The trumpeter blasted his horn, the crowds fell silent, and the royal Dragona family took their places at the head banquet table. The feast was served in seven separate courses by a host of servants, many of whom Prince Dante had never seen before, and the crowds were drunk with gaiety, wine, and ignorance—no one suspected a thing.

Now, as Prince Dante Dragona glanced askance at his father, King Demitri, he couldn’t help but wonder how the blowhard could stand to sit beneath the blazing sun in his purple-and-gold brocade robe. Wasn’t he burning up? He couldn’t help but think that Demitri’s golden crown was inlayed with enough precious jewels to make the entire thirty-year payment to Lycania without the need for the chest full of coppers. Demitri’s hair didn’t have a single gray strand in it after all these years—the golden mane was still the color of nuggets and honey, and his aquamarine eyes were still as sharp, clear, and keen with knowledge as they had always been. They were still just as cruel.

And yes, Mina had been correct.

His left eye twitched nearly every time he looked at Prince Damian…or Prince Dario…which was odd, in and of itself. Who knew what secret thoughts rattled about in the king’s paranoid head. Who knew what he suspected, or whom he didn’t trust…today. Or why. King Demitri had always been a mystery to Dante. To the prince’s way of thinking, his father could have easily chosen another path. While he had been born sinister, brutal by nature, incapable of tenderness or love, he could have chosen to be measured. He could have chosen to be just. He could have grown along with the Realm, rather than seeking to anchor it in an archaic past.

He could have colluded with his sons, rather than crushing them beneath his heel in order to maintain unilateral supremacy.

Prince Dante shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His own royal regalia—his finely tailored black trousers, his knee-length silk tunic, his calf-high boots, and the heavy sword that rested in its sheath at his belt—were stifling weights of their own. And it didn’t serve him to let his mind wander like this. Nay, King Demitri could not read Prince Dante’s thoughts any more than Prince Damian, with his finely honed intuition, his advanced powers of telepathy and perception, could simply delve into the king’s mind at will—a dragon’s defenses were too strong, his barriers too thick.

Yet and still, one needed to be careful.

Impressions leaked out. Defenses could be let down. A word or two—a musing or three—could make its way into the ether.

The king slammed back a goblet of wine, cleared his throat, and leaned toward Prince Dante, flicking his wrist in the direction of the gallery. “Look at them,” he snarled, referring to the various emissaries, “you would think this was the first birthday anyone ever had. You would think Prince Damian had only one son—like you.”

The insult in those last two words was not lost on Prince Dante, nor was the truly galling awareness that King Demitri knew full well what he had done with Cassidy. From the king’s perspective Prince Dante had no sons at all. “Aye, Father,” Dante replied dryly.

The king could not seem to let it go.

He angled his chin at Cassidy, who was seated at the end of the table next to Mina, Tatiana, and Princess Gaia. “Why the hell is she still here?” he grumbled. “The wench has got to be, what? Forty-nine years old?” He shook his head in disgust. “Why the hell didn’t you order another Sklavos Ahavi…or five…from the Keep, long ago? Give me a large brood of grandsons like your brother Prince Drake?”

Dante felt a wisp of smoke swirl within his nostrils; he snorted and shrugged a dismissive shoulder. “I am content enough with Prince Dario.”

Prince Dario, who was sitting to Dante’s immediate left, shared a fleeting glance with his father—he was a dragon after all, which meant he could hear every word, as could Asher, Prince Drake, and Prince Damian. They were all within earshot, but the king didn’t care.

He barked a raucous laugh, and the sound was guttural and vile. “Now, that one,” he snorted, glaring salaciously at Princess Gaia, “that one was created for bedding.” He leaned forward to regard Prince Dario. “Son, are you riding that wench well, taking full advantage of King Thaon’s generosity?”

Son?

Dante stiffened.

While the term may have been a shortened endearment of grandson, it was in poor taste just the same. King Demitri was drunk, and he was playing petty games.

Prince Dario wasn’t ruffled: He cocked an arrogant brow, shrugged, and reached for his goblet of wine, dismissing the comment offhand.

The king didn’t like it.

He arched his back, raised his lip in a snarl, and stared daggers through his haughty grandson. “Despite King Thaon’s intentions, it’s not like she’s a sacred Sklavos Ahavi. For all intents and purposes, she’s just another whore.” He plopped a perfect, round grape into his mouth and squirted juice all over his plate…on purpose. “When the meal is over, when the toasts are finished, when Prince Asher has opened all his gifts, have her brought to my bedchamber for the night. You don’t mind, do you, Prince Dario? If I have a turn with the princess of Lycania?” He chuckled beneath his breath. “Hell, let’s make it more interesting: Why don’t you and your father join me? She’s a shifter, is she not? Some sort of feline? I doubt her back will break. Besides”—his eyes narrowed as he kept them focused like a hawk’s on Dario—“it’s time that you and I have even more in common.”

Even more in common…

The bastard, Prince Dante thought.

Dario’s lip turned up in an equally menacing snarl, and Prince Dante had to catch his breath. By all the gods, in this tactless moment—and bearing that disturbing expression—Prince Dario was the mirror image of King Demitri. Their mouths were chiseled by the same artisan’s hand.

Prince Dario leaned back in his chair. “As you wish, my liege.” His voice was like black satin: deep, dark, and ominous. His expression was blank. But the fury behind those blue eyes was palpable.

