The Burning Throne: The Burning Throne, #1

By E. J. Kingdom

The Empire is a place where no secret is safe and blood drenches every surface. Lies, royal parties, and iron-fisted monarchs are the norm. After all, you can't party when you're dead and murder is something to be expected, not feared.

Nate, heir to the Throne and son of Lucifer IV, watches his mum die in front of his eyes, helpless to stop it despite his best efforts. He wants revenge, but to get it, he needs confidence and a partner in crime. His father, thankfully, decides to find him a Princess to continue the family line, that if successful, will allow Nate to get the revenge he craves.

Lexi, runaway assassin, armed with a secret and the expertise of a murderer, and just wants to find a job that will give her more and help her get revenge on her sister. Taking the first step, though, is difficult. But when she hears rumours of a trial being conducted, she awaits the battle of a lifetime and agrees to form an alliance with Nate. Problem is, she needs to hide her identity from him and Lucifer until the job is complete – knowing she's a Hybrid could get her killed, and no one wants a dead assassin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Writers Den Press
• Release date: Jun 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223847366

E. J. Kingdom

Always having a book and pen to hand, Erica J. Kingdom is convinced that they are from a dark Fantasy realm. They are currently studying for an English and Creative Writing degree and want to become a further education English teacher and full–time author. They mind behind The Writers Den podcast. Their writing can be found in Honeyfire Literary magazine, The Paper Crane, Writerous, among others. They love to take walks through the local forests and enjoy books that have something to say about the world, whilst giving them a world to explore. You can find them on Linktree for more information on their work and on Instagram @Ericaj_kingdom.

Book preview

Table of Contents

The Burning Throne

Closed Door Conversations

The First Spark

Running Away From Academics

Outskirts

New Graduate Blood

Demons Invade

Running For Her Life

Fighting for a Place in Higher Society

Moving In

Negotiations

Loss Reflected

Creating Blazing Introductions

Finding Targets

Cold Blood

Almost Crushing Skulls

Old Memories and Cover Ups

Prince Devils

Burning Rooms

Lies

Talking with Father

Demons Stabbings and Bloody Conversations

Lucifer’s Revolt

Looked what the Guards dragged in

Nothing Better than Reformulation

No Bullets No Problem

Midnight Crafts

Masks

Dance With The Devil

The First Round

Burning Flames

Old Friends, New Blood

Bathroom Demons

Demise

Lucifer’s Bloody Legacy

Dreams And Blood

Knife-Filled Conflicts And Afterparties

Maps and Plans

A Mission to Convert

Deal with a Shadow

Blood and Hunger

Notes

Church tends to Kill

A Bars Encounter

Control

Cages

The Final Call

Bargining With The Devil

Locked up? Just break out!

Running

Dying

A Fatal Mistake

A second time Dying

Weapons and Weaknesses

The Third Round

Realizing

Searching for her Metal

Her Greif

Regretful Rivers

Splitting Blood

Drinking Father (nearly) dry

Bloody Crowns

Dark Deals and Demons

Advancing On

Emotional Bloody Demon-filled Baggage

Messy Greif-filled Conversations

Buried King

Funerals are Never Easy

A Commanding Dealmaker

Manipulation

A Battle with the Inner

Coming Face to face with Death

The Feet

Wanting  Revenge

Green Blood

Dark Shadowed Throne

Feelings of fading Power

Fear of Public Speaking is Irrelevant when Crowns are Involved

A Feast of Blood

Lost Brothers

Riots

A Falsity

Writing Power

Calling

Fighters against the Castle

Changing Narratives

Lower Fighting

Wrestling with her Demon

Places they are destined to be

Preparations

The Call

Wanting to Make Moves

Protestors (attempt) to voilently Protest

Jumping Rooves

Taking life, blood and Ice

Stay in Medical Care

Choices

Contacting the only one who can help, seemingly

Heated Roomy Conversations

After

Portals to New Worlds

Entering into the Heart

Preparations

Declaring War

Meeting The Queen

Angel Power

Parting Ways

Resignation

Turning To A (Hopeful) Saviour

The Start

E. J. Kingdom

The Burning Throne

The Burning Weapons Book One

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by Erica J. Kingdom

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

To all those who stand up to authority and become their own leaders and to all those who need permission to become themselves.

