Chapter 18

The first time a soul bows to me instead of him, I almost turn around to see who they’re really kneeling to. “Your Grace,” the dead man whispers, forehead pressed to the black stone. Not “Your Majesty.” Not “my King.” Me. The title crawls over my skin like frost. I stand at the base of Lucian’s throne, my translucent fingers tight around the new obsidian staff he insisted I carry. It’s nothing more than shaped shadow and fused bone, tipped with a tiny black rose that pulses...