Prince of Traitors

Prologue

They were called the Sun and the Moon. One bright and golden, the other eclipsed in shadow. The twin princes grew up with their father in Odrend, in the marble, turreted palace overlooking the capital city of Highcaster.

At six, they charmed the courtiers as they ran through the throne room, their hands clasped between them. At fourteen, they raced their stallions through the streets, dodging fruit vendors and ducking under fabric strung above as colored dye dripped onto their heads. At seventeen, they flirted with girls at Highcaster's solstice festivals, the palace overlooking the city from its perch on the cliff.

At twenty, their father, the king, was found with his throat split open, the satin sheets heavy and dark with his blood, his eyes open and staring blankly up.

In the marble hall where the twin princes once charmed the courtiers, the Moon now stands before the Sun on the dais before the throne their father once occupied. The Moon points a slender, accusing finger toward his brother, and guards seize the Sun and force him roughly to his knees.

A clatter echoes on the marble as guards wrest the Sun's sword from his belt and toss it aside. His golden hair is mussed, his shirt wrinkled and dirty. The courtiers, once enamored with the Sun's bright smile, have nothing but betrayal on their faces. Furrowed brows, bared teeth.

The Sun's hands are clean, but they may as well be smeared with the king's blood.

The Moon steps closer to his brother, his boot soles ringing on the floor. A guard steps forward and hands him a heavy gilded broadsword. The Sun struggles, but the guards hold him fast. His chest rises and falls in hurried bursts underneath his shirt. His knees ache on the marble.

But he does not cry, or scream, or beg.

The Sun and the Moon, the twin princes, hold each other's gazes as the Moon slowly raises the broadsword in both hands, and brings it swinging down.