DARK.

THE SHADOW PRINCE.

BREE DESPAIN.

chapter one.

haden.

I did the unforgivable the day my mother died, and for that I've been punished every moment of my life.

He's too weak-minded.

Impulsive.

He's too much like her.

He's too human.

It has been ten years, and regardless of everything I've done to try to change their minds, the Court still speaks of me as if I am unworthy of my birthright.

I try to lock away my doubtful thoughts as I watch the Oracle make her way up and down the ranks of Underlords. She is here to help choose the Champions, and despite the fact that Rowan and the other Elites make it a point to tell me that I will never be chosen, I intend to be one of them. This moment is what I've been preparing for. It's what I live for.

The Oracle has pa.s.sed two entire rows of Underlords without stopping to inspect a single one. Her presence is accompanied by a buzz of energy and excitement that flows through the crowd of spectators. Most of us have never seen an Oracle before, and to hear one speak is a rarity usually reserved for kings and priests. To be Chosen by the Oracle would be an honor unparalleled by any other in this realm. One collective question occupies everyone's mind: Why would the Oracle deign to partic.i.p.ate in the annual Choosing of the Champions?

Perhaps the rumors are true.

Something more important is going on-this year's Champions will be required to do more than procure new Boons for the Court's harem.

The Oracle pa.s.ses two more Elites without even glancing their way, and then stops abruptly beside Rowan, King Ren's prized son, and the favored of the Court. Surely he would be their first choice for one of the Champions if the decision were left solely to them. The Oracle reaches out her pale blue fingers and touches Rowan's forehead. He looks stunned for a moment, blinking his eyes. As the Oracle pulls her hand away, she pinches her fingertips together as if she were pulling a thread out of Rowan's skull. She cups the invisible thread in her hand. Her face is shrouded in layers of gauzy veils to protect her holy visage from our unclean eyes, but I can tell that she's studying what she holds with great interest. I remember a lesson from many years ago, in which Master Crue told us that an Oracle can draw memories and thoughts from a man's brain-take a sample of his soul, so to speak- with only her touch.

Rowan's surprised expression slips away and a smug smile plays on his lips. Whatever thought or memory of his the Oracle tasted is one that makes him feel even more confident in his position. No doubt one of his many victories-like the time he slaughtered the gladiator, an untrained sap who'd broken a contract with the king, before the man had even had a chance to draw his sword.

I ache to knock that smug look off Rowan's face, but then the Oracle brushes her hands as if wiping his memory from her fingers. She leaves his side and proceeds on with her task. I catch his eye and smirk. What did he think, she was going to stop the Choosing Ceremony right then and declare him the sole Champion? Rowan glares back at me and starts to make a crude gesture in my direction. Master Crue must have caught our exchange because I hear him clear his throat. He makes a stern, "eyes forward" gesture. I snap to attention, with my shoulders back and my arms straight at my sides, one of them resting against the ceremonial sword in my scabbard. As much as I want to keep watching the Oracle as she makes her rounds, I keep my focus trained on the back of the Underlord standing directly in front of me.

I notice that one of the leather straps holding up his bronze breastplate is twisted, as if clumsy hands had put it on. He's shaking, too. I wonder if it is nerves at first. Is he anxious about being Chosen? Or anxious about being pa.s.sed over? I don't recognize him from behind, but from his size, I guess he is only fourteen. He has two more chances to be selected after this year-unlike myself. I am almost seventeen. I've been pa.s.sed over twice before, and this is the last year I am even eligible for Champion. Anger creeps up inside of me. How dare this boy be nervous, then?

I almost want to bring the flaw in his armor to the attention of one of the Heirs. The boy would receive a beating for sure for his inept.i.tude. But then I realize that the way his muscles tremble isn't from nerves, but from strain. As though he were unaccustomed to wearing the heavy bronze armor of the Underlords. That's when I realize the boy must be a Lesser-a second- or third-born son of an Heir, bred purely to serve the Court. The only time they wear the armor of the Underlords is during the annual Choosing-when they get to pretend they're like the rest of us for the night. I don't know why the Heirs allow it; it's not like a Lesser has ever been chosen as Champion.

Then again, it is not as if anyone expects me to be Chosen, either.

Almost as though the Lesser boy notices my gaze on his twisted strap, he turns slightly and tries to adjust it. Something about the side of his face makes me feel as though I should know him, but I do not make it a habit to a.s.sociate with many Lessers. His greenstained fingers fumble with the twisted strap. I know he won't be able to fix it on his own. He looks at me for a second, seemingly asking for my help. I snap my gaze above his head, pretending I didn't see him. Helping a Lesser. Like I need that on my record.

