Prologue
The funeral procession passed in a blur of whispers and wails. His people mourned, their spirits clawing at him like beggars for bread, pleading for one morsel. They had no gods, no temples, no prayers to murmur to the heavens. They believed only in magic—and now, in him.
"The King Born in Fire."
"He'll save us."
"He's here."
Malek kept his head high, worried the crown would slip off his brow if he moved a single muscle. His cheeks were dry—too many tears had already been shed, and it was unbecoming of a king to weep in public. At least, that's what he'd been told.
His throat ached from holding back the sobs.
His father was dead. Not his blood father, perhaps, but the only one he'd ever known. Now he was alone with a burden too big for his young arms to carry. Already, the weight dragged at his bones like an anchor against the sand, growing heavier with each yearning soul his boat floated past. The journey through the canals was nearly complete, but the burden of his destiny had only begun to penetrate.
The boat came to a stop before the final bridge. Remembering the instructions from his councilors, Malek stood and removed the ivory rose from his jacket. For the first time that day, he lowered his gaze to the body laid to rest before his throne. It was a shell, empty of the golden spirit he knew better than his own, yet he still wished to fling his arms around his father and never let go. Instead, he swallowed his grief and stepped down to place the flower upon the late king's unmoving chest. Then he accepted the hands offered as two guards pulled his small body up over the edge of the canal and onto the wooden platform. Symbols of hope didn't have the luxury of succumbing to despair.
The air around him glittered with agro'kine magic. Malek didn't look as he followed his guards to the apex of the bridge—he couldn't. The insert fitting the crown to his head was precariously close to coming undone. With each step, the golden coronet wobbled. By the time the boat floated under the bridge, his father was buried beneath a woven tapestry of white flowers.
Hydro'kine magic sparked next. As the front of the boat entered the sea, an archway of flowing water emerged, sprinkling the flowers with a misty dew. Then a gust of wind barreled down the canal, laced with yellow aero'kine magic, whipping Malek's cloak and pushing the king away from the city. A ray of light pierced the endless fog, illuminating the boat as shadows rolled across the sea, darkening the waters—light magic and shade magic. The sixth and final ceremonial element flared across the sky, cutting through the haze to land on the boat in an eruption of flames.
A thousand eyes turned to him.
Malek knew what the crowd wanted, what they expected. They were the ones ignorant to the truth of what they were asking. The only man who might have understood now burned to ash. The only woman who one day would was no more than a few days old. He stood at the center of an entire kingdom, yet he was alone.
You must find her, Malek, whatever it takes. Those had been his father's dying words. You must always remember who you are, who she is, and what the two of you mean. No matter how hard it is, you must find her.
I will, he'd promised. I will.
He was no longer the boy prince.
No matter his age, no matter his inexperience, no matter his fears, he was now Malek, the King Born in Fire, and he had no choice but to give his people what they needed—even if it meant he would give and give and give until there was nothing left of him.
Malek opened himself up to his magic the way his father had taught him, letting the rising tide pull him under. The dull murmur of spirits turned to a roar, drowning out the world. He could feel them all—their pain and their hurt, their open wounds aching to be healed. There was a boy the same age as he whose stomach growled with hunger. An old woman whose muscles were stiff in the perpetual dampness. A man whose heart stung with loss. A woman whose body cried out beneath the strain of bringing another soul into the world. On and on it went, back and back, until his awareness stretched beyond the realm of this city, beyond all the cities, into the very core of the world where that yawning abyss waited to be sealed.
It was too much.
The hurt of the world.
The pain of its people.
The weight was too much for one boy to carry, but he had no choice. Deep in his power, Malek let go. The magic rolled off him in waves, an iridescent golden sea that flowed over the crowd, easing their pain. Yet no matter how much power he sent out into the world, it wasn't enough. For every ache he dampened, ten more rose. It was like trying to dispel a raging tempest with nothing but the air in his lungs, useless and impossible.
"My liege. My liege!"
Malek blinked rapidly, trying to return to the world, fighting to quell the power that still controlled him. The air shimmered with the fading glow of his magic. In a kingdom that had never known the warmth of the sun, he was the closest thing.
"My liege."
By the time his vision returned, he realized he was too late. The funeral pyre had long since faded into the mist. There was no last glance, no final goodbye. Malek stifled his pain—compared to the hurt of the whole world, it was nothing. He turned from the gray horizon and took the crown his advisor offered. Settling it back onto his head was like securing his own chains.
"We should make haste for the castle, my liege."
Malek nodded as his gaze dropped to the guards stationed near the foot of the bridge. They'd drawn their staffs to hold back the crowd surging forward to touch their new king, their hands outstretched as they pled with him to give them his grace.
"My child is sick," one called.
"Please, my king, my wife is ill."
"My husband can’t work."
"My father won't wake."
On and on, the voices followed him as he traveled deeper into the city. No one cared that he was still a child himself. No one offered condolences for the loss of his father. No one suggested he rest his weary soul. Because no one understood, and no one would until he found her—the Queen Bred of Snow.
His partner.
His soul mate.
His savior.
1
Lyana
Lyana woke wrapped in silken sheets. For a moment, she thought the day before had been nothing but a dream. Sneaking from Rafe's room at the crack of dawn. Meeting Xander's broken gaze as he slipped his ring back over her finger. The parade through the streets of Pylaeon. The battle in the sacred nest. The man with stormy eyes and golden magic who had vowed to teach her about the new power raging beneath her skin.
But it wasn't a dream.
It was real.
She shot up, disentangling her limbs from the bed linens as she rolled from the bed to land on her feet, heart thumping in her chest. Her mating gown still clung to her skin, ebony shifting to ivory as the fabric rose up her torso, every inch decorated with precious stones. A red splotch marred the fabric by her waist—Xander's blood. He'd been stabbed and she'd saved him, then…nothing.
Where was she?
How had she gotten here?
Groaning wood broke the silence as the world around her shifted, tilting this way and that, like a leaf swaying in the breeze. She stumbled with the motion, flaring her wings for balance. The ground was…moving. She slid her gaze across the wooden walls, past the dresser in the corner, past the desk covered in papers, past the tapestry, not stopping until she found the window. The world outside was gray.