Prologue

Magic is power. Anyone who tells you differently is fooling themselves. And with power comes prices. The question is always what the price will be. Will I be able to speak after expending my power, or will I be bedridden to ensure that everything happens the way it is supposed to?

The best trick I have learned so far, is to give the price to those asking me for magyck favors. For the trouble of hexing your annoying neighbor, you have to give me a touch of your blood. For the annoyance of raising your brother from the dead, you need to give me a life.

Father never approved of my methods. I assumed that was why my younger brother inherited. I should have been king. And yet… If I had become king, I never would have met The Frostblood Coven. I never would have learned just how limiting my powers were. Even now, my magyck is limited, but not for long.

Power and control are the two most important things when it comes to ripping everything away from those who stole your birth right. I smiled to myself as I stared down at my sister-in-law, relishing the thought of her bowing to me. “You can’t have children?”

I ran my fingers through my jaw length hair, sweeping it away from my face. “And you thought I would care?”

She made a squeaking sound, like she was choking back a sob. “I didn’t know where else to turn. The king can’t know, or else he’ll leave me. And the entire kingdom knows that you have magyck.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And you thought that I would care?”

She nodded, refusing to meet my eyes. “Deagal, we were friends, once.”

“And then you married my younger brother!” I stood from my throne of bones, my armor rattling. “You wed my brother and stole my throne! And you think that I would care to help you, when you learn that you can’t bear children?”

I stepped from the dais, my fur cloak, sweeping the ground. “And you have the audacity to approach me, and ask me to help you, when you abandoned me in my time of need all those years ago?”

She refused to look up from where she knelt, as I walked around her. “Deagal, the country is at war. They need to believe that the line to the throne is secure. They need to think that we have a chance to pull off a victory.”

She finally looked up, steel grey eyes meeting mine. “I’m not asking you for favors for myself, or your brother. I’m asking favors for the people that you claim to have wanted to lead.”

I broke eye contact with her, pacing around her, before going back to my throne of bones. “And yet, you and my traitorous brother are the ones that stand to gain the most from this. Peace in your kingdom, and a solid inheritance line. Why would I do that for you?”

“Please. Deagal.” She lowered her eyes back to the ground. “I’ll do anything you want.”

I grinned wolfishly at her words. “Anything, Daphne?” The terror in her eyes was delicious, bringing me so much pleasure.

She accepted the bargain. With the pain that she was willing to gift, I would have magyck for decades to come. She wanted to bear children until she died, or bore a son.

The terms, I would create a spell for her. If she chanted it over her bed, every time she slept with the king, she would be impregnated. However, after every pregnancy, she would have to reseal the spell with cassia. The more children she had, the longer she had to join me in my kingdom for balls.

           

Daphne looked terrible when she joined me for her first ball. She was pale, and looked like she hadn’t had more than a few hours of sleep in the last week. But she was here, and that could only mean one thing. Her first child was born, and it was a daughter.

A niece. I chuckled softly to myself. Women couldn’t inherit, so Gerard would have to make her keep trying for a son. I couldn’t wait to see her face when she realized that any child she had would be a daughter. How long would it be before she confronted me about the spell? As if I could curse her husband to create more than daughters.

No. That was a curse well above my powers, at least for now. And if she wanted me to try to add that to the magyck, her pain would increase, attacking her heart, through her daughters as they would be forced to join her to dance for me and my phantom court. But she would, and it would be only a matter of time before I was left to complete my plan.

All of Murkney mourned the day the queen died. The mines closed, and workers hung up their tools. The castle was hung with black, and flowers filled every surface. Hundreds of people poured into the atrium to say their farewells, thousands more waiting to follow the funeral procession.

But even with the silence and sorrow of the day, no one could quiet the whispers. “Twelve daughters.” They whispered.  “Twenty-four years of war.”

A missing prince, whispers of witchcraft. Everyone talked, but few offered their condolences to the young princesses.

The twelve young princesses followed their father on foot behind their mother’s coffin. Each of them wore a black dress, each of them carried a small nosegay. Daisies. Roses. Irises. Narcissi. Poppies. Pansies. Violets. Lilies. Hyacinths. Gladioli. Buttercups. Camellias. All of the queen’s favorite flowers. Flowers she had named all of her daughters after.

Flowers that she had loved in life, following after her in her death. Weeping and wailing carried through the city, but the twelve little princesses kept their eyes dry. And no one noticed how they stumbled, and how bloodshot, the young girls’ eyes were.