“Speaking of toasts,” Prince Dante said, clasping his hand on his father’s shoulder. “We can discuss wenches and threesomes later.” He reached for his own golden goblet, clinked a silver spoon along the stem, and stood to address the gallery, waiting until all fell silent. “To our emissaries from the western province of Umbras, those who traveled from the mountains, the Shadow Woods, and beyond; thank you for coming to celebrate my nephew, Prince Asher.” He projected his voice in a regal baritone, and angled his body to the right. “To my friends and servants in the territory of Warlochia, from the rolling hills to the crystal lakes, to the perimeter of Forest Dragon, I greet you as well. And to all those in the south who traveled from the commonlands—from the farms and the villages and the marshes—your presence is appreciated.” He glanced at his father and kept his voice steady. “Today, we honor our host, the king of Castle Dragon, and the season of his diamond rule, along with a strong, brave prince who has welcomed manhood with the grace, dignity, and nobility befitting a dragon. Raise your glasses and toast to King Demitri and Prince Asher Dragona.”

The crowd cheered and applauded and clinked their glasses. They drank with merriment, even as they scraped and bowed in the direction of the king and the prince. Behind the throng, there was a sweeping motion, like a tidal wave coming ashore, and the armies of Umbras, Warlochia, and the commonlands pushed forth from the outskirts of the forest. Prince Dante palmed the hilt of his sword, even as Prince Azor and Prince Teague did the same. Dante drew back his shoulders, turned to face the king, and spoke in a hushed, iron whisper. “Father, step down.”

King Demitri’s nostrils flared, but he showed no other emotion. He gestured with his chin toward the advancing armies. “What is the meaning of this?” And then he chuckled as if it were all a childish game. “Step down…from where? This dais?” He glanced at the banquet-table platform. “Why, Prince Dante? Do you wish to dance? Shall we regale our guests with swordplay?” He held up his hand to stay Dante’s answer. “This second, this very moment, you are still my son, so I advise you to think very carefully. It has been said by those wiser than we that words are much like arrows—once released, they cannot be pulled back. What do you wish to send forth?” His aquamarine eyes flashed with golden fire in their depths, and his brows curved downward and inward. “Two seconds from now, you may be my enemy. Think very carefully, Prince Dante.”

Prince Dante didn’t flinch.

Rather, he spoke in a whisper so hushed, not even the other dragons could hear him. “You murdered my mother and my twin. You beat me and my brothers within an inch of our lives for no other reason than entertainment. You gave the Sklavos Ahavi I had chosen to Prince Damian, and then you screwed the consort I was left with. You’ve done nothing to advance commerce or trade; you’ve left the Realm weak, without hope of advancement. And this day, you command Prince Dario to bring the princess of Lycania, his princess, to your bedchamber. I know exactly what I speak. Step down, King Demitri, and not from this dais. Step down from your throne, and live out your life in dignity and honor. The season of your rule has come to a close.”

King Demitri’s left eye twitched. He blinked several times, but his expression remained fixed like a slab of granite. A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, and that, more than anything, caught Prince Dante off guard. “My heart bleeds,” he lamented. “I never thought I would see this day—or if I did, I thought it would be Prince Damian issuing the challenge: the child most like me.” He shut his eyes and trembled, and time seemed to altogether stop. When, at last, he reopened those searing orbs, they were glowing red with feral embers, and there was no longer even a hint of a soul inside the king.

Dante knew what was coming.

His palm was on the hilt of his sword, and he was shrewdly prepared.

Prince Azor and Prince Teague had already drawn their blades, and they were prowling in utter silence toward the center of the table, prepared to hem the king in.

Yet and still, it happened so quickly.

The King of Dragons Realm moved so swiftly that Dante Dragona never saw what hit him.

* * *

King Demitri’s leathery tail—sharp, spiked, and wicked—soared through the air with a whistle; drew back like the head of a retreating cobra; and shot forward in a lightning-quick thrust, impaling Dante through the gut, rotating to set the spikes, like barbs, and tearing the prince’s intestines out of his stomach. In the blink of an eye, the king brandished the tail again, this time like a whip. He struck Prince Azor and Prince Teague with such exacting precision that their swords flew out of their amputated arms. And then he shot into the air like a volcano erupting, and transformed in midflight into a fully formed dragon.

Holy Mother of Mercy.

As Prince Dante fell forward onto the banquet table, sending half-empty plates and dishes scattering, he thought he heard Mina scream. The crowd broke into a frenzied panic and began to run in all directions: warlocks, shadows, and humans trampling each other like feverish beasts fleeing from a snare.

Something light, airy, and spinning like a saucer flew from Aguilon’s hand, and Willow began chanting something ancient. The banquet table rose in the air, the fine white linen cloth drenched with Prince Dante’s blood; the Malo Clan guards clashed with Prince Ari, Prince Asher, Prince Thane, and Prince Troy; and Prince Damian and Prince Drake barked something to their armies, even as the Castle Guard advanced. But it was the sight of the Sklavos Ahavi and Princess Gaia running into the melee, scrambling to take cover—and Mina falling down—that turned the air around Prince Dante dead silent.

Thomas the squire ducked behind the balustrade, scooped Mina off the ground, and began to lead her through the crowd, even as Prince Tabor rushed toward his mother, Tatiana. A horrible arc of flames shot forth from the dragon king’s mouth, and a third of the closest army, the soldiers from Umbras, were set ablaze.

Dante’s dragon roared.

He could not die like this.

He would not die like this.

Not strewn on this piteous table while the Realm he loved burned.

As the talons of a wrathful green dragon descended from the air, clutched Prince Dante by the throat, and wrenched backward, eager to dislodge his head from his shoulders, the prince of Warlochia disappeared.