The broken prince

Chapter 2

THE BROKEN PRINCE

Chapter Two: The Prince's Deadly Secret

“Then I will have to spend the rest of the evening persuading you.”

Nimara stared at the crown prince.

Then she looked at the sword hanging at his waist.

Then at the silver mark on her palm.

“I have a question.”

Vaelorin looked thoroughly unimpressed. “I assumed you would.”

“If I come with you, will I be allowed to eat?”

For the first time, the prince appeared genuinely confused.

“Eat?”

“Yes. Food. Bread. Meat. Perhaps a little wine, if your palace has managed to acquire any. I find near-death experiences exhausting, and I refuse to suffer one on an empty stomach.”

A strange sound escaped Vaelorin.

It took Nimara a moment to realise he was trying not to laugh.

“You are standing in the royal archives after stealing an ancient relic, and your primary concern is dinner?”

“My primary concern is survival. Dinner is a close second.”

He studied her for a long moment.

Then he turned towards the door.

“Come.”

Nimara sighed dramatically.

“There goes my peaceful evening.”

“You were breaking into a royal archive.”

“Peaceful evenings come in many forms.”

“I'm beginning to regret not having you arrested.”

“I'm beginning to regret not stealing something more valuable.”

Vaelorin stopped.

Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

Nimara smiled sweetly.

“Your crown, perhaps.”

“Walk.”

She walked.

Mostly because the prince looked perfectly capable of carrying out his threat, and partly because she was desperately curious about what had just happened to her hand.

The silver mark had stopped glowing, but she could still feel it beneath her skin. It wasn't painful. If anything, it felt strangely warm, like sunlight trapped beneath her flesh.

That was hardly comforting.

Especially when the most dangerous man in Auvaryn kept glancing at it as though he expected her hand to explode.

They left the archives through a narrow corridor lined with ancient portraits.

Nimara had barely taken ten steps when a door opened ahead of them.

A young woman emerged, accompanied by two ladies-in-waiting. She wore a gown of deep emerald silk, and a delicate silver crown rested in her dark hair.

Her gaze landed on Vaelorin.

Then on Nimara.

Then on the silver key in the prince's hand.

Her smile disappeared.

“Vaelorin,” she said softly. “What has happened?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Lady Seraphine.”

The woman stiffened.

Nimara immediately decided she disliked her.

Not because Seraphine was beautiful. Nimara had no objection to beautiful women.

She disliked the way Seraphine looked at her, as though Nimara were something unpleasant that had crawled out from beneath a palace carpet.

“Who is she?” Seraphine asked.

“Nimara.”

“Only Nimara?”

Nimara smiled.

“Would you prefer a family history? I can make one up if it would help.”

One of the ladies-in-waiting made a choking sound.

Seraphine's eyes narrowed.

Vaelorin stepped between them.

“Go to your chambers, Seraphine.”

For a moment, something dark flashed across the woman's face.

Then she bowed.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

She walked away, her skirts whispering over the stone floor.

Nimara watched her go.

“That woman looks as though she has never forgiven anyone for breathing too loudly.”

“She is the king's niece,” Vaelorin said.

“That explains the crown.”

“She has no crown.”

“Exactly. She looks as though she believes she should.”

Vaelorin glanced at her.

“You should learn when to keep your observations to yourself.”

“And you should learn that people can hear you when you whisper about them in corridors.”

“I wasn't whispering.”

“An excellent point. Your bedside manner is dreadful, but at least you're consistent.”

He turned away.

Nimara followed, grinning.

She had survived the first ten minutes of being in the crown prince's company.

At this rate, she might even survive the evening.

The thought lasted until they reached a pair of enormous doors guarded by two armoured fae.

The guards bowed when they saw Vaelorin.

Then their eyes moved to Nimara's hand.

Both men went pale.

One of them crossed his fingers over his chest in an ancient protective gesture.

The other whispered something in the old fae tongue.

Nimara stopped smiling.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Vaelorin said.

“That man just looked at my hand as though it had personally murdered his grandmother.”

“Keep walking.”

“Your Highness, I am beginning to suspect that your kingdom has a serious problem with communication.”

The doors opened.

And Nimara stepped into the western tower.

---

The tower had been built long before the current royal family came to power.

Its walls were pale stone, its windows narrow, and its ceilings so high that the shadows gathered beneath them like dark water. Ancient symbols had been carved into the doorframes, some worn smooth with age, others glowing faintly beneath the moonlight.

The place smelled of old books, burning wood, and something colder that Nimara couldn't quite identify.

Vaelorin led her into a private study.

Books covered nearly every wall. Maps lay scattered across a long table, and a fire burned in a black marble hearth.

At least there was a fire.

And a tray of food.

Nimara immediately headed towards it.

Vaelorin watched her pick up a small pastry.

“Are you always this comfortable in unfamiliar places?”

She took a bite.

“No. Sometimes I steal the curtains first.”

He closed his eyes briefly.

“Gods preserve me.”

“Are they particularly fond of you?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

Before he could reply, the door opened.

A young man entered carrying three books and an expression of profound irritation.

“If this is another meeting about northern border taxes, I would like it officially recorded that I died on the way here.”

He stopped when he saw Nimara.

His gaze moved to Vaelorin.

Then to the pastry in Nimara's hand.

“Ah.”

Nimara swallowed.

“Why does everyone in this palace keep saying that?”

“Because,” the stranger replied, “the prince has brought a woman into his private study, and I am trying to decide whether this is a historic occasion or the beginning of a national disaster.”

“Perrin,” Vaelorin said flatly.

“Your Highness.”

Perrin set the books down.

He had untidy dark curls, an easy smile, and the dangerous confidence of someone who had known the crown prince long enough to survive insulting him.