A nagging pain twists in my gut and I am suddenly reminded that I would have had the same life as a Lesser if it hadn't been for the oath my mother had made my father swear when I was born. That oath was the only reason I had not been cast out of the ranks of the Underlords completely when my father disowned me. The day I lost my honor . . .

The Lesser boy gives up on trying to fix his strap just as the Oracle glides into view again. She starts up our row, and I see now that she doesn't walk but floats slightly above the ground. I try to forget about the memories that nag at the back of my mind and instead focus my thoughts on something that would impress the Oracle if she chooses to look inside my head. I run through my accomplishments and land on the memory of my hunting down and killing the hydra for the Feast of Return last spring. It had eluded even Master Crue and my other teachers, but I was the one who had tracked it into the cliffs above the river Styx. I was the one who carried it into the Great Hall on my shoulders . . . only to have it taken from me by Rowan and his cronies before the Court could witness my victory.

I was so angry. Almost as angry the day my mother collapsed and I sent a Lesser to fetch my father.

He was so slow in coming, I . . .

I shake my head and try to find an untainted memory as I watch the Oracle pa.s.s Underlord after Underlord, drawing nearer. I cannot let her see my shame. I am silently cursing the boy in front of me for dredging up memories of my darkest moment when the Oracle comes to a sudden halt beside him.

Her face is still veiled but I can tell that she is staring at him. He twitches under her inspection. I watch the way he tries to make himself appear bigger in his oversized armor. She tilts her shrouded head as if listening for something, and stands there for so long, I can feel the crowd straining with antic.i.p.ation.

The Oracle is so close to me now that I can feel the icy chill that emanates off her body. Gooseflesh p.r.i.c.kles up on the parts of my arms that are not bound by the leather and bronze of my armor. She is only two steps away from deciding my fate. I can't bear to watch her as she watches the Lesser boy. I glance at King Ren while he sits, waiting at the edge of his ebony throne. He looks annoyed and expectant. Then I notice Moira, Ren's latest queen, sitting beside him. She is draped in a gown made from shimmering fabric and jewels, but it does not hide how pale and withered she has become-like a bony shadow of her former self. She holds a silver scepter-the weight of it looks like it might rip her thin arms from her body. She will die soon, just like every other Boon who has been brought to the Underrealm. Just like my mother . . .

No, no, no, I scream silently at my mind's betrayal. I cannot think of this now. I will not.

I suck in a deep breath and rack my brain, searching for my proudest moment. The Oracle steps abruptly away from the Lesser boy's side and closes in on me. I shake as her glittering blue hand reaches toward my face. I close my eyes and concentrate as hard as I can on the image of myself when I slew a chimera in the arena in just thirty-one seconds, besting the other Underlords in my age group by half a minute. Surely that was my proudest moment. My greatest victory. The crowd had even cheered for me. . . .

All except for my father and the Court . . . They did not see my accomplishments because they did not care to look. No matter how hard I tried, they will not forget what I did to earn me my disgrace. . . .

I feel the Oracle's icy touch land lightly on my skin, just between my eyes. My vision flickers black for a moment and then I see myself at the age of seven-as if gazing into a mirror from the past- sitting in my bedchamber. I hear my mother's hollow voice as she cries out. . . .

I feel a sharp, stinging sensation in my forehead, like someone is pulling a string through my skull, and I am snapped back into reality. My vision focuses and I see the Oracle drawing her pinched fingers away from my forehead. And I know what memory of mine she holds.

"No! You can't see that!" I try to grasp the Oracle's blue hands, but as I reach for her, she disappears, and all I clutch at is the air. The ranks of Underlords gape at me for trying to touch the Oracle. Master Crue begins to stand. The Oracle reappears next to the altar in front of the throne, cupping my most shameful memory in her hands. I am too far away to stop her from watching the scene that she has stolen from my mind.

She holds her pinched fingers out in front of her veiled face. My heart feels as though it might break through my rib cage. Will she demand that I be cast from the ceremony after what she sees? I want nothing more than to stop her from seeing, but before I can even think of what to do, she drops her hand and her body goes as rigid as the marble statues that line the perimeter of the throne room. Her priest, a short, balding man in a red tunic, steps forward.

"One Champion only can complete this task," the priest says, but his voice echoes like wind whipping through a long chamber, and I realize the Oracle is speaking through him, using his voice as her own.

"The son of King Ren is he."

Rowan stands tall and begins to take a step forward to the altar, but then the Oracle raises her blue hand and points one of her long, glittering fingers, not in the direction of Rowan, my twin brother, but toward me.

"Your Champion is Lord Haden," the priest says-my name echoing in the chamber, which has fallen as still as death.

Elation rises in my hammering chest.

That is, until a cry of outrage rushes through the Court of Heirs with a force akin to the wake of Charon's mighty boat.