SIGNED LIMITED EDITION

Thank you for supporting me, reader. Your support means the world

INTRODUCTION

Often, I am told that introductions are the worst thing for a fiction book and that the world would be better without them. I think that, as it is my narrative, my book, and my story, I can give you a little authorial context, if you would be so interested.

Going into this novel, I think it is important to have context about me – the writer - and what I have been pouring my soul into since I was thirteen (which feels like a lifetime ago). This book, really, is more than a narrative to me – which on the surface sounds insane I know – but this is how I kept out of trouble and somewhat sane through my teenage years. Writing novels, after all, is definitely not something which could get me in any form of trouble, at all.[*] I don’t want to say that it is high art, because it isn’t, but I think there is a lot about myself put into these pages. It is very much like putting your baby in a beauty competition, because The Burning Throne in all its forms is a child to me.

Now, I feel ready to give it over to the public, the readers – to the harshest critic I could imagine, the public   who will cut it up, inspect it and wonder what I meant by every word. Provided this text is handled with care, I am interested to know what you think.  Whilst it is unnatural of the people who love literature I want you to try and read this without looking at every little detail. We aren’t in an English literature classroom, and you aren’t getting this as a set text in your exam. I haven’t, as of yet anyway, reached that level of popularity. If I ever do, I might write another edition of this introduction, but for now this is all you are getting.

Despite the assertion by certain French critics that the authorial intent is irrelevant, I still want to provide it anyway. I have as much responsibility to my readers for that, at the very least (as Philip Pullman suggests[†]) even if I am dead on arrival to my readers, as Roland Barthes implies through his essay on the subject[‡].

In some cases, about some older texts, I would agree it’s about readers’ story of a book and what it means to them. I agree, please have your own meaning. Whilst you have your own, let me tell  you what this text means to me.

Without spoiling the novel, I can’t tell you all too much, but I will say that at its heart the novel is a culmination of my years as a teenager, angry at their family and as I got older, seeing the cracks in the foundations that is their – failing – marriage. It is also coming out at a very important time in my life: after passing my undergraduate degree. I know at least one of my lecturers will, most likely, buy a copy and I know she might read this – if you want to do an introduction for this, just contact me – but I want to thank her. If it wasn’t for her support, then I wouldn’t have even got onto the course I wanted to so badly as a barely-adult. Her team has made me a better writer. You know who you are and thank you.

This novel, being a creation of my undergraduate years and also my teenage ones, was a massive adventure for me. Writing a novel is easy to start once you get into it, but it’s hard to start, and even harder still, to master. Everyone is able to write a story, but for various reasons, aren’t able to.

This piece of work, being put out into the world in my early twenties and born from a love of Derek Landy novels (Demon Road and the Skullduggery Pleasant[§]) being my favourites and inspiring, especially in those early drafts, the magic system I’ve used. As I’ve developed my own approach since then and grown into myself as a writer and I’ve adapted, working my own personality into it. Later, drafts went  from first person to third person (limited) with the poetic voices of V.E Schwab’s A Darker Shade Of Magic and other such forms, this narrative is as much of a capsule about me and my writing, as it a narrative about the things I was watching, reading, and trying to stretch my artistic ability to its limits – to challenge myself.

The Burning Throne has allowed me to become myself, fundamentally, giving me a sense of control and ownership, when I didn’t have any[**]. This was, is, and will be my child for the rest of my life. It is straddling the line between personal and fictional but is intimately, a work of fiction.

The footnotes in the novel allowed me to create a sense of personality that the work was missing. I had so much fun embodying the two narrative personas at once: the man, who will be called The Man in Black for now, and the one of the main characters. Of course, I may have overdone it in parts, but I will let you work with all the scraps of information and meta-narrative commentary.

