Page 1 of When the Wicked Sing (The Leruna Sea #1)

Screams pierced the morning air, echoes of agony and betrayal reverberating through the palace halls.

The fae king cradled his dead son, his trembling hands stained with blood.

Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, burning like fire.

The world around him dimmed, his vision narrowing to the lifeless face of Helios, his only son, his hope, his future.

A silent wail tore through his soul, a chasm of pain that swallowed everything.

Chaos erupted as the siren queen’s pleas for mercy were drowned out by the roar of enraged guards.

King Stavros lifted his bloodshot eyes. Queen Cybele’s crown atop her head glinted mockingly in the early sunlight.

Her once vibrant and glowing green skin seemed ashen under the weight of her shackles.

He met her wide amethyst eyes and knew in that silent exchange that she saw the fury he would unleash upon her people.

“You,” the king rasped, his voice trembling with rage, and she stilled. “You took my son—my heir—”

She shook her head, her long magenta hair falling over her shoulders. Lifting her hands toward him, she pleaded, “Stavros, listen to me—”

“How could you?” His voice cracked, each word a blade slicing through the air. Cybele flinched, beginning to tremble.

“Please,” she whispered, “you don’t understand.”

But her words were lost as the king rose to his feet, Helios limp in his arms. He barked orders to his guards, his voice cold and detached, commanding them to kill any siren on sight. His realm would be purged of them. Any civilian who turned in a siren’s tail would be rewarded.

He carried his son to the healers, placing the boy’s body on the bed with a tenderness that belied the storm brewing within him. The healers’ downcast eyes, the way they avoided his gaze, told him everything. Helios was beyond saving.

Stavros pressed his lips to his son’s cold forehead, his breath hitching. A memory flashed: Helios’s laughter echoing through the halls, his eyes bright with mischief.

Gripping the bed rail, he leaned back to hide the flood of tears and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished marble floor—a ghastly face, drained of the once rich brown color, stared back at him.

His son … his son was gone. What was he going to do? How would he move on?

The king’s heart twisted, the pain almost unbearable.

But in the next breath, it hardened into something else.

Something dark. As he turned to leave, a servant presented him with the crown he’d discarded.

He hesitated, staring at it as if seeing it for the first time.

Snatching it, he placed its weight upon his head and walked out, his steps echoing with cold determination.

The king boarded his warship. The chilled autumn breeze did nothing to cool the fire raging within him.

The queen’s desperate screams faded into the distance, muffled by the wind of an impending storm as they departed from the harbor.

He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, ignoring the growing ache in his chest, which felt like it might tear him apart.

After two relentless days, the queen’s voice was reduced to a whisper, her pleas weak and rasping. Stavros approached her, the wind lashing at his face. She looked up, her eyes wide with terror, her lips cracked and dry.

He stooped low, bringing his face close to hers. “Do you understand what you’ve done? What you’ve taken from me? From my kingdom’s future?”

“Stavros,” she gasped, her voice a mere thread. “Please … don’t …”

“My son. My heir. My everything. You stole that from me.” He straightened, turning away from her as a massive glass dome surrounded by towering mountains loomed ahead. His gaze darkened, his grief twisting into something colder, more dangerous. “Now, I will take it all from you.”

Despite the raw, festering wound in his chest, he lifted his chin, his resolve steeling. The Queendom of Sirenia would fall.

“Please,” he heard the queen whisper, the word a soft prayer, a breath of horror.

The sirens in the bay watched anxiously at the approaching fleet of warships, confusion and fear etched on their faces.

The cannons roared, and the world turned to chaos.

Screams, blood, smoke—death filled the once sweet floral air that carried on a sea breeze.

The sirens who couldn’t escape were ensnared in nets, their desperate cries cut short by the sharp thrust of spears.

The river that flowed from the glass dome ran red with their blood.

On board his ship, Stavros watched the carnage unfold.

When the glass dome finally shattered under the relentless bombardment, shards rained down, slicing through everything in their path.

The sky above darkened, and rain began to pour, drenching the dying.

Lightning split the heavens, and thunder rumbled like the growl of an angry god.

The king stood still, drenched by the storm, his eyes fixed on the destruction he had wrought. He had expected to feel satisfaction, maybe even a measure of peace. But all he felt was a hollow ache, and something else—guilt, creeping in like a slow poison, tainting his victory.

He turned his gaze to the waterfall that fed the bay, its waters cascading into the pool below.

With a wave of his hand, he called upon his power, tearing trees from the earth and hurling boulders into the river.

The waterfall slowed, then stopped altogether.

The bay began to empty, and the bodies of the dead sirens—eyes wide, mouths open in silent screams—floated lifelessly down the river into the sea.

King Stavros stared at the scene, waiting for the relief he so desperately sought. But there was none. Only a deep, gnawing void.

Behind him, the siren queen’s hoarse voice broke through the silence. “Please! Please stop! No more!”

He barely recognized his voice when he spoke, the words low and rough. “Let her go. ”

The guards released her, and she collapsed onto the deck, her crown tumbling from her head. She stared at it with tear-filled eyes, broken.

“Never come back here,” he said, each word heavy with grief that threatened to choke him. “Your kind isn’t welcome in my kingdom. If I catch you trying to rebuild, I’ll slaughter every last one of you. Now go.”

He wasn’t sure she’d heard him. But then she slowly rose to her feet, clutching the crown to her chest.

“The agony you’ve inflicted upon my sisters will haunt your dark soul for the rest of your eternal life,” she whispered, her voice filled with a sorrow that mirrored his own. “I promise you.”

Then she was gone, disappearing into the rain-soaked night.

Stavros stood alone amidst the ruins, surrounded by death and destruction. All that remained was silence.