The king was jolted awake by a rippling crack of thunder. He sat up in bed, silken sheets pooling around his waist. The woman beside him stirred but didn't wake, her dark skin glistening in the light of a few fluttering candles drowning in their own wax. A chill air raised goosebumps on his skin and he shivered as he rose from the bed.

He picked up a robe waiting on a nearby chair, tying it loosely at his waist as he moved toward the bank of windows in his sitting room. The night outside was black as death, the clouds low and ominous around the high towers of his castle. 

Durus Auralius reached for a nearby carafe, grimacing when he found it empty of wine. The kitchen staff was likely asleep and it didn't seem to matter how often he had the slaves beaten, at least one of his late night orders went unheeded per week.

Lightning washed the room in white, showing the woman's ripped dress tangled with his own clothes upon the floor. Durus watched the mighty display, the winter thunderstorm making him restless. 

He did not like thunderstorms. 

Slipping his feet into fur-lined, felt shoes waiting by his door, Durus left the room. He walked past Livia's quarters, wondering which of her ladies his queen had taken to her bed this night. Tantalizing as that thought was, Durus knew better than to involve himself.

His relationship with his wife—once comfortable—had become strained the night she gave birth to that wretched girl. It had only grown more distant with every son she had given him after. With every year Livia failed to dissuade Cassia from this disastrous path of hers. 

Wrapping his robe more tightly around him, Durus continued on his stroll through the quiet palace. It felt...empty. Somehow hollow as he walked through the corridors that wound through the royal quarters of the residential wing of the palace. Malitech was gone to his country manor and, frankly, Durus had no idea where Marcus might be.

His younger sons he had little connection to if any and his daughter...

Durus scowled as his mind once more strayed to the little chit. Thunder rumbled through the stone walls, making it seem as though he was deep within the belly of some ancient beast. He shivered as a cold draft blew through the hall, and he lengthened his stride, eager to reach the warm kitchen.

The castle grew colder the farther he traveled from his quarters, the lush carpets giving way to bare, stone floors. Some of the corridors were pitch black, making him wish for a candle.

At least he could no longer hear the wrath of the storm outside.

When Durus finally arrived in the kitchens, he was strangely relieved to find them empty. Banked embers simmered in the massive ovens, casting a red glow and warming the air. It took several tries before he found the right door to a wine cellar and several more minutes to pick a vintage he liked. Really, he wondered why the kitchens stocked any others than those preferred by the king.

Durus was brushing dust from the bottle when a door creaked, startling him. His hand slid to his waist, and he paled when he realized he'd failed to bring a weapon with him. Assassinations of kings were uncommon, but not impossible. He moved quickly to one of the long counters, searching for a knife.

The door that opened into the west gardens swung fully open with a bang, a cloaked figure pushed inside by the wind. They stumbled and turned, fighting to close the door against the tumultuous rain that had begun to pour as Durus had made his way to the kitchens.

His fingers found the handle of a knife, its serrated edge and blunt tip revealing it to be a bread knife. Better than nothing, Durus decided, putting down his bottle of wine. The door was finally wrestled closed, and the hooded figure slumped against the thick slab of wood, panting.

When they turned and froze, Durus realized they hadn't been expecting anyone in the kitchens either.

The standoff lasted for another moment before a low laugh echoed through the empty rooms. A hand with scarred knuckles pulled down the hood, revealing sopping, dark hair and heavy-lidded, golden eyes.

Durus lowered the knife, irritated.

Suspicious.

"What are you doing here, Marcus?" he asked. Where have you been? Durus knew better than to ask this son a straight question. Fishing for an answer produced nothing. Indifference revealed much.

Marcus grinned, a lopsided expression that betrayed nothing. "Good evening, Father." He unclasped his cloak, letting the soaked material fall to the floor. The plain clothes he wore beneath it were just as wet.

Durus eyed this son. Bloodthirsty and reckless as Malitech was, Durus knew of all his children, Marcus was the most dangerous. The least predictable. The most intelligent, when he didn't count Cassia, and he never did if he could help it. Certainly the slipperiest and the one with the least to lose.

He didn't have any permanent lovers. No friends. Few allies among those at court. Even the men he'd served with when he had run off to the Third had all disappeared. Whenever Durus had sent spies trailing him into the city, they had returned either bewildered or beaten within an inch of their lives.

No, unlike the others, Marcus had only himself to lose, and Durus well knew that neither pain nor fear of death worked to cow him.

Marcus slicked wet, overlong hair back from his face, his gaze dancing between the knife in Durus' hand and the wine bottle sitting on the counter. His tongue touched a fresh split in his lip and as he walked forward, Durus detected the slightest limp.

"I asked you a question, boy," Durus growled, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the bread knife still in his hand.

Marcus gave him a flat stare and edged around him to grab the bottle. Using his teeth to yank the cork free, he flopped into a nearby chair and tipped the bottle to his mouth. Durus was caught somewhere between monumental fury and admiration at his son's gall.

The admiration gave way to amusement, and he took a chair across from his son. He grabbed the bottle and raised an expectant eyebrow.

Marcus wiped at his mouth with a wet sleeve. "I'm here for a drink," he said, voice low and raspy. Tired. "As, it would seem, are you."

"The storm woke me," he admitted, drinking from the bottle as well rather than waste time hunting for a goblet.

"The storm," Marcus murmured, golden eyes growing hazy. His skin was waxen and he had dark hollows beneath his eyes. "It's coming. It's nearly here."

Ever since he was a boy, Marcus had been prone to dark pronouncements and odd ramblings. Durus had long taken to ignoring them, dismissing them as the products of a mind balancing just on the edge of madness. Tonight, though, he was content to play along.

"Isn't it already here?" he asked, offering back the wine. "Or did you fall in the sea on your way back?"

Marcus raised an arm to take the wine, then froze, eyes focused on the water dripping from his sleeve. "Fall in?" he whispered. "I didn't fall in." He suddenly fixed Durus with a piercing stare. "You know I didn't fall. I was pushed."

A chill ran up Durus' spine and he stood.

Marcus tipped his head back, voice flat and dead. "You brought it here. The storm. It's here because of you." 

Durus' breath caught in the back of his throat, something growing tight in his chest.

Then, Marcus blinked, his expression clearing as he stood. Something bright and sharp flared in his eyes and his fingers flexed, one hand drifting toward the wrist of the other. He gave a short bow and left without another word, leaving Durus to wonder what in Torvan's dark hell he'd meant.

Slowly, he sat back down and pulled the wine toward him. He stared into its purple depths and determined that he needed to keep an even closer eye on the mad prince.