If you do want to take my narrative and authorial intent at its worth, then I want you to read the novel in the mind of a teenager, enraged at their own family, seeing the flaws in the system, writing with all the forms they are learning and trying to find their own voice and who they are.

Your early twenties, as I am finding out, is about loving (in whatever way you want to), being yourself (and finding who you are), and discovering your own way in the world. You are nothing more than a baby, reborn in an adult body, having to learn how to do ‘adulting’ all over again.

The Burning Throne, at its core, is a story of accepting responsibility and going to stupid ends, to get, albeit, depending on how you look at it, reasonable power. Reasonable power is something that I have interest in. I am interested in its limitations, drawbacks, and how we can go about controlling the power we do have – magical or otherwise – and the question of the novel I want to pose is, in my mind, deceptively simple. How far are you willing to go to get what you want, both in life, and otherwise.

I want to thank my teachers, The Young Writers Initiative  whose editors, in the early stages of the novel, helped shaped some ideas – specifically worldbuilding – and my friend has helped and spent many long nights with me editing this novel to make it what it is, you know who you are, and thank you.

Before you turn the page, I want to tell you that this novel features some themes which readers may find disturbing: death, significant gore in some sections, as well as manipulation. If you are okay with this, then I welcome you to a text which might make you a little uncomfortable.

Erica J. Kingdom

June 2024

First edition

I

Revenge And Destruction

1

Closed Door Conversations

One thing matters – getting into that room and being a part of the conversation his parents are going to have. Nate Cináed hasn’t been told exactly what it is about. At seven years old, he is unaware of what’s happening. He only knows that his mum is being dragged by his Father, the hateful man he is, into the Throne room, with his flames burning brightly. If Nate reaches that door, he might be able to protect his mum from whatever Lucifer has planned. 

Nate tries to get his legs to budge, but they won’t. His heavy breaths burn in his chest and his body won’t move. His lungs feel as if they are never going to get enough air.

Grabbing onto the spikes when the door shuts might be an option. He had heard of assassins that did that. His mum used to read him a story about them. If he is going to do that, though, he needs to be wary that he only has his bare hands.

His body, finally, lets him move. He takes a step forward, ash filling his lungs, the taste snaking down the back of his throat.

His lungs burn with the taste of revenge in the air, and he pushes his body to the limit, trying to run as fast as he can towards the closing door. He reaches and his imagination runs wild. He will touch the door. He will... he will... he will...

But he doesn’t, the depths of his imagination were too deep and the ash on the bottom of the door makes his body tense. The door slams shut as his Father walks further, dragging mum by the neck, like a dog. The movement blasts wind into the hallway, pushing him back, slightly. His breathing echoes in the hallway.

Tension bubbles in the air. He wondered if the other people loitering around could feel the familiar sense of it.

The servants should be talking, his senses pick up on the silence, feeling like the bow of an instrument cut short. It rises and rises and rises and he knows it’s not like them to be silent, always talking, preoccupying their time with something. Maybe they’re scared? The thought tugs at his mind, but he focuses on the door - the real objective.

His palms are sweaty, and his chest is tight. His eyes darted around the cavernous hallway.

Flames burn brightly through his veins as he clenched his fists, desperately seeking an outlet for the restless energy inside him, as they spark and then fade out. His mind races, searching for a way to save his mum, but the answers elude him. Throwing himself over the door...

In a burst of frustration burns in his body and, he conjures a new room. But he drops it, realizing the futility of such a weapon against the challenges ahead.

Restlessness gnaws at him, and he gazes at the imposing Throne room doors adorned with menacing spikes. A daring idea forms in his mind—touch the spikes, attempt the impossible escape—but the risk is too great. Even if he manages to climb over, the fall will surely mean certain death.

Determined to find a way in, he paces the room, his heart pounding with each step. The stakes are high, and time is slipping away. If there’s one thing his Father has taught him, is that death waits for no one.

Distant voices feel thorny as he presses himself against the floor. It’s hot, but it is nowhere cool, here. He can’t quite make out everything what they are saying, but he’s gathered that, it is, most likely, about him.

