The blackened brother hadn't known true power until his rebirth.

A cold, dead hand rescued him from the claws of endless war, eternal unrest. A hand which guided him, taught him the darkness of the world around him, and revealed to him the truth:

That the throne would never be his.

Not if he did it his father's way, no—ever since the day Xavelor proved himself worthy to Azriel Faundor, ever since he slit the throat of the heinous wretch his bastard brother called "mother," his fate was doomed to one path.

His power was growing, now, with his expanding appetite for the magical cores—the Eluviam—of the Aldorin forest's beasts nearly outpacing his capacity to retain their energy.

He was the true king—pureblooded and powerful, just as Azriel had always expected his successor to be. But then, why did wearing the bloodied crown feel so bathetic? So open-ended, as though he was to be reaped from behind and sent to hell, where he knew he belonged?

The new king drew in a needless breath, and his shriveled lungs sparked with life, pulsing against his black bones. The soul attached to the long-dead body was his own, tethered by the dark magic the mages worshiped, the Maluviam, named after the once-sacred cores of the natural creatures of the wood.

His veins flowed with dark, glittering blood and his skin was the color of ash. His hair had grayed at the ends, the black clinging to his roots.

The smile he gave the elven girl was meant to scare her. His dry lips stretched wide over sharp teeth that mimicked her own, and as he grinned the skin fractured to make room for a wider, more malicious smile.

Her eyes shone black, her pale cheeks pearly from sweat and tears. He watched her, his curiosity properly piqued.

The fairy next to her, gripping her by the elbows and cursing for her attention, was once Xavelor's own aide, but it was clear now whose side he'd been on all along.

Both Ronan and Ramiel had protected the filthy creature, which meant she must've been worth more than he'd ever allow.

Xavelor tilted his head, his smile never wavering. The elf's eyes swirled with onyx terror, betraying her true emotions as she bared her teeth at him. If tears weren't a continuous stream wetting her face, he might've taken her seriously. How pitiful—her fear laced with betrayal and loss warmed the new king's charred heart.

"I'll take pity on you, but only this once," he said with his gravelly voice. It was similar to the other mages', but more dominating—fit for a king. As was promised to him.

He feigned a step toward them and when they flinched away, he cackled. The sound was freeing, its sound spreading across the stone arena in a rhythm of echoes.

Their unblinking eyes remained on him.

"Run," he said with a heaviness that leeched the moisture from the air. The warning was palpable.

It was his mercy.

He watched as the two creatures turned and fled on quick feet, stumbling only once over the mountain of bodies that lay across the arena—a battlefield of food, drink, and men. Some women and children, but the weak hardly meant anything to him.

His body tensed with pleasure when the elf's head twisted back once more, her eyes a filter of hatred and immense sadness, before disappearing from view.

Xavelor turned to his cloaked people, who awaited him in reverence.

His smile impossibly widened as he followed the troupe into the hazy graveyard.

Now to make sure the worthless prince was truly dead.