He looked at Nimara again.

“I'm Perrin. His closest friend, occasional adviser, and the unfortunate soul responsible for reminding him that other people exist.”

“Nimara. Thief, excellent judge of character, and apparently the cause of a national disaster.”

Perrin's face lit up.

“Oh, I like her.”

“You like anyone who insults me,” Vaelorin said.

“Not true. I once met a man who called you a miserable, humourless—”

“Finish that sentence and I'll have you cleaning the stables.”

Perrin considered this.

“I was going to say handsome.”

“No, you weren't.”

“No, I wasn't.”

Nimara laughed.

The sound surprised her.

She hadn't realised how tense she had been until that moment. For a few seconds, with Perrin talking nonsense and the fire crackling in the hearth, the strange silver mark seemed less frightening.

Then Vaelorin placed the key on the table.

The room changed.

Perrin's smile faded.

“Where did you get that?”

“The royal archives,” Nimara answered.

Perrin looked at Vaelorin.

“Tell me she's joking.”

“She isn't.”

“Oh, splendid. I've always wanted to witness the beginning of an ancient catastrophe.”

Vaelorin ignored him.

“Nimara, tell us exactly what happened when you touched the key.”

She described the shattered glass, the sudden darkness, and the moment their fingers met.

When she finished, Perrin was no longer smiling.

He reached for one of the books and opened it to a page marked with faded ribbons.

“Six years ago,” he said slowly, “the prince's scar first appeared.”

Nimara looked at Vaelorin.

He remained motionless.

Perrin continued.

“Before that night, the scar wasn't there. The royal physicians tried everything to remove it, but no magic worked. Then the prophecy appeared in the old temple.”

Nimara's fingers tightened around the pastry.

“Which prophecy?”

Vaelorin answered this time.

“Love him, and death shall learn your name.”

The words seemed to drain the warmth from the room.

Nimara looked between the two men.

“You believe the prophecy caused someone to die?”

“I know what happened to the woman I loved,” Vaelorin said.

His voice was quiet.

Too quiet.

“And I know that everyone who has come close to me since then has been in danger.”

Nimara studied him.

For the first time, she understood why the prince wore black. Why the servants lowered their eyes. Why he looked at the world as though he expected it to take something from him every time he dared to want it.

He wasn't simply a man who had lost someone.

He was a man who believed he had no right to love anyone again.

It should have made her feel sorry for him.

Instead, it made her angry.

“That is a terrible reason to spend the rest of your life alone.”

Vaelorin's eyes lifted to hers.

“You know nothing about my life.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I don't owe you an explanation.”

“No,” Nimara agreed. “But you brought me here, showed me a magical mark you don't understand, and told me that loving you might get me killed. Forgive me for wanting a few details before I decide whether to run screaming from your palace.”

Perrin coughed.

It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Vaelorin gave him a warning look.

Then he turned back to Nimara.

“The woman I loved died six years ago. I will not discuss her further.”

Something in his voice made it clear that the conversation was over.

Nimara looked away.

For once, she didn't have a clever reply.

The silver mark on her palm pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

The key began to vibrate against the table.

Perrin stepped backwards.

“Vaelorin.”

“I see it.”

Silver light spilled across the tabletop, forming delicate lines that twisted into unfamiliar symbols.

Nimara stared at them.

“What does it mean?”

Neither man answered.

The symbols shifted.

Then, slowly, they formed a circle around the key.

At its centre appeared a single word.

NIMARA.

Her stomach dropped.

“That's my name.”

“I can read,” she snapped when Perrin leaned closer.

“I was going to say that the inscription is written in a language older than the kingdom.”

“Oh. Well, that's considerably worse.”

Vaelorin reached towards the symbols.

The moment his fingers touched the table, the light vanished.

The key fell silent.

And somewhere beneath the palace, something struck the earth with enough force to shake the tower.

Thump.

The books rattled.

Dust drifted from the ceiling.

Nimara gripped the edge of the table.

“Please tell me your kingdom has earthquakes.”

“It doesn't,” Perrin whispered.

Another thump sounded.

This time, it was followed by a long, low groan that seemed to travel through the foundations of the palace.

Vaelorin drew his sword.

“Stay behind me.”

Nimara opened her mouth to argue.

Then she saw his face.

There was no arrogance in it now. No irritation. No cold royal indifference.

Only fear.

Not for himself.

For her.

She moved behind him.

Perrin hurried towards the door, but before he could reach it, every candle in the room went out.

The darkness was absolute.

Then a voice spoke.

“Nimara.”

She stopped breathing.

It came from beneath the floor.

A voice she had never heard before, yet somehow recognised.

Vaelorin moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers.

“Do not answer it,” he whispered.

Nimara swallowed.

“Answer what?”

The voice came again.

“Nimara... my child.”

Her blood turned to ice.

Perrin made a strangled sound.

Vaelorin's sword slipped slightly in his grip.

For one terrible moment, nobody moved.

Then the silver mark on Nimara's palm blazed so brightly that the entire room lit up.

The key rose from the table.

It hovered in the air between them, turning slowly.

And a second voice emerged from the darkness.

This one was unmistakably human.

A woman's voice.

Soft. Broken. Familiar to Vaelorin in a way that made his face lose all colour.

“Vaelorin,” it whispered.

The prince went rigid.

Nimara turned towards him.

She had never seen him look so utterly destroyed.

Because the dead woman in the portrait—the woman he had loved and buried six years ago—had just spoken his name.

And then she said the words that made the prince drop his sword.

“Don't trust the girl.”

The key shattered.

Every window in the western tower exploded at once.

And beneath the palace, something began to laugh.

End of Chapter Two