[Jordan’s Memory: One year before death.]

  Rain lashes against the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass. Below me lies the city—millions of lights, millions of tiny lives. I sit in my black leather armchair, nursing a glass of red wine, looking out over my kingdom.

  "Sir?"

  The heavy double doors part. A man in a suit enters, trembling. He is the Prime Minister of some country whose name isn't worth remembering. Behind him stand two of my guards—the faceless soldiers of my organization.

  The Minister falls to his knees. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping onto my expensive carpet. "My Lord... please... I beg you. Give me one more week. My country is starving..."

  I slowly swivel my chair around. I watch his shaking hands. He’s learned his lesson, I think. Why destroy him? He’s more useful to me if he’s grateful.

  I open my mouth to grant him mercy. "Stand up, Minis—"

  “HE’S LYING.”

  The voice in my head. Loud. Screeching. I flinch.

  “Look at him, Jordan. He isn’t crying out of remorse. He’s crying because he got caught.”

  A second voice joins in, deep and growling. “He thinks you’re weak. He thinks he can manipulate the crazy boy.” “If you let him go, they’ll all know. That the King has gone soft. That you can be stolen from.”

  The voices swell into a choir, drowning out my own thoughts. They’re right. They see what I don’t. The pity evaporates.

  "Your country is starving because you thought you could steal from me. The forty million from the arms deal... did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

  "It... it was a mistake!" he screams. "I’ll pay it back! Double!"

  I set the glass down. "Money doesn't interest me." I stand up. "This is about respect and order."

  I walk over to him and place my hand gently on his head. "I wanted to forgive you," I whisper. "But my advisors... they tell me you’re a risk." I sigh. "And in my kingdom, I don’t tolerate risks."

  I look to my guards. "John?"

  A young man steps out of the shadows in the corner. My best friend. My right hand. "Yes, Jordan?"

  "Take care of it. And his family. We don’t want any acts of revenge popping up in ten years."

  The Minister screams. "NO! PLEASE! JOHN, HELP ME!"

  John looks the Minister in the eye, a flicker of pain in his gaze. Then he nods to me. Loyal. "As you wish, brother."

  The guards drag the screaming man out. The doors slam shut. Silence returns. Only the rain remains.

  John lingers. "Was that necessary?" he asks quietly. "He was useful."

  "Utility is replaceable," I say, walking back to the window. "Loyalty isn't."

  "Jordan. One question."

  "What is it?" I ask, bored, not turning around.

  "Your meds. Are you still taking them?"

  "Of course I took them, John. Do you think I’m stupid?"

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Good," he says, but there’s no relief in his voice. "Because you know the consequences if you stop, Jordan. Not for you. But for everyone else."

  "Remember this: When you’re lucid, you’re a ruler. But when you slip... you’re a despot."

  I look at him. "I'll keep that in mind."

  My gaze drifts back to my reflection in the glass. The man who rules the world from the shadows. No government makes a move without my approval. No bank moves money without my knowledge. I have everything. Power. Wealth. Control.

  And yet... I yawn.

  "It’s boring, John," I whisper.

  "Excuse me?"

  "This world. It’s so small. There are no challenges left. No one who can hold a candle to me." I press my hand against the glass. "I wish there were one person who was my equal. In any way at all."

  John steps up beside me. His expression is hard to read. "Be careful what you wish for, Jordan," he says softly. "Sometimes, wishes come true."

  I let out a short laugh. A dry, humorless sound.

  "Wake up already!"

  My eyes snap open. It’s not John in front of me, but a face with green eyes and a wide grin. Eamon. He’s bouncing up and down on my chest.

  "Dammit, what are you doing?!" I yell, shoving him off. I'm gasping for air. Eamon lands perfectly on his feet. He's wearing training gear, a small wooden sword at his hip. "Training!" he shouts happily.

  I exhale slowly and rub my face. Sweat is clinging to my forehead. "Fine," I mutter. "Go on ahead."

