Far below, the river ran cold and fast, its surface broken by black rocks. Donald’s boots slipped once on the loose shale. He caught himself against a crooked tree, breath tight in his chest. Behind him, the soldiers closed the distance without hurry. They knew the cliff left him nowhere to go. Barco stood at the front of them, sixty years old and still straight-backed in dark armor. Mateo waited two steps behind his father, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The rest of the men formed a half-circle, spears lowered, faces blank. “You should have stayed in the city,” Barco said. His voice was almost mild. “The herb would not have saved him.” Donald did not answer. His father had been dying for weeks. The mountain was the last place left that still grew the bitter root Gallagher had asked for. Donald had ridden out alone three days ago, certain the rotational succession would protect him until he returned. He had been wrong. Mateo stepped forward. “The Gallagher line ends today. My father has already seen to the rest of your house.” The words landed clean and cold. Donald felt something tighten under his ribs, the same quiet pressure that had lived there since the first reports of soldiers moving through the lower districts. He kept his face still. Anger never helped when the numbers were this bad. Barco raised one gloved hand. Two soldiers seized Donald’s arms. The magical chains came next—thin bands of dark metal that burned cold against his wrists and locked his own power behind a wall he could not break. The personal necklace on his neck, the one that focused the greater share of his strength, remained in place for now. They would take it afterwards. “You understand the law,” Barco continued. “Magic belongs to the blood that rules. Your father forgot that when he grew weak.” Donald met the older man’s eyes. “The throne was his by right. Your father is dead. According to how the rotation works automatically—" “But my father asked for an escort into the next life.” Barco’s mouth curved without humor. “I simply provided Gallagher, your father. And I think you are next.” An escort into the next life? The lie was already polished. Donald could hear how it would sound in the city square. He said nothing. Understanding the reason never made the blade any lighter. Mateo drew the short knife. The steel caught the gray light once. Donald’s shoulders locked, but he did not struggle. The soldiers held him steady at the very edge of the drop. Wind pushed at his back. The noise of the waves of the river rose to the top of the mountain. Boom! The knife went in clean, just below the ribs on the left side. Pain arrived sharp and immediate, then spread outward in a slow, heavy wave. Donald’s knees buckled. The soldiers released him from the mountain top the same moment Mateo shoved. The world tilted. Sky and stone and the pale faces of the men above him spun once, then vanished. He fell into the flowing river. The current dragged him under, tumbling him against submerged rocks. Blood left his body in dark clouds. His lungs burned. The chain hung on his neck still held his power locked. Donald knew his fleshly power was weak, and he couldn't save himself from drowning. The only alternative was that of the deeper law of the blood: a royal soul could leave its flesh if the body was past saving. But after and the soul did not return to the body, both the soul and the body would vanish. Either decision he takes will cost him something. If he caused his soul to drift out of his own body and the soldiers found the empty shell and destroyed it properly, his power would die with it. He would become nothing but a drifting scrap with no way back. Again, if he stayed, and he eventually got rescued, it would be easier for his enemies to detect him. He chose the deeper law of blood. The separation felt like a tearing cloth that had been sewn too tightly for too long. One moment his shell was drowning. The next he hung above the water, weightless, watching his own body turn slowly in the current, pale face turned toward a sky he could no longer feel. His magical necklace still his on his neck, and chains still bound the empty body. Soldiers shouted from the ridge. Someone pointed. Horses began the long descent toward the riverbank. Donald’s soul drifted inland, pulled by the only instinct left. Trees closed in around him. Mist rose from the wet ground. The scent of pine thickened. Behind him the first boots crashed into the shallows. Voices called orders. They would search the water first. They would find the body. They would not yet know the soul was gone. He moved deeper into the forest, formless, silent, already counting the hours. Five days. No more.