Preview

Prologue

The meager glow of the crescent moon did little to illuminate the group of imps skulking through the palace garden, a purple-winged pixie leading the way. Erasto of the House of Violets hefted the short sword in his hand, relishing in the unfamiliar and deadly weight, and worked to contain his glee. His scheme was finally nearing fruition, and he couldn’t help the slight bounce in his step as they neared the palace, though it wouldn’t do for his excitement to foil the execution of his plan. 

A pair of elderly guards were the only opposition at the main palace doors; they were cut down where they stood without a chance to sound an alarm. Erasto’s delight waxed as they proceeded further into the palace, slaying the guards and palace staff as they went. A trail of bodies wound through the palace like abstract line art. 

The hulking imps were lethal, wielding their razor-sharp claws like knives. Despite their incredible size—nearly a foot taller than him and twice the weight—they were quite light-footed, and the group was able to make it all the way to the living quarters without allowing a single guard to call for help. 

They found the nursery first. Without pause, Erasto leapt forward and slashed through the crown prince’s delicate neck, decapitating him with one slice so as not to chance the infant’s cry waking the monarchs. A gurgle of blood and the child was dead. 

So much for their precious legacy. 

One more corner to the royal bedroom. Four heavily armed guards stood outside; their moment of hesitation at the sight of him and his imp entourage was enough to give Erasto the upper hand. Adrenaline coursed through him as he ran up and stabbed his sword into the closest guard’s stomach. A fount of blood spilled forth as he slid the sword out, not even bothering to check his surroundings; he knew the imps could be trusted to keep him safe even in the fray. He paid them well enough. 

 Erasto shoved the door open. The king and queen huddled together, their crimson wings curled around each other in slumber. Erasto gestured for the imps to drag the royal couple out of their bed, wiping the bloody sword clean on a velvet armchair. He wanted the blade pristine for his performance. 

Queen Tatiana—her dusky skin, bleached with fear, as pale as the strip of white in her ebony hair— remained silent while King Oberon protested, his brash voice echoing in the quiet of the palace. 

If only there was anyone alive left to hear his call. 

Erasto straightened his shirt collar and ran a hand through his short hair, ensuring no strands were out of place. He needed to make a good first impression. Clicking his fingers, he pointed at the mirror, and an imp rushed to switch it on. 

Erasto had already taken the necessary steps to make certain this mirror would be broadcast to every residence in the kingdom of Dradour. It had been easy to slip money to the station in charge of royal broadcasts with the promise that an “extra special” announcement would be taking place. With the knowledge that potentially millions of viewers were now tuned in, he stepped into place before the mirror. 

“Good citizens of Dradour, I want to apologize for the late hour of this broadcast. I assure you, what you are about to witness is worth it.” 

Erasto turned and motioned for the imps to drag the royal couple into the frame. He stood between them, a hand resting on the king’s head while the sword hung at his side by the queen’s wings. 

“Too long has this kingdom been ruled by an obsolete monarchy. Too long have you been lorded over by pureblood pixies old enough to have seen other kingdoms turned to dust. Who do they think they are? Why should they be our rulers simply because they are pureblood?” 

Erasto caressed Oberon’s head, his hand hesitating at the white lock that indicated he was a pureblood. He wanted to rip the strip of hair out of the king’s head. 

“I am here to release you, dear faeries, from the yoke of the geriatric purebloods. I am here to save you from their antiquated ways.” 

With blinding swiftness, Erasto drew the edge of his sword against first Oberon’s and then Tatiana’s necks. Their vermilion blood gushed forward, spraying the floor and speckling the mirror. Erasto’s wings quivered behind him, and he cursed them for betraying his emotions. 

But it was so damned beautiful that the viewers would now be forced to look through a sheen of blood in order to see him. He allowed himself one last look at the gaping wound in the queen’s neck, strands of flesh barely holding her head in place, before turning his attention back to the mirror. 

“Please do not be alarmed. Their time had come, and we will not mourn their end. Instead, we will rejoice as this nation moves forward into a new age. I will take charge of the kingdom, though I will not be ruling you from a gilded seat. I will become your High Manager and will take charge of all the Centers throughout Dradour.” 

Erasto smiled, careful to show just the right amount of teeth so as not to appear frightening. He had practiced this smile many times, and he knew it would put his viewers at ease. It had swayed the humans so many times on Earth; why wouldn’t it work here on Faerth? A politician was a politician, no matter what planet. 

“I am Erasto of the House of Violets, and I bid you goodnight.”