Page 1 of Scarred

Prologue

TRISTAN

Loyalty.

One word. Three syllables. Seven letters.

Zero meaning.

Although, if you listen to my brother’s never-ending speeches, you’d think it runs through his veins thicker than the blood that binds us.

If you listened to gossip in the court, you’d believe the same.

“Prince Michael will make a fine king.”

“Carry on his father’s legacy, that’s to be sure.”

Something thick lodges its spiked edges in my throat, my gaze moving between the roaring flames of the fireplace at the other end of the room and the oil lamp placed in the center of the table; the one occupied by members of the Privy Council. Half a dozen faces and not one of them filled with grief.

My chest pulls.

“Life is about appearances, sire, and for appearance’s sake we must do what needs to be done,” Xander, my father’s—now my brother’s—head adviser, states, his focus on where Michael sits. “Just as it’s known your father passed peacefully in his bed, it’s also known you have quite the… appetite.”

“Xander, please,” I cut in, pressing my back against the wood-paneled wall. “No need to convinceusof where my father died.”

My eyes move to my mother, the only woman in the room, as she dabs beneath her hollow brown eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. Normally she wouldn’t be here in Saxum at all, choosing to spend most of her days in the countryside estate, but seeing as how we’re fresh off the funeral of her husband, Michael insisted she stay.

And his word is law.

“It’s the peaceful part we have to lie about,” I continue, my gaze settling on my brother.

A small smirk pulls at his lips, his amber eyes sparking. A fiery rage surges through my middle and up my throat, wrapping around my tongue; the taste bitter and tart.

My boot smacks the wood as I push off the wall and move toward the center of the room until I’m towering over the table, wedged between my mother and Xander. I take my time, soaking in every single face that sits here as if it’s just another day, their statures stuffed full of pomp and importance.

As if we didn’t just lose someone important.

Someone vital.

The only person left who cared.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Xander squawks, his voice pinched as he pushes up his horn-rimmed glasses.

I lift my chin as I stare down at him, noting the gray strands peppering his otherwise dark hair. He’s been with the family for years—ever since I was a boy—and at first, he was a treasured person in my life. But life is ever changing, and Xander’s warmth doused quickly with the icy bitterness of greed.

Just like the rest of them.

“Mmm, of course not,” I hum, tapping my finger against my temple. “Silly me.”

“Can we get back to the subject?” Michael huffs, running his hand over his head, the light-brown strands ruffling under his fingers. “How father took his last breath is not what’s important.”

“Michael,” my mother gasps, still dabbing away under her lids.

Spinning until I face her, I lean down, reaching out to wipe her face, the ridge of her cheek hard against my palm. She sucks in a breath as she looks up at me, her eyes shimmering, and I press my thumb into her skin, before pulling away to glance at my hand.

My stomach burns when I realize the pads of my fingers are still dry as a bone.

Actors, all of them.