The Infernal King | 1 ✓

PROLOGUE | THE GOLDEN CHALICE

       THE PRINCE WAS as beautiful as his father, the king, with the same angular cheekbones set into the frigid marble of his face, the same deep eyes that seemed to contain the darkness of every dusk and the profundity of every ocean, the same prepossessingly dangerous smile—and he hated it. He had tried to convince himself many times that he had his mother's mouth or her nose, but none of that was true. When he gazed into the reflective glass of a mirror, making futile attempts to peel back the layers of skin with his eyes—to see past them—he still saw only his father.

       Sitting at a long table in the dining hall, however, the prince did not think about how he and his father possessed a shared charm. He thought only of the hatred he harboured for him. From somewhere within his chest, his heart was barely containing the force of its own rapid beating.

       If his plan fell into place, he would be rid of the king.

       It was far past dusk, to the point where splashes of colour—the first sign of sunrise, perhaps—began to paint the sky's dark, star-speckled canvas. He should have been asleep, but it mattered not to the prince, for he rarely allowed himself too much sleep anyway.

       The king sat at the head of the dinner table. His attention was not on his son—it was rarely on him. He could only ever risk paying him any mind when they were alone.

       Tonight, they weren't, for the king's latest mistress was sitting across his lap, tracing his jaw with her finger. Her eyes were clouded over with seduction, and his with lust. His hands were on her, gripping her thighs. Her lips approached his ear and she whispered something that the prince couldn't hear. At that, the king kissed her with such force that it was almost as though he sought to shatter her.

       The prince did not even bother to resist the urge to roll his eyes, and wondered, as he did so often, why they couldn't go up to one of the many rooms in the castle. He knew his father did this on purpose, knowing that seeing him with a mistress sparked a form of fury in him—but he had gotten used to it long ago, and now such a sight merely presented him with annoyance.

       With a certain impatience, disguised by exaggerated torpidity, his eyes trailed over to the golden chalice in front of the king. Every fibre in his being was chanting the same word, like a sinister ballad of terror and death: drink, drink, drink.

       Unable to contain his excitement, the prince's gaze then dropped to the ground. Having nowhere else to look, his eyes trailed through the veins in the marbled floor. He tried not to smile as he imagined, just for one seraphic moment, his father's blood rushing from his veins and instead through the veins in the floor. It was a shame he would not get the satisfaction of plunging a dagger through the king's chest or of swiping the blade across his porcelain throat. He wanted to see the blood run, fresh and warm and red, staining their pretentious, imperfect castle.

He yearned to show his father that what he bled would not be ichor, for he was not a god—so how dare he think he could act as one.

However, since he couldn't do that, he supposed what was in the chalice would do.

"Son," the king called across from the table, pulling him from his reverie. The prince looked up and saw that the mistress had untangled herself from his father. Shock at being addressed for the first time that night broke across his features. He felt fear prickle at his skin and waited for the king to continue. "We will be having guests tomorrow. I expect you to stay out of the way." He smiled sweetly, putting on a spectacle for his mistress—but that was one thing the prince could see past. His grin looked more like a feral snarl than anything else.