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“I trust we will see you at the opening of this year’s session of the House of Lords,” Dunn added. “How fortuitous for you that this happened while we were in recess.”

“Hush,” Lady Holland, the Councillor of Industry, reproached. She had been the quietest of all this night. She was the youngest of the Council, hardly into her third decade, with mousy brown hair and plain features. Shan only knew her by reputation—that she was more interested in numbers and policy that in playing politics, unusual for a Councillor. Typically, such a position required a fair amount of political acumen, but in the case of Lady Holland one could easily believe she had risen on merit alone.

“It is auspicious timing for the new Lady,” Dunn continued, only for Lady Morse, the Councillor of the Military, to take him by the arm. She was a stern woman of advanced years, but she did not let age soften her. Lady Morse was all lean muscle, her grey hair cropped short in military style.

“Many people’s Ascensions seem fortuitous, Kevan,” Morse said, “including yours.”

“She has you there,” added Lord Rayne, the Councillor of the Treasury. He was the eldest of the Council by far, a stooped old man with white hair and prominent veins in his hands. “Let the girl be, she’s had a long day.”

“And she’ll have many long days ahead of her,” Belrose added. “You should go rest, my lady. Tomorrow, it begins.”

“As you say, Lady Belrose.” Shan curtsied to them all, taking care to remain demure and polite, even though she railed at the way they talked about her—as if she wasn’t even there. As if she meant nothing. Perhaps she didn’t. The LeClaire line had fallen from grace, and her father had ensured that nothing was left but dust and ashes.

But she would force them to see her, to accept her, and she’d reclaim the power that should have been hers, even if it took her years. But for now she’d have to play the game, smiling and simpering—until they had no choice but to bow before her.

And this was just her opening move.

Chapter Two

Samuel

Samuel held his breath as the crowd surged forward, pushing him even closer to the stage that had been erected in the heart of Dameral’s main square. It was a large wooden monstrosity, dragged out of storage once a year for this garish display and fitted together over the cobblestone streets. From his position, he could see the dark stains of old blood on the boards—countless years of death marked into the wooden grain.

He didn’t even want to be here, but the throng had him trapped. Lowly, he cursed himself for not taking the longer route, the one that avoided this main thoroughfare that lay smack between the warehouse where he worked and the glorified closet he called home. For forgetting that it was the first day of spring and what that meant.

But there was nothing to be done now—there was no way he could fight against the flow of people as the square continued to fill. Well, there was one option, tempting and dark. But he ignored the impulse, swallowing down the anxiety that rose through him as he gripped the short iron fence that barricaded the area around the stage. As much as he ached for it, he couldn’t dare act out now, not while staring out over the trench before the stage that was patrolled by Blood Workers. Guards in their robes of deepest black.

They kept the crowds back, flexing their metal claws towards anyone foolish enough to press too far. Samuel studied the hands of the one closest to him—the steel claws fitted over their fingertips, held in place by silver chains that crossed over the backs of their hands in a grotesque mockery of jewelry. Those claws were sharp enough to slash skin, to rend flesh so that blood welled to the surface.

Blood they could use to break and control you.

Samuel fought back a shiver, tearing his gaze away from the Blood Worker and focusing on the mostly empty stage. On the spot where the Eternal King would soon stand.

The sacrifice was already there—a beaten, bruised shell of a man bound in chains. Samuel couldn’t see his face, even though he was so close that he could hear the man’s ragged sobs. His head hung low, the dirty strands of his dark hair falling across his face as the crowd jeered at him.

Samuel ignored them, the merchants and artisans in their fine clothes, the non-noble Blood Workers with their daggers and their claws. The noble Lords and Ladies watched from above, from the balconies of clubs and restaurants that ringed the square. But there were so few like him—poor and tired, trapped amongst the throng—so he closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats, searching for the fleeting calm against the panic that caught his breath like a fist around his throat.

The crowd keep pressing against him, hot and ever moving, the smell of sweat and bodies filling his nose, the sound of chattering nonsense growing louder and more incomprehensible until suddenly, all at once, silence descended.

The Eternal King was here.

Samuel looked up, finding their King stepping through the curtains at the back of the stage. The King was dressed impeccably—such fashions might have been far beyond Samuel’s means, but he was still astute enough to pick up on what was in. A tailored jacket and breeches, a silken waistcoat with fine, delicate embroidery. A perfectly tied cravat. The only thing that shocked him were the claws. Samuel had expected them to be gold-plated or inlaid with jewels. But they were simple steel things, more for function than for fashion.

But it wasn’t the clothes that made the man. Samuel never had the privilege of seeing his King before, having taken great care to avoid the attention of Blood Workers as much as possible, regardless of political power. But now he saw that the King was not just some dangerous mage hiding in a palace. He was more than that: he was alive and vital and strangely untouchable.

He didn’t look more than thirty years old, a man still in his prime. He wore his hair short and carefully cut, a bed of golden curls that cushioned his crown. His features were harsh but striking—a strong jaw, clear eyes, and a tall, lean frame.

It was almost possible to understand how a rebellion had formed around him all those centuries ago, how a nation had followed him when he stole a throne and stayed under his sway for lifetimes, for centuries, for an entire millennium. He still seemed so young, so powerful, fueled by the blood of countless victims.

But he also seemed bored, the expression on his face one of polite disdain, as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. Yet duty called, so he arrived, ready to pander to the will of his people in this extravagant farce.

Samuel bristled with rage, his entire body trembling with the force of will that it took to contain himself. It was a pointless, directionless anger—Samuel wasn’t naive enough to think otherwise. He was just a peasant in the crowd, in his patched shirt and dirty trousers, his long hair pulled into a loose and messy bun at the nape of his neck. He didn’t belong here—the pointed huffs of the properly dressed woman at his elbow only confirmed that—and he could do nothing but seethe.

On the stage, the King continued to stare idly over the crowd, and a young man dressed in robes of deep, blood red stepped forward. Samuel’s eyes darted to him in surprise, taking in the man’s youth—hells, he couldn’t have been older than Samuel’s twenty-five years—and his rich, burnt gold skin tone, one not usually seen amongst the Blood Workers of Aeravin. At least not the ones who would be at the King’s right hand. For this was the Royal Blood Worker, the King’s official secretary, the man through whom all official business was run.

The King pushed right past him, circling in front of the sacrifice and drawing the eye of everyone there. A collective hush spread across the square as the King pulled the man to his feet, where he stood, shackled and cowed, as he was examined. Coldly and clinically—like he was nothing more than a specimen to be studied in a laboratory.

The Royal Blood Worker cleared his throat, awkwardly drawing the people’s attention away from their monarch. “My friends,” he said, with a casual smile. Tittering and laughter broke out amongst the crowd, but he kept on smiling gamely, like this was a private gathering between friends, not a state-sanctioned murder to extend the life of their endless King, done year after year, for only he had the right to Eternal.