The king was tall and black-skinned, his ebony hair streaked with eternal silver. He watched over his people like a shepherd watched over his flock. He had been their guardian for ages uncounted. He had sacrificed everything—more than they would ever know—to stand before them now.

His subjects danced beneath a black sky, glittering with stars. Blue lanterns strung around the dance floor cast eerie shadows across the night. It was as though they were underwater, deep creatures who swayed with the tides. Cold, distant, mysterious, they moved like wraiths in the shadowed dark.

The dancers parted, and a lone figure approached the king. Tall, with some of the awkwardness of youth still in his gangling limbs, Prince Rhoden bowed.

“You look well tonight,” the king remarked.

Stolen story; please report.

Prince Rhoden’s face glowed. “My father has decreed that I will remain in the palace. I am no longer banished.”

“That is good news, indeed,” mused the king. “Very good news.”

They talked for a moment of meaningless things, then the king dismissed him. Prince Rhoden returned to dancing, melding with the others, a part of them, and they of him. And still, it pleased the king, he did not see the lie.

The king turned and looked to the city beyond the dancers, black walls and turrets rising into the darkness. Yes, it was good that Rhoden was staying in the palace. In fact, it was the best news he could have hoped for. It simplified matters greatly.

Triumphant, the king turned back to watch the dancers and knew that the time he had so longed for, everything he had prepared, was about to come to pass. It was all in Azare’s hands, now.

Soon, he told himself as he watched the black-skinned prince. Very soon.