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Praise for the Betrayal Prophecies
For anyone who has ever known the darkness. You are not alone.
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ALWAYS AN ANGEL, NEVER A GOD
—BOYGENIUS
PART ONE
The Second Son was not gifted his name, he was born with it. His father was the leader of the Lower Banks, his elder brother poised to inherit the family’s titles, land, and legacy, leaving him with nothing. So when the riverbanks shriveled and dried, when their camp was invaded and burned to the ground, when the townspeople decided to move on, to rebuild elsewhere, the Second Son saw a chance to rewrite his destiny.
When Sebastien would not follow his kin beyond the Lower Banks, his father spat at his feet.
“Only a fool would fall victim to idolatry and bright smiles.” His father pointed to the girl of seventeen who stood proudly on the scorched earth and swore to restore her homeland. “There is nothing for you in these ashes.”
The Second Son did not flinch, despite his patriarch’s raised hand. Where once his father’s disregard had shamed him, it now fueled his vision.
“There is opportunity,” the Second Son insisted. “There is a place for me by her side.” His eyes were fixed hungrily on the girl who would become the New Maiden.
She met his gaze. In her eyes, Sebastien’s future was clear. Together they would bring the world to its knees. And then his father would see how wrong he had been to spurn his second son.
—Psalm of the Second Son
1
On the thirty-first day of Her Second Ascension, the wind shifted east, and the New Maiden gave a sermon on the bell tower’s front steps.
Sabine’s skin prickled beneath her elaborate robe. The expensive silk—hand-dyed in the New Maiden’s signature aubergine—rippled like water and shimmered like a jewel in the afternoon light. It was the finest thing she had ever worn. The fabric was light as a feather along her pale arms, the cuffs of her sleeves hand-embroidered with tiny white stars. The young woman who had stitched it, a member of the clergy in the Arts District, trembled when she handed the garment over to Sabine.
“I cannot believe the New Maiden stands before me.” The woman was only a few years her senior, the same age as Sabine’s older sister, Katrynn. Her deference made Sabine uncomfortable.
“We are not so different.” Sabine busied herself with admiring the delicate handiwork. “Thank you for sharing your gift with me.”
“No, thank you.” The woman looked up at her with wide, marveling eyes. “For coming back to us.”
Sabine did not know how to respond. She was constantly being thanked, praised, and extolled for things far outside her control. She had not asked to be born the third daughter of a third daughter. Her role as the New Maiden reincarnated was no more than happenstance.
Yet happenstance meant nothing in the face of a miracle. That miracle of her ascension, her public calling forth of the darkness, was the reason so many had gathered in the city square to hear Sabine speak.
“Maiden?” A gentle hand came to rest on Sabine’s shoulder. She turned to meet the soft gray eyes of Silas. “It’s nearly time.”
Silas was a bishop, returned from the small province of Adeya to run Harborside’s recently reopened house of worship. Tall and broad, her gray hair shorn short to reveal a striking, hawkish face, the woman was Sabine’s favorite member of the clergy. The bishop taught Sabine about the rites and responsibilities of her new role, introduced her to the Church’s hierarchy, even organized this inaugural sermon. The size of the crowd was a testament to Silas’s influence.
“I still can’t believe this many people want to hear anything I have to say.”
“Not you, Sabine,” Silas corrected her, gently. “The New Maiden.”
That’s right, Sabine could practically hear her darkness mutter. No one cares about you, only what you stand for. But the darkness was gone, absent from her veins, which now shone blue beneath her skin. The voice that had once haunted her every waking moment—infiltrating her judgment, suffocating her confidence, poisoning her actions—had gone silent, too. Her tears no longer held magic—now, they were nothing but salt. Where the people of Velle believed the New Maiden to be rife with magic, wisdom, and power, in truth, Sabine had never been more ordinary.
Her followers were too busy clamoring for her attention to notice. The city had welcomed an influx of worshippers desperate to meet Sabine’s iteration of the New Maiden. They intercepted her on the street, fell to their knees, begged for her blessing. Doubt bloomed like belladonna as Sabine received accolade after accolade. It was only a matter of time before the world realized she was a fraud.
Her family’s arrival in the city square was a welcome relief. Katrynn, Artur, and their mother pushed their way to the front of the spectators. While she was under no illusion that the Queen of Velle had time to attend a sermon in the square, Sabine scanned the crowd for Elodie anyway.
The only Warnou present was the third daughter: Brianne. Sabine had not seen her since the girl had awoken from her strange sleep. Even though she’d returned to the realm of the living, Brianne still looked peaked, her skin waxy and her corn silk hair limp. Some of Sabine’s own exhaustion was reflected in the eyes of the youngest Warnou. She wondered if Brianne, too, was haunted by the urgent warning she’d delivered to Sabine: Your time will be short and the fall will be far.
A few paces behind the princess was a much less desirable face: Tal’s.
Their few interactions had left the New Maiden with little fondness for the Loyalist. Tal seemed a haughty, entitled boy whose easy relationship with the Queen of Velle set Sabine on edge. His eyes were always on Elodie, his lips always close to her ear, a gnat impossible to swat away. While she trusted the queen implicitly, Tal was pretty, as far as boys went. Sabine feared his words were as sweet as rotting fruit, that he might poison Elodie’s affections away from her.
As though he could sense her scrutiny, Tal’s green eyes met hers. A chill shot down the New Maiden’s spine. His expression was coolly calculated, composed as a seasoned gambler. Sabine was the first to look away.
Her white-robed clergy lined the square’s perimeter. The Royal Chaplain’s purple sash glittered in the sunlight even as he scowled. His fingers twitched as though itching to ascend the makeshift pulpit and command the crowd himself. But his days of speaking on behalf of the New Maiden were long gone. Now Silas stepped forth to quiet the crowd and introduce Sabine.
They had practiced this sermon many times, Silas conducting Sabine like a sonata, reminding her when to breathe and where to pause dramatically. Speak from the heart, Silas reminded Sabine. Her heart. But every time Sabine reached inward for inspiration, she returned empty-handed. Yes, she had exorcised the darkness from her veins, but it had not left her joyful or free. She had instead fallen victim to the staggering weight of numbness. Adrift in the endless abyss of feeling nothing at all.