  I pull on my boots and step out into the cool morning air. The training ground is already a battlefield. In the center stands Eamon. He is eight years old, but when he moves, you don't see a child. You see a whirlwind of violence.

  His opponent is a grown guard—a massive man with broad shoulders and a practice sword as big as Eamon himself. The guard swings. It's a heavy, sluggish strike. Eamon dives under it—fluid, like water.

  CRACK.

  His wooden sword strikes the man's hamstring. The guard's leg buckles, and he hits the dust, cursing loudly. Over the last four years, Eamon has turned the promise he made to Daemon into his only reality. He isn't a kid anymore; he's a weapon being sharpened every single day.

  "For god's sake!" the guard roars from the ground, rubbing his leg. His face is red with shame. "Did I seriously just lose to an eight-year-old?"

  "Haha! I told you, Gohan!" Two other guards are leaning against the fence. One grins and holds out his hand. "Pay up."

  The other guard, Gohan, mumbles a curse and digs into his pocket. Coins jingle. "How the hell did you lose?" he grumbles, handing over ten bronze coins. "I bet everything on you knocking him flat."

  "Well," the winner laughs, sliding the coins into his pouch. "Nobody beats the little Lord. I've made fifty coins this week. Every new guy thinks they can take him."

  I step out of the shadows. "Oh, Prince Kael!" the winner stammers, nearly dropping his purse as he tries to salute. "I didn't see you—"

  "So, you're making a fortune," I interrupt quietly, staring him down. "On my brother's sweat."

  The color drains from his face. "My Lord... we... it was just a joke... we didn't mean—"

  "Get out." It's an order that leaves no room for debate. The guards stumble over each other to get away, practically running.

  "Hey!" Eamon jogs over, wooden sword held loosely. "Why are my friends running away?"

  "Forget them," I say, turning to him. "But they were always so nice! They always wanted to train!" Because they were betting on you, you idiot, I think, but I keep it to myself. He doesn't need to know that kindness often has a price tag. "Let's just start," I say.

  Eamon's face lights up, determination replacing the confusion. His eyes sharpen. "Finally."

  We take our positions.

  "Ready?" I ask. "Always," he replies.

  Then he explodes. He charges with zero restraint. A strike from the left—I parry. A blow from the right—I dodge. A thrust from below—I spin away. He's fast. Much faster than the guard. He gives me no room to breathe.

  "Not bad," I comment, blocking a strike aimed at my head. "But keep this up and you'll be out of energy in minutes." "Not before I hit you!" he pants.

  Suddenly, he takes a step back, winds up, and throws his wooden sword. It rotates through the air, aimed straight at my face. I tilt my head a few centimeters to the side. The rush of air grazes my cheek. I don't let my gaze drift from him for a second.

  Eamon uses the distraction. He's already in the air, launching a kick at my face. I catch his foot with an open palm. He doesn't care. He uses my arm as a brace, pushes off, and aims his other foot at my chin.

  I lean back. His foot misses by a hair. He uses the momentum to spin out of my grip and lands gracefully on his feet.

  "Dammit!" he yells, stomping his foot. "I thought you'd look away! Like the guard! I would've had you!"

  I cross my arms. "Clever move," I admit. "But it only works on amateurs. A real warrior never takes his eyes off the enemy, no matter what's flying through the air. Remember: distraction is a weapon that backfires if the enemy is more disciplined than you."

  Eamon frowns. "So the guard isn't a real fighter?" "He's young and inexperienced." "He's older than you!" Eamon protests. "Sure he is," I say calmly, picking up my sword again. "Let's keep go—"

  "KAEL!"

  Mother's voice rings across the yard. She's standing at the entrance, hands on her hips. "What are you doing out here already? You haven't even had breakfast! Inside. Now!"

  Eamon giggles. "Yes, Mother!" I call back. I look at Eamon. "After breakfast. We'll keep going. I promise."

  Eamon nods. "I'm going to get you, Kael. One day." "Maybe," I say as we walk toward the castle. "But not today."