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Acastus rolled his shoulders, running his fingers through his hair, before swaggering into his father’s chambers, the dark magick tingling his tainted hands. He cleared his throat, gaining the king’s attention as he lingered in the doorway. As someone who didn’t seem to fear his father any longer, his heart was racing awfully fast.

“Lord Cofsi,” his father boomed as he spun to face his firstborn son.

“What about him?”

The king chuckled knowingly. “Enough with the pretenses, Cas.” The anger was beginning to rise in the usually stoic ruler. “You had him tossed in the dungeons like a common thief. Under what ruling do you think this justifiable?”

Acastus strolled to the pile of fruit on the king’s breakfast table. Unease swelled in his chest but he made sure to keep his exterior even. “We do not throw common thieves in the royal dungeons.”

The king slammed his fist against the wooden dresser beside him. Cas glanced up at him before placing a grape into his mouth.

“I should unname you my heir,” he grumbled, his voice dark and sickly, exactly how Cas remembered him talking to the Fae King as a child.

“For doing what is my right?” Acastus snarled. “And who might you name in my place? Your wife? Aevum, who is but eight years of age?” Acastus mocked the idea. He was the king’s only child of age. He had nobody else to name.

“You have been nothing but a languid prince, no real missive in life. And now, you’ve been conspiring behind my back. Do not think I don’t take notice,” the king boomed when he watched Cas’ face contort in faux confusion. “I’ve let this go on for too long.”

“And what are you going to do, Your Grace?”

The king’s lip quirked at Acastus’ disbelief that he could be treated as anything but a crowned heir. That none of this had even the slightest possibility of being taken away from him.

“Out,” he demanded, sick of looking upon his son’s likeness.

Acastus shook his head and removed his gloves. His father gawked at the inky trail that spiraled up his son’s arms and deep within the sleeves of his jacket.

“Cas,” he gasped. “What have you done?”

Darkness stained Acastus’ golden eyes. “They always say I’m lazy”—he made wide gestures with his hands—“that I don’t do anything myself.” He reached for the dagger at his hip, unsheathing it. “But they never talk about your hindrance. Your lack of ambition.” His father didn’t move, unconvinced his son would ever do him any harm. He thought him too petulant to become an assassin. Too arrogant. Too unwilling to get blood on his hands. But his hands were already stained, what was a little more color?

The prince approached the king before stumbling slightly. Cas reached for his own throat. A shout begged to escape— tried to pry his mouth open. His voice betraying him. Stop! it screamed.

Cas shut his eyes, balancing himself, pushing his conscience down, down, down…

He wanted to laugh at how trusting his father was in his belief his son was too weak to harm him. And he did, chuckling slightly, when the dagger slid across the king’s throat, blood spraying out and covering Cas in crimson.