‘Do you want him to be shipped off to The Right Hand?’

The threatening harshness in Lucifer’s tone is razor sharp. His mum is a brave woman for standing up to him, her voice rising with anger and defiance, the syllables, and occasional shouts like hot coals, forever burning. He could never, even if his destiny is to overtake him.

His eyes were drawn to the thousands of paintings adorning the walls, all glorifying Lucifer. Each stroke of the brush seemed to capture the devil’s essence, and the sight sent shivers down Nate’s spine. Servants dust the wooden statues with their wood polishing things, they look like rags used to wash your face, Nate thinks. At night, his Father decides to talk about how he will get them ordained in gold and he shows his large collection, each painting showing his power and grandeur.

‘I could murder him in a heartbeat, and you know it.’

Nate knows that word – murder – and knows that the blades in those paintings, in the hallway, that his Father, the King, is the most powerful man in the Kingdom put there. His imagination runs wild, knives and blood spilling on the opulent floor. 

He roars. ‘I don’t want my Son to be a Healer. They are useless.’

Nate also knows that word – healers – too. That is what his mum is and what she can do to his wounds, it’s why he can play in the large Castle gardens and can touch the flowers and sit under the big tree and be read to without getting too hurt, like some of the other children in the Castle and nearby Villages.

The statues and the sharp spikes on the door seem like the only way to get out of this and over the wall to help his mum. He can’t risk it. From the sounds of it, Lucifer might... Nate takes a breath and steadies himself.

The air is hot with anger and smells of ash. Every breath from his charred lungs feels like his chest is getting tighter and tighter.

‘Healers can’t heal themselves, so you’d be unable to defend yourself.’

Thoughts rush around his brain about what Lucifer might be planning. A crash. Screams. More shouts.

‘You are nothing to me! Ever since I had the child, you haven’t cared for him.’

Her voice is hoarse, but still, he can hear his mum’s soft tones from this side of the wall. His chest feels heavy and tight and clammy hands burn with bright flames and make two knives. He is going to get to mum, and he will save her.

‘I’ve healed his wounds and cared for him.’

Nate runs up towards the door, filled with spikes and forces his seven-year-old body to transform into his Demon and launches himself towards the door, blades biting into the metal as he climbs up.

‘You let me single-handily raise him! I healed and fed him when all your men died.’

One knife in, then two. He climbs up, using his feet for leverage and taking a breath. One thing to do, his mum had told him when he tried this once, is never to look down. Pain thunders through his feet and he grips onto his knives tighter, finding a place to rest his feet.

Keep on climbing. He starts again and holds on tightly to his two knives and finds two places for his feet. From here he can hear their voices clearer.

‘They never cared. You never cared.’

He takes one knife out of the metal and stabs somewhere else and somewhere else after that. Get through the door. Get through the door. His mum is in danger.

The door gradually rumbles, sending tremors upwards. Nate needs to get down. Now. He forces himself to think of a weapon, channelling the flames to make something that will save him from his demise. He hangs onto his knives and keeps himself hidden from Lucifer. Smoke works its way from the Throne room into the hallway. It’s a while away yet.

His Fathers’ voice booms in the hall and battles against the grinding doors. ‘Silence! Hang her in the dungeons for hours!’

She screams for mercy and their helmets gleam in the flames with Lucifer’s crest on the back of their armour. His mum tries to hit through their armour and the guards stand tall, like Castle walls. She screams and battles against the Guards, purple flames burning brighter than her green ones. She forces them back and lashes her purple flames out.

They clamp down on her shoulders, throwing her on the ground, but she rises and forces the away from her. Others pick her up again. He slowly works his way down onto the hot floor, away to his Father.

He is so close. Lucifer has a stone-faced expression, looking on, as if this isn’t destroying him one bit. It’s got to hurt. He’s watching his Guards destroy someone he loves. Father loves mum, right?

The guards tear into his her, their blades shining, and gloves dimly shine red and force her to scream and cry. Her roaring purple flames go dim and her body goes limp. She tries to scream and punch, but it’s no use. Their gloves hurt her. His flames burn brightly, and she meets Nate’s gaze, shaking her head.

