PROLOGUE THE TRIAL OF MICHAEL KINGMAN
At my trial for treason for killing the king, I played with my father’s ring, twisting it around my middle finger. It was one of the few things they hadn’t taken away from me when I was arrested. Maybe because they knew it was my father’s last gift to me… or maybe because no one cared about an old ring. Despite wearing it for the past ten years, first on a chain around my neck and then on my middle finger when I was finally big enough, I never understood why my father gave it to me before his execution for murdering the nine-year-old prince.
My father gave my sister our mother’s red scarf, the one she wore every day before the incident that claimed her memories. My brother received my father’s favorite book, something he refuses to read, even to this day. But I was given a ring. An extremely unremarkable, once black and steel, rusted ring. When I was young, I thought my father bequeathed it to me so I could sell it to support our family. But after an appraiser revealed it was essentially worthless, I convinced myself there must have been another reason. Looking back, I can only think it was something he had cherished, and he thought I might follow in his footsteps.
My father had been right—in the worst way possible. Now I was the one on trial for killing the king. As if regicide could be inherited from father to son. I wondered how many people thought it was true: that I had killed King Isaac. It seemed obvious—after all, I had been there when he died. I had even heard him plead for forgiveness.
Not that it matters what actually happened. No one seemed to believe me anymore.
Not that most of them should have. Depending on who one asked, I was either a puppet master—with my strings tugging around nobility and commoners alike—or a mindless weapon others could direct without care. Yet, no matter what they claimed, I had only ever done what I believed was necessary, which had been easier in some aspects than others. Particularly when the city was so hesitant to change.
The entire city—no, country—had gone to shit after my father was executed. Hollow owed its foundation and preservation to my family. This city had grown up in the shadow of my ancestors—men and women who were more fantastical and awe-inspiring than any tale of make-believe dragons, of children chosen to rule by God, of bandits masquerading as vengeful demonic creatures, or whatever else was passed around as a bedtime story. Anyone who claimed to be a demon hunter, or god slayer, or divine champion, was a pretender and professional liar. Fools who had flown too high and had not yet been shot down by the moon.
The king wanted Hollow’s citizens to forget the truth in favor of a fiction, as if it would make the past easier to swallow. Worse, eager to make my father’s betrayal less painful, they blindly accepted the king’s medicine.
And forgot everything my family has sacrificed for this country.
We eased the hate against the king. We spoke for the common people. We were the neutral party in all negotiations and never dreamed of taking power for ourselves, content in protecting the citizens from those who had illusions of grandeur. Without us, the separation between the nobility and commoners had grown so much that few could talk with the other without spitting venom, let alone sympathize. It wasn’t a surprise refugees had stopped coming here. There was nothing but death, riots, war, and poverty waiting for them. Hollow, the once famous refugee city, was no more. It was just another sign of how our country was preparing to be forgotten by history, only remembered for shattering the moon Celona.
All those problems that would soon be another’s to worry about. I was, after all, still on trial for treason. And I knew I would be found guilty, because, for everyone who hadn’t been there, the choice was clear. How could they not find the boy who had been found standing over the king’s body, blood-splattered with gun in hand, guilty?
Regardless, I am Michael Kingman, and my tarnished legacy will survive, even if my body does not. It will take more than this trial to erase me and my deeds from memory. I understand that now, when before I was always chasing my ancestors’ shadows, hoping to be remembered as fondly by history as they were.
Clearly, that wouldn’t happen. My story was a tragedy.
Still, here I was, sitting alone underneath a skylight in the middle of the court, with a large half-circle bench in front of me, waiting. Normally, the bench would be filled with the three lucky individuals who would hear the charges and make their decision, but they were still in discussion. Except for the Scales judge, who sat unmoving. I hoped they would hurry up and share their verdict. I was anticipating a bad death.
In all the time I spent waiting, I never turned my head toward the crowd. I could deal with strangers who believed in my treason, but I didn’t want to see people I cared about look at me like I was a monster. I was doing this to protect them, even if they didn’t know it. That desire kept me focused on the bench and the gold statue of balanced scales behind it.
The morning sunlight peppered through the blanket of snow covering the skylight, warming my aching bones and tight muscles. It was such a simple thing, basking in the sun’s glow, that I had taken for granted before I was kept in an endless darkness.
My reverie didn’t last long. The door behind the bench opened and out strode the three people who would decide my fate.
First came Gaius Hewitt, Whisperer for the Church of the Eternal Flame, dressed in his church’s garb: heavy black robes with a vibrant red lining and flames sewn across the bottom.
Then came Efyra Mason, Captain of the Ravens, serving in place of King Isaac. She wore dented steel plate mail and carried a curved sword. There were seven peacock feathers woven into her black hair, denoting her high rank.
Lastly came Charles Domet, the man who had led me down the path toward my death. The business magnate wore no smile today, instead picking at his jacket, buttons done up in the wrong holes, black hair disheveled, and wolf’s head cane at his side. He was a cowardly contrast to the man I had first met two or three weeks ago—it was hard to tell how long I had been in the dungeons.
Once they had taken their seats to the right of the judge, he began: “Michael Kingman, son of David Kingman, before the jury gives their decision I will ask you one more time: How do you plead?”
The chains rattled as I rose to my feet.
I looked each of them in the eyes. I had not spoken since I surrendered myself, and as much as they’d tried, nothing would get me to utter a single word. This time wasn’t any different.
“Do you plead to be a Forgotten?”
I gave no reply. I wasn’t a Forgotten. I hadn’t overused the nobles’ magic of Fabrication until it took all my memories. My suffering and experiences were still mine. They made me who I was: my father’s son, inheritor of his legacy. And I remembered everything, now more than ever.
The judge met my unwavering gaze. “Members of the jury, how do you find Michael Kingman?”
Charles Domet rose slowly and read from the piece of paper, his hands shaking, “On the charge of treason of the highest degree, we find Michael Kingman…” Domet met my eyes for a last desperate moment, seeking forgiveness. “…guilty.”
Shouts rose around me. I heard every voice except for my brother’s, Lyon. No doubt he was paralyzed in his seat, the nightmare of my father’s fate in mind as he consoled my sister, Gwen. We, the sole surviving members of the Kingman family, knew what would come next better than any. A charge of high treason only had one fate.