(Chapter 1: A Bad Decision, cont.)

  Ean forced himself onward, scaling up the far wall of the courtyard and hopping across a couple of battlements. He ducked into a shadowed doorway as the guards on the roof above him began their pass and he started his count. His gloved finger kept perfect time as it tapped against his thigh.

  The taste of bile came back. Eight men hadn’t been enough to convince the Umbrus Jury of the Prince’s guilt, not even when the Countess produced the letter he’d sent her, taking full responsibility for their deaths. It hadn’t been enough to convince Felix when she’d asked him to take the job unsanctioned. Then she had asked Ean.

  Ean believed the Countess’s pain. And he believed her fury. But did he believe the Prince deserved to die?

  He reached the count of sixty and sprang into motion. There was no time for hesitation now. The guards had passed behind a tower, and they’d be back in sight in a matter of seconds. He flung himself over the battlement to the section of roof below. He sprinted across the narrow peak, leapt over the next parapet, and then dropped into a small garden that encircled a large, gnarled fig tree. He tucked himself against the trunk and stared up at the palace windows.

  The Prince spent his free evenings in the study on the third floor. Usually he read—large, heavy books filled with small script. Sometimes his friends joined him, pulling him from the tomes and talking about trivial matters to make him laugh. Tonight, Ean knew, he would be alone.

  The Prince seemed to enjoy his alone time. Ean had assumed that all people of noble birth were loud and demanding, frivolous and arrogant, quick to tantrum. He’d certainly seen plenty of those behaviors while spying on the royal court, but the Crown Prince, Leonid Sebastian Rubus Paladion, was none of those things. In fact, in the moments when Ean was able to observe him, he was quiet to the point of blandness. When he did speak, his words were polite and diplomatic. He was easily pushed into activities or engagements he originally declined, which suggested a level of spinelessness that was concerning. He would be king one day. He should be able to say “no” when he wanted. But nothing Ean had seen of him suggested that he was malicious or cruel or even negligent. Ean had tried to listen for rumors of the ill-fated mission, but he heard nothing.

  Ean let out a slow breath. If the Prince didn’t deserve to die, then there was no justice here. Shadow-walkers were only supposed to take jobs for justice.

  But the letter, he reminded himself. The Prince had taken responsibility for the doomed mission. He had claimed responsibility for eight lives. That had to count; it had to be enough.

  The bells on the far tower rang out, pulling Ean from his doubts. He climbed up the tree and walked the length of the branches to the balcony on the second floor. He ducked behind the rail and craned his neck up, watching the window above. The Prince, when he entered the study, always lit the chandelier. Ean would know when he entered.

  Ean waited, body tense with anticipation. He was so close now. One wall, one window, one cut of his knife, and he would no longer be an apprentice. He would be a full shadow-walker. The past twelve years of his life wouldn’t have been wasted. The sweat, the blood, the tears—even his mother’s death—it would all have meaning. And wasn’t that justice, too?

  The minutes stretched longer; each second dragged. His heart kept racing. His palms kept sweating. He considered taking off his gloves, but then light flickered from the window above him. The Prince had arrived.

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  Ean scanned the garden wall, checking for any stray sentries. No one was in sight. He leapt onto the balcony rail and then jumped to catch the windowsill of the study. The next bit was tricky. He let go with one hand and released his wrist knife. Then he kicked off from the wall, pulled himself up with one arm, and slipped his knife through the two windowpanes, flicking the latch up. The windows pushed in. Ean swung himself inside and turned to the divan where he expected the Prince to be.

  An unfamiliar face stared back at him—a man, middle-aged, with dark hair and thick eyebrows. He wore a black-and-gold uniform. Ean jerked back a step, and noticed the five other figures in the room, similarly clad in black-and-gold.

  Night Sentinels.

  For a moment, Ean didn’t know who was more startled. The surprise on their faces matched his own, although his face was covered. And then his shock turned to terror. Night Sentinels were the specially trained soldiers charged with protecting the Crown. They were ferocious warriors who fought without regard for their own life or limbs, and once they spotted a threat, they never stopped their pursuit. Not until they, or their quarry, was dead.

  Ean was moving before the terror fully set in. He threw himself backwards, out of the window, twisting mid-air to land on the balcony below. He hit harder than intended. His ankle twinged, but the pain was an afterthought. He needed to run; he needed to escape. He’d planned several exit routes, but none of them accounted for a contingent of Night Sentinels.

  Shouts sounded from above. Ean glanced behind him and discarded the option of a garden retreat. It would be too easy to box him in. He yanked the balcony doors open and sprinted through the drawing room and into the hall beyond. He heard thud and a grunt behind him. The Sentinels were giving chase.

  He took a sharp right down the next corridor. The castle wasn’t busy this time of night, but there would still be servants in the lower halls, cleaning and preparing for the next day. Further out, in the public areas, various groups of nobles would be meeting, some for committees and delegations, others for fun and leisure. He wanted to avoid both groups. Creating a distraction and slipping out in the chaos might have worked for the King’s Guard, but the Night Sentinels wouldn’t be so easily fooled. He needed distance and speed.

  He dashed down an interior passage that led to the back of the palace where fewer people would be about. His best exit would be one of the windows on the north side. It was darker there, not as many lanterns. There were enough rooftops and battlements to scurry across, enough shadows to duck into. He could lose the Sentinels there.

  He darted past the visitor’s wing, hurled himself up two flights of stairs, and ran through the Red Gallery, startling the maid who was still dusting. She screamed. Ean could have cursed but didn’t want to waste his breath. His exit was coming up. He could make it. There was an intersection ahead, the last corner to turn. He rounded to the right. The hall in front of him was long and narrow and completely empty. At the end of it was a tall window. Beyond that, dark rooftops. He could hear shouting behind him. He put on a burst of speed.

  He was going to make it.

  A side door at the end of the hall opened. A figure stepped out. Ean glimpsed purple robes, white hair, and a large staff.

  The Royal Mage.

  Ean’s blood went cold. Stories of the Mage’s magic had traveled far and wide, and if half of them were true, he was already a dead man. He pulled up short. His boots skidded out from under him. He hit the floor hard on his ass. He scrambled backwards, trying to get distance between them, but he wasn’t fast enough. The Mage leveled her staff at him, and bright light flared out. He let out a shout and threw up an arm to protect his face.

  There was no pain, no force, just all-encompassing light. It washed over him and his body went numb. He tried to push himself up, but his legs had turned into rubber. His arms folded under his weight. The ground was stone, but he could feel it softening beneath him. It was swallowing him.

  He heard the distant sound of footfalls. Something grabbed him, and it felt oddly ethereal, like the brush of a shadow. A voice echoed, faint and distorted.

  “Take him to the Tower.”

  And then… nothing.