The Prince's Shadow

Chapter One: The Prince Returns

The bells of Caelwyn tolled well before sunrise.

They echoed off the spires and steeples of the old kingdom, shivering through the cobbled alleys, iron-rimmed balconies, and twisted courtyards where ivy encircled weathered stone. Their bells were meant to ring triumphant, a portent of miracles, but in the muffling dawn haze, they tolled like warning alarms torn from forsaken dreams. Even the ravens perched on the cathedral gables spread wings, shrieking into heaven like an omen.

Today was the day their lost prince returned.

Caelwyn, gem of the eastern kingdom, once filled with envy, had been the sight of ambition for empires. It rose from the edge of the sea like a head of ash and obsidian, a gothic wonder hewn from black stone and filigree silver. But beneath its glory ran a rotten decay, an eating that no gilt spire or burnished parapet could conceal. The palace Castle Thorne dominated in the center of the capital, perched atop a sheer cliff that dropped to the grey water below. Through its many windows, nothing was ever seen distinctly, as if the sea mist itself would seek to conceal the truth.

And yet the city below was full of hope this morning.

Thousands had lined the Processional Mile, the broad boulevard which curved from the temple gates to Castle Thorne. Wrapped in silks, feathers, and royal crimson-dyed ribbons, the throng waited. Old silver-haired mothers clasped the hands of awestruck children. Veterans of wars long gone stood together with nobles and with thieves. They all stared at the horizon, squinting through the low-lying fog.

As the golden carriage finally arrived, pulled by six purebred stallions attired in black enamel armor, the bellow was deafening.

Prince Kairo of House Vale, heir to the throne of Caelwyn, had awoken from a coma that had lasted a decade. The royal proclamation declared a week earlier had thrown the kingdom into a maelstrom of jubilation and confusion. No one had expected it. There had been rumors for years that the prince was dead. There had been rumors that his mind had been eaten by time, or that his body was buried in a secret grave while the Queen wept in solitude. And then the royal proclamation he was alive, he was returning home, and all of Caelwyn would have to bear witness.

The man who emerged from the carriage was sporting the prince's face. And yet, he was not the same.

He came down in measured steps, clad in the ritual armor of his house: blackened metal overlaid with rubies and stamped with the winged crest of the Vale house. There was a blood-red cape streaming behind him, dragging down under embroidered runes. His face was symmetrical, striking, almost too perfect. Eyes of midnight color. Lips that curled like a question mark. A jawline sculpted by discipline and divine favor.

He smiled.

And something in the smile numbed the air.

Shocks of shock coursed through the crowds. Others openly wept, overcome by the vision. Some went to their knees. Heralders roared, trumpets shrieked, and Sanctum priests incensed to the gods in thanks. But there were others who stood, not moving, not speaking, as if something in their instincts was telling them something their minds would not permit themselves to see.

High above, looking out from the arched windows of Castle Thorne, Queen Alys Vale stood veiled in black lace. Her face was unchanging.

"He looks like him," she whispered.

At her side, her handmaiden, Maren, fidgeted. "Your majesty ten years have passed. Individuals change."

"I don't think so."

But the Queen spoke no further. Her fingers clasped the window sill as if she would be grasping it to keep herself from being blown away by a burst of wind. Behind her stood court in a buzz of fuss. Nobles preened in velvet and jewels, prepared to swear allegiance and receive advancement. Ministers whispered behind fans. Knights debated orders of ceremony. But no one requested the miracle. Not aloud. For it would be treason.

Below in the square, the prince raised a gloved hand. The crowd went still as if burdened by strings.

"My people," he said, his voice as soft as velvet, rich and full. "Your love revived me from the brink of death. I crossed the boundary to the other side and gazed upon its stars. They sent me back."

A pious cheer broke out.

He enjoyed it.

It was all too easy.

The crowds wished to believe. For faith, after all, was ever greater than truth.

He moved forward once more, and the High Cardinal approached to meet him. The man bowed, brittle and aged, lips shaking in reverence.

"Welcome home, Your Grace."

The prince extended his hand to be kissed. The Cardinal clasped it, tears streaming from his eyes.

Behind the prince's impervious mask, something stirred.

In the upper districts, out of the jeering crowds, a woman stood in the shadow of a collapsed bell tower. Her cloak was plain, her boots worn down. She watched the ceremony on a mounted screen display on the opposite side of the old market square.

Sheila Ren said nothing as the prince spoke. She simply watched his eyes.

Those eyes, she had seen before.

Not in light, but darkness. Not with joy, but with something hollow and bright like the blade of a dagger. Ten years ago, those eyes had looked down at her as she died on the floor of the old asylum chapel. He had abandoned her to die.

She should be dead.

But she wasn't. Scarred. Changed.

And now he was standing before her with her prince's face.

"He's back," she panted. Her voice was barely that. "He's really back."

Later that evening, Caelwyn glowed with happiness.

Lanterns floated on the river in strings of light. Minstrels filled the streets with lutes and violins, their music tasting of hope. Taverns were packed to capacity with wine and ale. Strangers kissed in backstreets. Bonfires raged in city squares where children danced, and face masks carved out the prince's likeness were handed out by guards. The kingdom had not felt so happy in years.

But at Castle Thorne, shadows clung like leeches.

He stood alone in his new bedchamber a former bedchamber of the real Kairo Vale the prince who had come before him. He stared into the long mirror whose baroque frame of twisting silver thorns ate up the light. A fire crackled behind him, but it gave no warmth.

He studied the face.

So perfect. So fresh. It still dripped with blood occasionally, where the meat wasn't quite cooked. But the pain was an old acquaintance. Every scar a sacrifice. Every cut a step forward.

He removed the red signet ring from his finger and spun it on his knuckles as if it were a coin. The ring bore the sigil of House Vale a red wing bisected by a sword. He had altered it, just slightly. Now the sword curved like a serpent.

He turned from the mirror and moved toward the privy door in the back wall, hidden behind the drapery.

Down.

Down through the inner passages.

Down into the palace foundations where none but ghosts walked.

There, behind an iron door barred with three bolts, was quiet.

A room shut away from all but him. Within, something lay unseen, unheard.

He lingered there for a long time, listening to the machines, watching the shadows.

He breathed something into the darkness, something the walls did not ring.

Outside, the city was cheering.

And beneath it all in the ecstasy, something in the marrow of Caelwyn moved a recollection of blood, of fire, of masks that never faltered.

The prince had returned.

And he came with a shadow.