Page 69 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

As the sun rose over the broken shell of the Summer Palace, Prince Andreas Mondragon Rayere stood alone on the upper balcony, looking out over the glistening South Sea.

Four days had passed since the King’s Day massacre, when the top of the ballroom had been cracked open like an egg.

Behind him, soldiers and servants scurried to and fro, working to repair the damage.

The bodies were long gone, but the stench of smoke remained.

The royal flags and banners had been burned to nothing.

Soon, a new crest would fly in every corner of Valterre.

Not long ago, Andreas had stood atop an ancient clock tower, grasping for greatness. This time, the tower beneath him was one of corpses – the bodies of King Bertrand and the rest of the royal family all piled under his feet.

Without its king, Valterre was rudderless. A kingdom languishing in the throes of uncertainty and rebellion.

Who better placed than he to take hold of it?

To guide its people to their knees and let them bask in the full glow of his own anointed sainthood?

He had already laid the groundwork, after all.

Even now, whispers of the People’s Saint were snaking their way through the capital, whispers about this man – chosen by Oriel’s storm – who had promised to lead them out of the darkness.

Here he stood in a slant of glittering sunlight.

A smile curled along his ruined mouth. He had avoided his reflection in the days since the fire, revolted as he was by the gruesome burns on his face, the skin there still scoured and pink.

His tongue was healing well, however, enough that he could talk in short sentences, though the effort of it still pained him.

The process was slow, but Andreas was a patient man.

He would come back to himself, back to his power.

Footfall sounded down in the courtyard. His prized mercenaries and newly won Daggers were assembling for their first war council.

And somewhere among them, his secret weapon: Lark Delano, his necromancer.

Andreas would have liked the acolyte too – now that he had seen the damage she could do – but the Saint-maker had got there first, stealing her away to her side.

In the coming war, Seraphine Marchant would be the first to die.

Followed by Ransom Hale, the Dagger who guarded her like a dog.

And then Versini. Unless, of course, he could be turned to the prince’s cause… It remained to be seen whether he, like his ancestors, coveted power above all else.

Andreas turned his face to the river, watching it wind away from him like a slithering grey snake. It should have drowned the Dagger that night. Drowned the Saint-maker too, but Oriel was still playing out her hand. She would not make it easy for him – this grand destiny he sought.

But then, she never had.

As his followers swelled below him, Andreas adjusted the crown on his head. An unnecessary adornment at such an early hour, but his court were gathering for the first time. Let there be no mistake about who was in charge here. In this new world, there could be but one ruler.

As the sun continued its ascent over the South Sea, a clock began to chime somewhere in the bowels of the palace. His smile stretched, pulling at the scar tissue around his mouth.

The bells of Valterre were ringing.

Soon, he would have his vengeance.

Then he would have his kingdom.

And in time, the world beyond it.