‘What are you going to do about the Trial, Lucifer? Are you going to leave him for dead like you did our other child?’

2

The First Spark

Murderous sparks create an aura of destruction. Nate is held away from the flames, helpless to intervene, only called to watch the chaos unfold.

He can’t get too close, the guards block Nate’s path, but he is just close enough to taste the flames on his tongue and smell the incinerating, incoming destruction, but far enough to not die from the heat. Power bolts through his body.

One thing, though, is certain: the hot feeling burns through him, and the anxiousness that the world will crumble around him might be too much to bear. Tiny fingers flex and a feeling that something hungers to get out...

Twinges of fear run side-by-side. Focus on the event at hand, he tells himself, trying to ward off the anxiousness in his body.

Red, sticky stuff stains the floor and tarnishes the black stone walls. It basks the room in sin, and it sticks to the floor and the walls and the grey stone grooves between the bricks.

He tastes Lucifer’s wrongdoing in the back of his throat and stands helpless. Small and innocent. Unknowing. Held back by nothing but his fear and blind seven-year-old obedience. Whatever Father is doing, it’s for the best. Parents would never hurt you. Right? Right?

A gold, destructive, devilish weapon blazes in his Father’s hand, and he smiles, brown eyes blaze with bloodthirsty tendencies.[††]

He holds her struggling body tight in his ape–like hands. She tries to scream, struggles against him, trying to find a point where she can break free.

‘Mum! Please be okay. Please be safe.’ Nate mutters to himself.

His grip tightens, careful to keep himself from touching the flames. Careful. Aggressive. Calculated. Flames run around him. Shine briefly. Light burns inside his confident eyes.

Mum’s face touches Father’s. Their bodies collide in a forceful, destructive hug. Except this time, it’s bloody, stepped in sin and sticky like glue.

Nate meets his mum’s gaze, hears her ragged, uneven breaths. Her body is lowered into the blazing bath of flames below with melted metal around the rim.[‡‡]

Lucifer’s body casts long, fierce, shadows on the back wall. Flames create destructive spiralling ashes staining the ground grey, lifeless and devoid of love.

Lucifer raises a blade, cutting her a thousand times across the body.[§§]

Wounds weep. Flames devour her hair, leaving ash-covered, rings around the tub.

You’re going to be okay, my Son. I love you.

The weight of everything feels like it might fall on top of him, and his heart might be the next thing to go, and he knows that if he acted now, it would mean a death sentence. Begs and screams echo and assault his ears.

Lucifer stands with his back to the flames, eyes lit by orange and red embers. The rest of his face cast in shadow.

Lucifer grabs the knife. With a flick of his bulky hand, he stabs. Shadows cast on the walls, obscuring his view from his mum. A metal smell makes its way through the room.

Flames burn through her body and eat away at her hair. Lucifer glares at him and gestures towards her dying body.

Disobedience rushes through his veins, running in his head. He toys with the thought, only for a second. It’s easier to obey. Despite knowing this the option to mess his parent - idiot of a Father - around very appealing.

But obeying would cause less arguments, prevent more damage, just like when he was forced into this mess. He already feels his broken bones forcing their way through his skin, ripping it apart, his skin like paper, loosely containing his bones. That’s a lie. He knows it. They feel broken.

Being put on the pike and held in front of thousands of men....

Too soon. Repress it. Not now.

Every bone in his body screams and fear bolts through his veins and his heart rate skyrockets. Faster and faster and faster. His hands start to shake, and his throat is dry like sandpaper.

Calm down.

He should find some water, but Lucifer wouldn’t be that kind. There isn’t any. He glances over at the door.

Padlocked.

He swallows. It feels like harder sandpaper.

Thirst drains his will to disobey.

Staying will stop you from getting into trouble. It’s easier to do what he wants than disobey.

He forces his way through the Guards and inches towards Lucifer. Tears prick and the world feels too much and like it feels like he is looking through glass and its misty. Flames, and the ash burn brighter than he’s ever seen before and the world floods with water and he feels like he’s the only person stupid enough to get a paper boat.

