THE PRINCE WAS as beautiful as his father, the king, with the same angular cheekbones set into the frigid marble of his face, the same deep eyes that seemed to contain the darkness of every dusk and the profundity of every ocean, the same prepossessingly dangerous smile—and he hated it. He had tried to convince himself many times that he had his mother's mouth or her nose, but none of that was true. When he gazed into the reflective glass of a mirror, making futile attempts to peel back the layers of skin with his eyes—to see past them—he still saw only his father.

       Sitting at a long table in the dining hall, however, the prince did not think about how he and his father possessed a shared charm. He thought only of the hatred he harboured for him. From somewhere within his chest, his heart was barely containing the force of its own rapid beating.

       If his plan fell into place, he would be rid of the king.

       It was far past dusk, to the point where splashes of colour—the first sign of sunrise, perhaps—began to paint the sky's dark, star-speckled canvas. He should have been asleep, but it mattered not to the prince, for he rarely allowed himself too much sleep anyway.

       The king sat at the head of the dinner table. His attention was not on his son—it was rarely on him. He could only ever risk paying him any mind when they were alone.

       Tonight, they weren't, for the king's latest mistress was sitting across his lap, tracing his jaw with her finger. Her eyes were clouded over with seduction, and his with lust. His hands were on her, gripping her thighs. Her lips approached his ear and she whispered something that the prince couldn't hear. At that, the king kissed her with such force that it was almost as though he sought to shatter her.

       The prince did not even bother to resist the urge to roll his eyes, and wondered, as he did so often, why they couldn't go up to one of the many rooms in the castle. He knew his father did this on purpose, knowing that seeing him with a mistress sparked a form of fury in him—but he had gotten used to it long ago, and now such a sight merely presented him with annoyance.

       With a certain impatience, disguised by exaggerated torpidity, his eyes trailed over to the golden chalice in front of the king. Every fibre in his being was chanting the same word, like a sinister ballad of terror and death: drink, drink, drink.

       Unable to contain his excitement, the prince's gaze then dropped to the ground. Having nowhere else to look, his eyes trailed through the veins in the marbled floor. He tried not to smile as he imagined, just for one seraphic moment, his father's blood rushing from his veins and instead through the veins in the floor. It was a shame he would not get the satisfaction of plunging a dagger through the king's chest or of swiping the blade across his porcelain throat. He wanted to see the blood run, fresh and warm and red, staining their pretentious, imperfect castle.

He yearned to show his father that what he bled would not be ichor, for he was not a god—so how dare he think he could act as one.

However, since he couldn't do that, he supposed what was in the chalice would do.

"Son," the king called across from the table, pulling him from his reverie. The prince looked up and saw that the mistress had untangled herself from his father. Shock at being addressed for the first time that night broke across his features. He felt fear prickle at his skin and waited for the king to continue. "We will be having guests tomorrow. I expect you to stay out of the way." He smiled sweetly, putting on a spectacle for his mistress—but that was one thing the prince could see past. His grin looked more like a feral snarl than anything else.

       Rage simmered and blossomed in the prince's chest like a poisonous flower. He knew what his father had meant by that, yet he couldn't seem to find his voice. He hated his own cowardice, especially when it came to the man sitting across from him. But, he reminded himself, there would be no tomorrow for the king. If his plan worked.

       The prince continued to glare at the king, suddenly desperate to see him finish every last drop of the wine in his chalice. He ran his finger across the rim of the golden chalice, taking careful sips. The rubies on the king's crown glistered with the same malice as the prince's eyes seemed to.

       Many more sloppy kisses were exchanged with his mistress, until at last, the king has finished his wine. He rose from his seat—and then it happened.

       His knees buckled and a look of pure horror passed across his face before he fell to the floor, gagging, sputtering, foaming from the mouth. His body writhed on the floor and a strangled scream crawled up his throat, drawing the attention of the surrounding guards to him. The king's mistress let out a shrill cry and fell to his side as his body convulsed, but she was shoved aside as guards swarmed him.

