Belara studied his face for a long moment. It was the kind of silence that begged for courage, and she finally found enough to ask the question others never dared.

  They were alone, in her private chambers. The prince sat in a heavy chair, arms folded across his broad chest. His light armor gave a faint clink each time he shifted. She, slender and pale, tried to hide how hard her heart was pounding.

  “What is your worst nightmare, Prince Malgorn?” she asked softly, but her voice was steady.

  For a heartbeat, it seemed he hadn’t heard her. Then the corner of his mouth curved, and the chill in that smile made her shiver. There wasn’t a trace of humor in it.

  “You think I fear the dark under my bed?” he growled without looking at her. “Or drowning? No. What I fear is the moment I sit on the throne.”

  Belara flinched.

  “That sounds… noble,” she said, though his voice carried not a hint of nobility. “Why fear what others spend their lives craving?”

  This time he looked at her. His eyes were unnervingly calm, and that calm reminded her of the tale of a starving wolf waiting for prey.

  “Because everyone who sits there,” he said slowly, “already knows how it ends. Every king”—Malgorn’s lip curled—“has an expiration date. No food lasts forever. And neither does a crown. Most rulers are killed, their skulls crushed beneath someone else’s boot before that someone takes the throne. And I… I see it. Always.”

  The last word slipped from him again, whispered into the empty air.

  She swallowed. “See what?”

  Malgorn paused, as if debating whether to go on.

  “You don’t want to hear it,” he said at last. “And I don’t even know if I want to tell you. I’ve never told anyone. Not the whole truth.”

  “I’ll ask every one of you about your nightmares. Not just you, Prince Malgorn. I want to hear Prince Kelen’s, and Prince Qelmar’s as well. That’s why I’d like to hear yours. I want to know you better.”

  “To what end…? Don’t think me blind. I know your heart will never be mine. That pathetic fool Qelmar fawns over you constantly. And this conversation isn’t even part of claiming Tal Namaréy—it’s not one of the three main trials. So why should I bare my deepest thoughts to you? This whole exchange makes me uneasy. I hate that you even asked. And yet…” He exhaled sharply. “I can’t shake this need for you to hear me. I want someone to know the nightmare in full. But only if you keep it to yourself.”

  “You’re probably right. To be honest, your chances of winning my hand are slim. You haven’t won much of my sympathy so far—you come across as a rough, blunt warrior. But I’d still like to understand you better. I promise I won’t tell anyone about your nightmare.”

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  “Fine,” Malgorn said after a moment. “Then I’ll tell you.”

  He drew in a long breath, fell silent, then began.

  “I said I dread the moment I sit on the throne. And it’s true, though it’s also what I’ve wanted all my life. I was born for it. But I also know what awaits me there. And sometimes, I wish I could be rid of that burden entirely. But there’s no escaping it.

  “My nightmare doesn’t begin on the throne. It begins on the steps that lead to it. I always find myself standing on one of the stairs, the staircase rising upward before me. Behind me lies darkness. Not ordinary dark—something so dreadful it makes my skin crawl. I’ve never figured out what it means. Because of that darkness, I climb.

  “On every step lies at least one human skull. Sometimes two, three, five. But always at least one.”

  “I know exactly whose skulls they are. There’s the noble whose flesh I flayed for daring to raise a sword against my father, the king. The women who hid fleeing rebels—I executed them myself. Not just them. There’s the knight I fought in a duel to the death. I shattered his head with my mace. And the bones of those I trampled beneath my white warhorse, the same steed I rode into Ghurmaka on my first day.”

  Even in her own chambers, with warm night air drifting in through the open balcony, Belara felt chilled as she listened. Malgorn fascinated her. There was something about his raw truth—brutal, disarming honesty—that no one else dared show.

  “The skulls of these people, and many, many more, lie scattered on the stairs. I climb. I try to avoid stepping on them, but sometimes I can’t. My foot comes down, and I hear the crunch.”

  “The climb is haunted by the emotions of each death. They rise up in me…” Malgorn’s voice faltered, as if reluctant to continue.

  Belara pressed on, her voice steady. She was determined to face his truth, no matter how frightening. “What emotions?”

  His gaze dropped to the floor.

  “Mostly positive. Satisfying.”

  “From their deaths?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence lingered between them.

  “I keep climbing. Dozens of skulls. Maybe hundreds. I can’t count them. And then, near the end, two steps remain. They’re different—each one takes several strides to cross, unlike the ones before.”

  “On the edge of the second-to-last step, right in my path, lies my father’s skull. The crown still rests on it. I place the crown on my own head, and by doing so, I crown myself king. But the final step remains. When I try to ascend it, I can’t. Only then do I see it—my own skull, set in the corner.”

  Belara realized she’d been holding her breath. A shiver ran down her spine at the mention of his own skull.

  “I understand what I must do,” Malgorn went on. “I take my skull and set it in the center of the step, where my father’s once lay. Then I remove the crown from my head and place it on that skull.”

  “After that, I can continue. I climb the last step and reach the summit. At its center waits the throne. As I approach it, I look around, and from above I see the kingdom of Zerboras spread out like a map.”

  “But I’m alone. I rule the kingdom, but the throne has cut me off from everyone. And whatever ties remain are no longer what they were before my crown. The throne severs my last friendships. From that moment, they’ll see me only as their ruler—the man who can destroy them at a whim. And that creates the abyss. I sit at the top of the tower, on my throne… but I am utterly alone.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if I even want the throne. I crave power, yes. I want to drown in it.” His eyes grew distant, dreamy for a heartbeat. “To have everything I desire. And yet I want my friends from before. But I can’t have them. The throne forbids it.”

  Belara was frightened by his words—but even more frightened that she understood them.

  “While I sit on that throne, the truth echoes around me—I am alone.”

  “I know how it ends. No one stays on the throne forever. I, too, have an expiration date.” Malgorn’s mouth twisted in a faint smile. “Another will come. And what I did to my father, he will do to me.”

  “And that, princess… that is my nightmare.”

  Belara stared at him. The silence pressed down on her chest. She didn’t know what was worse—that she believed him, or that she understood.