"This is absurd," Lord Lex, the king's chief advisor, says, rising from his seat among the Court. "The boy lacks proper training. He is not one of the Elite. He's too emotional. We all know that." My hands tingle with heat. I ball them into fists but keep them tight against my sides. An outburst would only prove him right.

"It should be Rowan," Lord Killian, my father's second advisor, demands. "The Court agreed on Rowan. He should be . . ."

"The decision has been taken out of the Court's hands," the Oracle's priest says, using his own raspy voice. "The Oracle was brought here to make it for you. She has made her decree; it is now your pleasure to listen and obey."

"It is you who must obey!" another one of the Heirs demands, but his blasphemous comment is almost drowned out by the other members of the Court who add their protestations to the din.

I have heard rumors of strain between the members of the Court-I have even heard of whisperings against my father's rule among the Heirs-but there seems to be one thing that still unites them: their disdain for me.

I don't know why I didn't realize that this is exactly how this would play out.

The elation I couldn't help but feeling when the Oracle said my name twists inside me until it becomes something much darker. Perhaps this is more than the usual scorn of the Court against me?

Perhaps this is all some kind of sick joke? Something orchestrated to humiliate me for hoping that I could rise above the lot I have been cast? Hope is a shameful emotion after all-another useless thing my mother must have taught me.

I try to ignore the Heirs' derisive words and keep my eyes trained on the Oracle before the altar. She is still and unmoved, swathed in her many veils. I wish I could see her face. I ache to know what she was thinking when she made her decision.

I need to know why.

"Silence!"

All voices cut off at once, and all eyes turn toward the towering throne.

King Ren Hades rises from his ebony seat. His long black hair is plaited in a ceremonial braid like mine and the other Underlords'. The firelight from the torches surrounding the altar reflects in the polished gold of his breastplate. He holds his open hand out in front of him. Threads of blue lightning hiss up from his palm and encircle his hand. It is meant to be a warning.

"Oracle," he begins, "I brought you here to predict the best possible outcome, but you have obviously chosen wrong. The boy is unfit. . . ."

"You dare question an Oracle?" the priest asks.

"I am king here," Ren says.

"And I am the infallible voice of the universe," the priest says, his voice echoing as the Oracle speaks through him once again. "I have chosen my Champion. The boy is the one who can save you." The Oracle's bluish skin pulses purple and then deep red when she turns toward King Ren, her veils rustling about her as if blown by an invisible gale. The ground beneath my feet trembles and I know I am not the only one who feels it. "Only ruin lies in wait for those who disobey the words of fate." The ranks of Underlords behind me jostle for a better view. Even the Lessers have dared to fall out of position.

The lightning in Ren's hand pulses brighter and coils its way up his arm as it grows with power. "Is that a threat?"

"I speak only the truth," responds the Oracle. "You are the one who summoned me here. You and I both know why."

King Ren's face grows dark. He advances upon the Oracle, with lightning crackling in his raised hand. The ground shifts again and I almost lose my footing when I leave my place in the ranks. The Oracle's words have emboldened me, and I don't think about what I am doing before I throw myself down on my knees between her and King Ren.

"Stop!" I say. "I can do this. I have lived and breathed preparing for this. I am more than ready for wherever this quest shall take me. Let me prove myself to you." I look up at King Ren and see his shock that I have dared to address him directly. His jaw is hard set and orange rings of fire pulsate around his pupils. "Allow me to do this. Please, Father . . ." King Ren looks down at me, meeting my eyes for the first time since the day he told me I was no longer his son.

Gasps of surprise ripple through the crowd of Underlords behind us. My father breaks his gaze with me as someone else comes to stand before him. My brother Rowan lowers to only one knee beside me.

"Send me, Father. I am loyal, and I am no nursling." He casts a pointed glare in my direction. "I will not fail you." Rowan has left behind our ancient dialect and spoken each sentence in a different language used in the Overrealm-French, Arabic, Cantonese- probably thinking that because I am not an Elite, I will be unable to follow his words.

"I am not a nursling," I say to Rowan in perfectly accented American English. "You have stolen honor from me before, but I will not allow you to take this from me as well." The Oracle moves to my father's side. She has turned icy blue once again, and the cold wind that swirls her veils about her body makes me feel chilled to my soul. My father snuffs out the bolt of lightning that had been building in his hand. He squares his shoulders and stares at the Oracle like he's trying to see past her shroud, into her mind.

"You are absolutely certain this boy is the right choice for Champion? We've been preparing for this particular quest for almost eighteen years. Surely Rowan, or one of the Elite, would be better suited .

"Sending him is the only way. He is the one."

The one? The only way? His quest has been eighteen years in the making? What exactly is going on here?

Lord Lex steps forward. "What if we did away with him?" he asks. "Would the Fates choose another in his place? Rowan is ready and willing."