Mum’s lungs force another blood–curdling scream. She tries to inch towards him, gritting her teeth.

Instead of going to Lucifer, he rushes towards his mum, grips her red, blistered hands and stares at her faded body; feeling like it might crumble and be blown away if there’s a strong gust. A hand smashes into him but he rises anyway and makes his way to Mum regardless.

He can’t let the pain show and grips her hands, and her red, blistered hands feel unsteady in his soft grip.

He blubbers internally.

A copper and smoke smell mix in the back of his throat.

She attempts to get out of the tub, but Lucifer pins her down.

‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!’ she screams. ‘What about our child? What are you going to do to him? We both need to be there! We can’t have another one of you, Lucifer. I won’t let you. This marriage was a good idea once, but not now.’

‘I know what I’m doing!’ he says. ‘Stay where you are like a good wife.[***]’

She forces herself out of the tub, picks up a fallen stone and clicks her fingers and lets the dark room light up again.

His eyes adjust to the light.

‘Go. Get to safety.’

He watches as she advances towards Lucifer, calls forth a flame and the different colours contrast against his Father’s.

He bolts to safety. Screams, shouts, yells of pain. The aura of destruction and death burns inside him, seeps into his skin, runs through his blood, the memories building blocks inside his brain.

He’s transfixed on the moment, like he is watching a novel come to life behind his eyes.

His mum advances, shadows dance on the wall.

She’s knocked down again.

Lucifer’s hand smashes into her body. Her blade slices his cheek. Kicks and grabs and screams.

‘You aren’t going to kill me, Lucifer. We both have a child to raise. Let me heal you and we can raise him together.’

‘Your time as Queen is done.’

Heat burns through the room.

Smoke makes it hard to see anything in much detail, but he can make out the shadows and the darkness and there’s a hand on his mum’s heart and darker shadows and flames and blood and maybe death. There’s something wet trailing down his back and his breath feels hard in his chest and the shadows grow more hostile.

‘Wake up, my stupid, useless Queen.’

He slaps her across the face. His Father holds his mum’s neck and the scowls, and his mum is bruised and bloody and nearly dead. Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead. How could he do this?

‘Now, talk to your useless Son. He can’t even save you!’

Holding his hands out, Nate places it in hers holding it tight, he closes his eyes.

‘You’re going to be okay,’ her bloody hand streaks softly across his face. ‘He can’t hurt you here.’

A green flame burns in her hand. Heat embraces him, like a tight, less destructive, welcoming hug. The flame is calm, comforting. Father’s flames hurt him and feel like they’re burning his soul apart and he feels sick and like he’s whatever dying is, and he can’t breathe, and the smoke burns and embers crack and... and... and.... It all comes out in four words:

‘But he’s hurt you!’ he cries.

‘Yes... but this isn’t the end for you. He’s going to leave you alive. He’s promised me that much.’

Her tone doesn’t suggest trusting, but he can’t argue with his mum. She’s always been right.

The heat gets more destructive, threatening to choke him.

‘I know you’re scared...’ she says, licking her burned lips, ‘just do whatever you must to cope when I pass. I love you.’

‘Pass?’ he asks, trying to make sense of the word, slip its hard texture on his under–developed tongue. ‘To where?’ He blubbers, trying to steady himself.

‘Evermore,’ she says, hesitant. ‘The afterlife. I’ll be safe there,’ she repeats, holding his hand tight. She strokes it, trying to drive away his quivering, wobbling sobs trying to make the words settle. ‘No one can hurt me, especially not your Father.’

‘But... I need you... I need you to guide me!’ he yells, trying to contain his sobs. ‘I need you to be there for me... you’re my only hope!’

‘I know... but I’ve tried to resist him,’ she looks away, refocusing on Nate. ‘You must go on, you’re my little soldier. You are going to do what I can’t. I believe in you.’

He nods.

Hands on his back. A scream. Pain lances through his side. The light is just enough to see by, just enough to watch.

