Prologue Act 2 – Moving Pieces

  Leanor had returned to Lithra once more for family night.

  What had started, ages ago, as a tradition of togetherness had warped into something else entirely: a battlefield of spats, arguments, and quiet schemes. He expected nothing less from tonight’s festivities. If anything, he feared the worst from Tristana and Grakor.

  The moment he stepped inside, the weight of the place pressed down on him. His thoughts dulled, each step felt heavier, as if the palace itself wanted him slow. His parents were already there.

  That never happened.

  He was always first. If they’d arrived before him, it meant the game had already begun. Schemes were in motion, pieces moving across the board while his own were still stuck behind the pawns.

  He’d known this was coming, just not this soon. He’d expected the illusion—that humans were pathetic, harmless pieces on the board—to hold a little longer. But humanity’s recent progress had clearly drawn his siblings’ attention.

  The scoreboard told the story.

  In the last month, the gap hadn’t closed, but it hadn’t widened either. Something was shifting beneath the surface.

  As of today, the Draken still led with 6.4 million points. The Gifted trailed just behind, having inched closer to 6.2 million.

  Humans sat dead last. 3.5 million. On paper, it looked pathetic.

  To Leanor, it was perfect. A position of weakness could always be flipped into a weapon if he played it right. He just couldn’t let his siblings ruin his plan.

  The crystal doors swung open as he approached, and he stepped into the grand hall. Stars and planets were woven into the ceiling like a living tapestry.

  Grakor and Tristana were already seated at the head of the table with his father. His father’s piercing yellow eyes reflected lightning and strength, flickering with a fierce power that made Leanor’s shoulders tighten. He wasn’t bulky, but the power in his frame was undeniable. If he wanted to, he could crush Leanor with a thought.

  Officially, Leanor was rank three—next in line if anything ever happened to their parents. His expansions, his growing empire, his trophies were unmatched.

  But he could feel the walls closing in. Eyes were on him now. The darkness that had once hidden him had turned into a spotlight.

  Unofficially, his father hated how high he’d climbed. His siblings were already using that resentment as leverage. Leanor would have to slip around it…or find a way to turn it to his advantage.

  The moment they noticed him, conversation cut off. Three pairs of eyes turned his way as he glided into the room, burying any flicker of fear.

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  “Hello,” he said, voice calm. “How are you today?”

  Tristana glanced at him, her usual bouncing, childlike energy replaced by something sharper. Hunger. Ambition. She forced a smile that came out as a thin, hard line, lips pressed together too tightly.

  Grakor didn’t bother to smile. He met Leanor’s gaze and held it, the darkness in his eyes smoldering with a hatred Leanor hadn’t realized had grown so strong.

  Leanor took his seat at the far end of the table and let his lids drift shut for a heartbeat.

  Show strength when you are weak. Show weakness when you are strong.

  He knew that lesson well. Today, he’d have to live it.

  As the hall filled, the echo of footsteps and overlapping conversations rose around him, a tide of divine voices. Leanor opened his eyes and took in the sight of his family.

  Then his mother entered.

  Golden hair. Warm caramel skin. Piercing blue eyes. Every piece of her looked like a contradiction, yet together they fit with effortless grace—the kind that made it impossible to forget, for even a second, that she was a god.

  Instead of turning to sit beside her husband, she walked straight toward Leanor. She nudged Avil further down the bench and slipped into the seat at his side.

  Her voice, thick and sweet as honey, wrapped around his thoughts and smoothed the sharpest edges of his fear. With her close, he felt steadier. Stronger.

  “You’ve been busy, my son,” she murmured. “Be careful you don’t burn too brightly. The darkness doesn’t like it.”

  Leanor didn’t look at her. He looked past her, straight at his father.

  Even from across the table, those yellow eyes were impossible to miss—glowing with thunderous anger. His father’s knuckles had gone white; a vein pulsed in his forehead, and his long hair rippled as if caught in a storm. It didn’t quite stand on end, but it was close. Subtlety had never been one of his strengths.

  Leanor gave him a small, innocent smile, then turned away.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly to his mother.

  He had barely moved his head before his father rose to his feet and launched into a speech. Unity, togetherness, the importance of family time, the usual nonsense. The paradox was probably lost on him.

  Beneath his father’s booming voice, his mother leaned in, her words soft and elegant.

  “They’ve been whispering for weeks,” she murmured. “About balance. About power. They see your improvement. But you were supposed to lose, love. That was his will.”

  Leanor knew exactly who she meant.

  He dropped his voice. “What are they planning?”

  A faint smile touched her lips, but he heard the thread of fear beneath it. “I don’t know. You know all too well—when it’s about you, he doesn’t let me in.”

  Leanor had always been his mother’s favorite. Like him, her mind was strategic. She moved in silence and struck only when she spotted weakness. Their father called it feminine. Cowardly.

  Leanor leaned back in his seat, letting his father’s speech blur into background noise as he studied the faces around the table. Some siblings might be persuaded. Some could be used. Others were far too loyal to ever risk.

  When the toast ended, his father clapped his hands. Food and wine blossomed across the table, cups filling themselves. His siblings lunged for it like starving animals.

  The food of Lithra was one of the things that sustained their immortality, the fuel behind their power.

  His father’s fist slammed into the table. Frost exploded outward in a jagged ring, racing across the surface in a show of power.

  “Do not act like animals,” he thundered, gaze sweeping the hall, “or you will be treated as such.”

  The ice slowly retreated, cracking and melting back into nothing. One by one, conversation resumed and food made its way to mouths again.

  Still, Leanor waited a few seconds, watching, measuring.

  Then he picked up his cup and took a slow drink.

  Patience would be key. He’d defend until they were exhausted.

  Then he’d strike—when they were certain he was already dead.