My mouth goes dry.

The Oracle's skin turns bright red. "Your words are insulting to the Fates. They will punish this Court for your hubris."

"Be still," Ren says. "Lord Lex does not speak for me."

"Forgive me, Your Excellence." Lex bows his head but a cross look plays on his face. "I only speak in your best interest. Need I remind you what the consequences are for you personally, if the boy fails?"

"No, you do not," King Ren says with a quiet forcefulness.

He turns and says something to his guards that I cannot hear, but I guess their meaning when two of them advance toward me. One guard grabs me by the arm, yanking me to my feet, while the other one pulls my ceremonial sword from my scabbard. He jabs the blunted point into my back, between my shoulder blades. I don't try to resist, but as they propel me toward the torch-lit altar, I feel as though I am a prisoner headed toward execution.

I search the faces in the crowd of servants who flank the Court and find the one person who might care about what happens to me. My cousin Dax tries to give me a rea.s.suring look, but his face has grown as pale as the marble floor beneath my feet. I look away from him and concentrate on the carvings that adorn the alabaster altar I'm being propelled toward. The stony personages of the first Hades and the original Boon, Persephone, stare forlornly back at me. When we reach the altar, one of the soldiers sends a swift kick to the back of my legs, forcing me to fall to my knees.

"I would have knelt on my own, harpy mouth," I snarl at him.

He responds by slamming my head against the altar. My jaws smash together when my temple hits the hard stone. Strange bursts of light cloud my vision, and the black, oily smoke from the torches chokes my lungs, but I make it a point not to show any signs of pain. I stay perfectly still, with the side of my face pressed to the cold altar, as if my head were on a chopping block, and watch my father advance on me.

I hear the ring of metal against metal as King Ren draws his sword from the scabbard at his hip. His is not a ceremonial blade- its sharp edges gleam in the torchlight. I try to look up and meet his eyes once more, but he does not return my gaze.

The fear that my father has chosen to listen to Lex's suggestion strikes into my heart. I am to be done away with so they can choose another.

I grip the edge of the altar to stop my hands from shaking and wish desperately I had something more to offer to prove my worthiness of this a.s.signment. My father glares down at me. And I see it. Behind the fresh anger that flashes in his eyes, it's still there: that look he used to give my mother before she died-the look that transferred to me after what I did all those years ago-like what he saw before him was the embodiment of every failure, disappointment, and shame he had ever experienced.

As swiftly as fear had struck me a moment ago, a sudden calm replaces it. Resignation. I will not beg like he expects. I will not plead my case again. Instead, I look at him undaunted and ask a final question. "Is your hatred for me so great, Father, that you would risk bringing down the wrath of the Fates on the entire Underrealm in order to deny me my destiny?" Ren's jaw tightens. He lifts his sword, grabs me by the hair at the back of my neck, and yanks my head up from the altar's cold surface. I say nothing more. If this is what he wants, then so be it. Let it come.

Ren swings his blade at my neck.

I will it to be quick and clean.

The sharp edge of the sword slices into my thick braid until it cuts all the way through. The blade nicks the back of my neck just above my shoulders. My skin stings from the shallow cut but I do not flinch.

"Do not call me that again," he says calmly and lets go of my head. My temple bashes into the altar once more. A cut breaks open above my eyebrow. My blood drips onto the alabaster, staining the cream-colored stone with beads of red.

I am slow to follow what happens next, but I try to focus as King Ren drops the braid he has cut from my head into a large silver bowl. He snaps his fingers and a young servant scurries forward from somewhere in the throne room and lifts the bowl. The boy follows Ren while he approaches the Oracle, the heavy vessel straining his small arms.

My mind is muddled and I almost miss the moment when the Oracle pours some type of shimmering liquid into the bowl with my hair, and then dips a dagger into the mixture. The priest whispers what sounds like an incantation, and then the Oracle hands the knife to King Ren, her blue skin darkening to a turquoise green as he takes the blade from her.

He hesitates. Or perhaps my brain is working too slowly.

"Make the vow," the Oracle's priest says.

King Ren holds the dagger out in front of him. I can barely hear anything over the sound of my pulse pounding in my head and my heavy breaths huffing against the stone altar. I make out something he says about the water from the river Styx, the river of unbreakable vows. . . .

I blink. When my eyes flutter open, the Oracle is standing in front of me.

"Show him," King Ren says.

The Oracle's glittering blue hand reaches for me, her icy touch lands once again between my eyes.

Her fingers are so cold. I wonder what memory she will steal from me this time, but instead of her drawing something out of my mind, I feel a piercing sensation under her fingertips, like she's pushing a needle into my skull. My thoughts coil inside my brain and my vision flickers black for a moment. A string of images enters my thoughts, layering upon each other until they form one fluid, moving picture.