Elzeron Griswold, a powerful, ancient shade—a soul-eater from a long line of prominent shadows—dashed out of the royal tent of Umbras, erected on the beach of Dracos Cove, and fought mightily not to retch.

What he had just witnessed in that royal tent was blasphemous, seditious, and unholy.

What he had just taken part in would likely cost him his life.

At best, Prince Dante Dragona would scrub his mind of memory, leaving him to amble through life as a simpleton, devoid of all his finely honed powers. At worst, the fearsome prince would take his life before the next sunset. After all, the sovereign prince was complicit in the crime—noble monarch or not.

As impossible as it was to believe, Prince Dante had slain his younger brother, Prince Damian Dragona. He had beheaded the dragon over a Sklavos Ahavi. And then he had sought the assistance of a warlock and a shade: of Aguilon Jomei, one of only seven members of the Warlock’s Council on Supreme Magic and Mystical Practices, and Elzeron Griswold.

The prince had drained the blood from his half-brother, Matthias Gentry, a soul who was thought to be a commoner when he was actually King Demitri’s son, and bid Elzeron to inhale Matthias’ essence without consuming the same: to hold it gently, like a newborn babe, in Elzeron’s mystical lungs. And then—Great Nuri, God of Fire—and then…he had ordered the shadow-walker to exhale the contents into Damian Dragona’s body so that Aguilon, the warlock, could resurrect the same.

Blasphemy.

Sedition.

Unholy necromancy.

Yet, Elzeron had obeyed his sovereign prince.

He had watched as Dante reattached Damian’s severed head, utilizing the power of blue fire; he had waited as the prince placed the bodies of his siblings side by side and expunged the commoner’s life; and he had exhaled the full contents of Matthias’ soul deep into the corpse of the prince of Umbras.

Just as Dante had commanded.

What the imperious prince did not understand—or know—was that Elzeron was more than an ancient. He was more than a powerful shade. He was a dark, ethereal demi-god in his own wicked right, and he could perform feats of unconscionable skill.

He could mold the souls of men like malleable clay; he could fold them over like fine, thin parchment; he could inhale them, flick them about on his tongue to taste them, and turn them over without swallowing. Oh yes, Prince Dante had been quite correct: Elzeron could inhale Matthias’ soul and hold it. He could place it into the dead prince’s body without consuming a single drop. But he could also perform another maneuver—and that is precisely what Elzeron had done.

While preparing to expel the contents of one soul into the body of another, Elzeron had inhaled a second time: He had taken Prince Damian’s soul, hid it inside his nostrils, and breathed the essence of Matthias into the waiting body, using only his diaphragm as the pump. In other words, he had done exactly what his prince had asked—he had delivered the soul of Matthias Gentry into the body of Damian Dragona, but he had kept the evil prince’s spirit for himself.

As a long-lived shadowmancer, a particularly skilled practitioner of shadows and souls, Elzeron had been aware enough to register something Prince Dante Dragona had spoken, yet overlooked: The soul of a dragon could not return to its maker unless the body was burned. And since they could not burn Damian’s body—it was needed for the resurrection—the moment Matthias’ soul superseded Damian’s, the evil prince’s ghost would have wandered the earth forever.

Elzeron had stolen it instead.

And now, he didn’t have a second to waste.

The soul of the gods-forsaken prince, the wicked spawn of King Demitri, was rotting inside his nostrils, destroying his fragile flesh from the inside out. He needed to release it and seal it in an airtight vessel before it putrefied his brain.

Ducking into the first makeshift tent he passed by, Elzeron tore apart the bedchamber with haste: upending sheets, tossing clothes aside, and barreling through a plain wooden chest. At last, he came upon an empty stoneware jug, most likely used to store ale, with a plain earthen lid atop. Stretching his neck and expanding his diaphragm, he began to writhe in pain. His nostrils flared open, and he pressed his open muzzle against the mouth of the waiting flask. And then he began to heave. Thick black smoke—viscous, slimy, and inky—streamed out of his twitching nostrils, until all that was expelled from his nasal cavity gathered at the base of the container. He quickly sealed the contents, wrapped a leather tie around the jug, and stuffed it inside of his satchel, tucking it under his arm. Then he spun around, fell to his knees, and vomited until he almost sprained a muscle.

Yet and still, he wasn’t through.

He crawled like a babe across the floor, searching once more for some parchment and a quill—he had to record what he had seen, what he had done—he had to save it for posterity.

For surely, Prince Dante Dragona was coming, and Elzeron would be no more.

Just the same, his own young son, Eliaz, who was just on the verge of adolescence—the one he had fathered with an unwilling peasant—would treasure this last, parting gift. Eliaz could save it until it was useful, and hopefully, if the fates were merciful, it would one day bring the lad power…

Glory.

Leverage.

And riches.

A testament to his father’s infamous prowess. One last treasure to bequeath: the soul of a murdered dragon prince, sealed in a common earthen jug.