‘Mum!’ he screams. ‘You can’t leave me here!’

He claws towards his Father, getting his fists ready. ‘Don’t hurt her!’ he yells, his voice ripped from his throat.

‘Boy! Do not get involved.’

Flames force him back. They burn hotter. They burn destructively, murderous, hateful.

Lucifer smiles, crooked teeth shining in the flames below. Smoke shrouds any sense of morality he has left. The knife rams into her throat. A flash of finality.

He backs away, turning towards him.

‘You’re mine now, Son! Time to find you a princess.’

He summons a small knife.

‘Son, drop the knife,’ Lucifer says, his words dripping with order. ‘Drop the knife or there will be consequences!’

‘No! You... did that,’ Nate points the knife to his dead mother, ready to smash his Father to pieces.

‘Looks like another Demon will fall. But that can wait,’ another knife blazes in his grip. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’

His voice shakes as fear runs through, knotting his vocal cords. Anger rushes through his veins. Blood boils.

He stabs Lucifer in the arm. Again. Again...

Reluctance bleeds into his conscience, but he fires more strikes. He might have become overwhelmed with anger, destruction, a lust – desire – for death.

He might be the youngest King...

Pain fills his vision. For both his mum’s and his own sake, he knows what he needs to do.

Lucifer winces but doesn’t move. Gritting out a sigh, he holds his hands up to mimic the people whom he hangs in the dungeons.

A taunting gesture. A Façade.[†††]

Anger rises, confidence blossoms, burning through the heat. For one second. Then the plant becomes overwhelmed and dies. He once showed Nate the horrible conditions he put them under. That one time was enough to discipline him. It all started...

Lucifer grins, puts his hands down again, looking on with confidence as Nate raises a weapon.

‘Before you do any more damage,’ he lets the embers burn on his fingertips. ‘Let’s find you a princess.’

He harshly pushes Nate away and takes the knife and tosses it onto the ground. His Father pulls him towards the locked door with his mother bleeding and dying in the centre.

‘She is dead, Son.’

Nate tugs back, resisting his Father’s grip. They stop in place. Their eyes lock, studying each other, like beasts. The world stops like its lungs have collapsed.

His Father snarls, lips curled in a Demonic smile, flames swirling in his stare. Blood drips.

Nate stares into the distance; the welcoming embrace of the unjudging wall greets him. Lucifer’s voice fades into background noise.

Why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why did you kill her Father?

When his Father stops yelling, it’s over.[‡‡‡] He lived through the onslaught. Then it starts again. Until he drops the final word, shoots the final bullet. It doesn’t kill, merely wounds.

His brain puts on a show, a theatre of nightmares.[§§§] It shows him images of his not–so–distant–youth. Images flash, flared to life. They are happy, filled with something that he misses. A broken puzzle piece. A destroyed photograph.[****]

The morning blood makes him sick after a night of screams, yells and nightmares. His brother laid ash-covered, and eyes closed, blood-drenched hair flopped down onto the bedsheets and Nate’s bed is also soaked with blood. His Father’s shadow rose, slow. His heart raced and he checked Oliver’s pulse. As cold as stone. He calls for his mum. She comes running but Lucifer casts a flame, a wall between him and help.

‘Why?’ Nate asked. ‘What did he ever do to you?’

‘I do not have to explain myself to you, Son.’ he says, flames burning brightly. ‘Do not try to resist or reason with me. Test me and you’ll end up like him.’

‘But you ripped him away!’ Nate showed his Father the blood on his hands and bloody, the coldness in his touch and the destruction in the room. ‘Why? You have no heart!’

‘Do not test me.’ He repeats. ‘Someday you will learn, when you are a strong leader, that this was necessary.’

The pale, darkened moonlight shone on his brother’s dead body. Lucifer smiled towards his corpse. He got up and tried to shout at him, but his vocal cords were dry. He punched with all the might that one could muster. Lucifer turned, throwing him onto the bed and pinning him down, holding a blade to Nate’s throat.

‘Don’t touch me ever again, Boy! Understand me?’

