The King in the Garden

The world became a blur of breaking wood and shattering tiles. Korth’s massive body slammed through a rooftop, then another, until they finally crashed into a stone courtyard. Dust and smoke filled the air.

Elara rolled off the dragon’s back, her skin scraped and her head spinning. She scrambled to her feet, looking for Joren. The boy was lying a few feet away, tangled in Korth’s discarded human cloak. He was still alive, but his breathing sounded like dry leaves scraping on stone.

Korth was already shrinking. The majestic dragon was gone, replaced by the pale, trembling man. He was clutching his chest where the black lightning had struck. His clothes were charred, and his eyes were dull.

"Korth! Get up!" Elara hissed, grabbing his arm.

"The Crown..." Korth gasped, coughing up a puff of gray smoke. "The Crown of Ash wasn't just a symbol, Elara. It’s a weapon. It’s built to kill my kind."

"Well, it didn't finish the job," she said, pulling him toward the shadow of a stone archway. "We’re inside the palace walls. The crash was loud. They’ll be here in seconds."

They were in a private garden. High hedges of dead, thorny roses surrounded them. In the center stood a fountain, but instead of water, it flowed with thick, black oil.

"Wait," Korth whispered, his hand tightening on Elara’s shoulder. "Look at the fountain."

Standing by the oil was a man. He looked young, barely older than Elara. He wore a simple white shirt and black trousers, but on his head sat a crown made of twisted, blackened bone. It didn't shine. It seemed to drink the light around it.

It was Prince Valen. The man who had supposedly murdered his father.

He wasn't looking at them. He was staring into the black oil, his hands shaking. "I didn't want this," he whispered. "Father, I told you I didn't want this."

"Liars always say that," Elara muttered, reaching for her last knife.

"No," Korth whispered. "Something is wrong. Look at his shadow."

Elara looked. The sun was behind the Prince, but his shadow didn't look like a man. It was huge, jagged, and had dozens of long, thin fingers that reached toward the palace walls.

Suddenly, Joren let out a strangled cry. The boy woke up, his eyes glowing gold again. He scrambled to his feet and charged at the prince.

"Murderer!" Joren screamed in the dead King’s voice. "You took my breath! You took my throne!"

Prince Valen spun around. When he saw Joren, his face didn't fill with guilt. It was filled with pure, heart-stopping terror.

"Father?" the prince gasped. He dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands. "No! You’re supposed to be in the mountains! You were supposed to be safe there!"

Joren reached the Prince and grabbed him by the throat. The strength in the boy’s small hands was unnatural. He lifted the prince off the ground.

"I will watch you burn," the king's voice rumbled from Joren’s mouth. "I will take back what is mine."

"Stop!" Elara shouted, running forward. She didn't like the Prince, but she saw the way he was looking at Joren. It wasn't the look of a killer. It was the look of a son seeing a monster.

She slammed the hilt of her knife into the back of Joren’s head. The boy slumped, letting go of the Prince.

Prince Valen fell to the grass, gasping for air. He looked up at Elara, then at the human-shaped Korth.

"You're the archivist," the prince wheezed. "You have to help me. You have to take him back."

"Help you?" Korth growled, stepping out of the shadows. "You sent your Inquisitor to burn my archive. You sent a thief to steal my Ledger. Why should I help a man who wants to erase history?"

"I didn't send anyone!" Valen cried out. He grabbed the bone crown and tried to pull it off his head, but his skin stretched with it. It was fused to his skull. "My father didn't die because I poisoned him. He died because he tried to use this. He wanted to live forever, so he tried to bind his soul to the Crown. It killed him, and now... now it’s eating me!"

Elara froze. If the prince didn't kill the king, then the king's "Last Word," the one naming his son as the murderer, was a lie.

"The king lied in his final breath? " Elara asked, her mind racing. "Why would he do that?"

"To force the dragon down from the mountain," a new voice said.

Elara and Korth spun around. Standing at the entrance of the garden was the High Inquisitor. Behind him were twenty soldiers with crossbows leveled at their hearts. But the Inquisitor wasn't looking at the Prince. He was looking at Korth.

"The king knew his son was too weak to use the crown," the inquisitor said, stepping forward. He pulled off his helmet, revealing the face of the scribe, Thomas. He hadn't been a servant. He had been the king's right hand all along.

"The King didn't want to die," Thomas continued, his eyes cold. "He knew that if he 'died' and blamed his son, you would come to investigate. He knew you would bring the one thing he actually needed to finish the ritual."

"What?" Korth hissed.

Thomas pointed at the small, cracked vial Elara was still holding, the one containing the author's red mist.

"A dragon’s heart is the only thing that can jumpstart a dead soul," Thomas said. "The King isn't in Joren. And he isn't in the Prince."

The ground beneath the fountain began to crack. The black oil bubbled and rose, forming the shape of a massive, rotting hand that gripped the edge of the stone.

"Then where is he?" Elara asked, her voice trembling.

Thomas smiled. "He's right under your feet. And he’s very, very hungry."

The courtyard exploded upward. A giant, skeletal figure draped in royal silk climbed out of the earth, its eyes burning with the same black fire as the lightning that had struck Korth.

The undead King reached out and grabbed Elara, lifting her high into the air.

"The Ledger," the monster rasped, its voice coming from the earth itself. "Give me the dragon, or the girl dies first."