       All the while, the prince tried and failed to hold back his smile.

       There was nothing more they could do to save their beloved king.

       The prince mentally congratulated himself: he had been clever to use the particular poison. A certain dose was needed to be taken for it to be enough to kill. The taste tester, who had taken only a bit, would only get a mild stomach ache. And the poison did not react right away, but took its time to kill—just as the prince had.

       Procuring it had required many lies, which he was not quite good at. He was much better at evading the truth, at twisting words and at deceiving than at truly lying. But he had done it.

       When the king's body stilled, the prince strode over to his body on the floor. His limbs were bent at odd angles, his mouth bloody and his eyes glossy, lifeless. The guards kneeling by the body slowly turned to him, bowing. It didn't matter what they thought, it didn't matter if they thought he'd killed his father; he was their new king. They had to obey him.

       "Oh dear," the prince said sadly, shaking his head. There was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone as he gazed down at the face of the previous king, looking at the blood that had bubbled up in his mouth. A thick thread of crimson fell down his chin, past his chest and onto his opulent clothing. "What a pity. A perfectly good man is dead, and a perfectly good shirt is ruined. Guards, leave me at once. I must mourn my poor, poor father. In the meantime, find out which one of the servants it was who poured him this wine, which must have been laced with poison. He is to be executed at once, down in the village."

       As they hurried away, thundering up the stairs leading out of the dining hall, the prince brought his hand to his father's throat and pressed two fingers against a vein in his neck. There was no blood pulsing through it. He frowned, stood, and prodded his father's dead body with his foot. He thought he'd feel more of a sense of triumph at the death, but he felt nothing. Emptiness.

       Because he had never loved his father, and his father had never loved him.

       A whimpering sound filled the hall and the prince turned, only to see the king's former mistress—he had almost forgotten about her. Her eyes were darting frantically between the body and the prince. She was afraid of him.

       He knitted his eyebrows together and approached her. Still whimpering, tears staining her flushed cheeks, she lowered her head and bowed before him. Seeing her up close, he realized she was just the same as the other women he had slept with: fair skin, fair hair, thin. Her neck and arms were bedizened with jewels—gifts the king had given her in exchange for her body.

       "Go," the prince snapped. He had no sympathy for her. "Leave Bonvalet and never return. I'm sure that dear Tevenot has given you more than enough gifts. Keep them, for all I care. I don't care much for jewels. Be my guest, sell them—" His words came to an abrupt halt when something around her neck glinted and caught his eye. He squinted, his heart twisting painfully. "But not that." He swallowed back a wave of sadness and inhaled deeply. "Give that to me at once."

       She nodded quickly, eyes wide, and unhooked the necklace from around her neck. With fumbling fingers, she dropped the pendant into his outstretched palm and he closed his hand over it protectively.

       "Now leave—and if I ever see you again, I will have you killed."

       He didn't even know if he meant it, he just knew that he wanted her gone.

       She nodded again and fled the castle in a flurry of skirts, jewelry and platinum hair.

       Alone at last, the prince glanced down at the pendant in his hand. It was a ruby the size of an eyeball, made from the same jewels that had been used on the king's crown—and it had belonged to his mother. What he had said was true: he didn't care for jewelry, but he couldn't let this piece be taken.

       The prince clenched his fist tighter over it, pressing it hard into the tender skin of his palm. Then he slipped it into his pocket.

       He strode over to the dead body of his father. Kneeling beside it, he touched the pale cheeks and cold hands. He tried to feel triumph and pride, but all that came was a roiling wave of disgust—oh, how he hated that face.

       It was then that he noticed the crown. It had tumbled from the man's head when he'd fallen to his knees. With steady hands, the prince—the new king—picked it up off the floor. He inspected it to see if it had been dented, or if the impact of the fall had caused any of the rubies to fall out. Once he saw that no damage had come to it, he lifted it slowly and placed it on his own head.

       There was no surge of power that came with wearing it. The crown remained perched atop the head of the bloody-handed monarch, looking rather like a halo—not that of an angel, but that of a demon.