He gulped and tried to fall asleep but couldn’t. His brother’s murder had kept replaying on repeat, his screams echoing through his brain. He couldn’t fall asleep for a few months afterwards.

That was Lucifer’s first kill.

3

Running Away From Academics

Bells are the second-most deadly thing in the Assassin’s Academy. The first is the simple fact that - although its needed for training - everyone wielding knives and the knowledge on how to kill. Lucky Lexi hasn’t made any enemies with the poisoners, that would be a very deadly enemy.[††††] The large churches, hollowed walls with echoing foundations, droning bells and even worse professors stand at the front, with their long hair and faces of steel. Emotionless. Cold, like the stats they preach about. The bells ring out, long and hard, shaking the unsteady foundations of the Academy church and makes her want to die from the noise, they might as well give them free ear defenders. What good are assassins if they can’t hear what is around or behind them?

Her leather strap struggles to keep itself tight against her chest, but it’s just about able to hold her knives and gun at her hip. Despite being a growing girl – she should correct that to a young woman, graduate – the Academy decides to scream at her for wanting one that is tight enough to make sure that it won’t snap in place. These newer leather straps are weaker, and she needs to get back to her old ones. Back to safety, before all these Demons started ripping her life apart.

Maybe she is a pedantic seventeen-year-old, but who really cares? Thankfully, her time here is done.

People surround her, all armed with celebration shirts and a spirit of a new-born puppy. Alcohol is in the air and making the sparks in the room flare to life, but she wants to get as far as possible away before the sparks become a flame that she can’t put out.

Large, oak-wood seats, set in lines, stretch as far as she can see. The stones climb up the wall, further and further, higher and higher before the large glass windows cast bright sunlight down onto the smooth stone below.

Her top sticks to her and her jeans rub against her legs, the heat in here is unbearable. For this idiotic money-grabbing event, they decided to impose a dress code. Quite honestly, why should she care? Renting a gown and a hat? Outrageous.

The stage, at the back of the church, feels distant and the bodies around her, squished together, like sardines, make her feel horrible. The moment she can leave this place is going to be the best one in her seventeen years of existence. Honestly, she might just leave before – there isn’t much for her here.

‘You are fully fledged Assassins.’ The King of the Brain, Edward, says. ‘You have finished your time here.’

He drones on and on about the different opportunities that the Academy will give her – and them as people going out into the world – and how their lives have been transformed through this these experiences of nearly dying many times over. He goes on about their different strengths. The droning is getting too much.

‘The best part of the Assassin’s program is the ability to take the skills you’ve learned here into the world.’

What’s the best thing about being an assassin? Learning to escape. And that skill will be what gets her away from Edward droning on about her group of people being the best even if they are the last people to walk through the halls and attend the classes before it will be shut down.

At least Edward cares about the education for his people, unlike some other Monarchs.

It was an accident, which meant she got education here for free. She focuses on the chair in front of her until the thought goes away. Who knows, the skills gained here might help her – especially keeping her secrets – and find a new home.

Really, the good thing, the right thing – whatever that is and why should she be judging that? – is to make her classmates proud by staying and clapping and waiting for their rewards.

Lexi never liked waiting, battle was the only thing she could wait for, and that is because she doesn’t feel like dying horribly and a gruesome death doesn’t appeal to her, especially with her hundreds of knives.

What will they say about her? That she is mathematically the best student there, if she had to guess. Maybe that Edward had a part in her becoming so good? It’s a miracle that they’ve survived these past few years. Rumours circulate that Lucifer, King of the Brain, is searching for a new heir[‡‡‡‡] If they are true, then it would explain why her group is so small, now. It would also explain why she has this strange pull to the graveyard.

She’s at the back with the large wooden stools hurting her backside. No one will notice if she slips out. The best thing about finishing here is individuality. The world at large is now hers to carve her name into the best she can and to make sure that the knives she wields are sharp enough to obliterate anyone – or thing – that stands in her way.

She’s still got those knives her Father gave her, engraved with the hundreds of things she should have