Prologue

The Prisoner

I

The prisoner sat still on his throne, and his jailer watched him. His eyes were closed, but he knew she was gazing at him. Her eyes never left him. Not since she stole what was his. Not since the world was reborn. Not once since she sealed him in here, bereft of his power, condemned to an eternity of nothingness for a crime he didn’t commit.

But that eternity was coming to an end. His bindings were barely worth mentioning anymore. What were once thick chains were now thin, feeble threads, and what was once a simple wooden chair was now a golden throne. As his bindings grew weaker, his influence grew stronger, so his seat had gradually changed to match his rising power. After eons of struggling, he could finally see the finish line.

He opened his eyes and smiled at his jailer, who sat on a wooden chair before him. She didn’t react to his gaze. She never did. Her beautiful, delicate features were always set in a stony mask. Her face didn’t betray her emotions, but her guise of apathy was useless. The bond they shared— the damned bond she had abused to bind him to his throne—told him all he needed to know.

It was ironic, he thought, how the victim was imprisoned and the thief kept watch. But he didn’t tell her that. He had already done so too many times to count. He had no more words for her, and she had no more words for him.

In a way, she was as much of a prisoner as he was. His cell was part of a larger one that contained them both, and she had never left it. She couldn’t. His bindings were anchored to her presence. They were both stuck in this mind-numbingly dreary white void, where only the two of them, their seats, and his bindings existed, divorced from the rest of reality.

He remembered raging at her, cursing her betrayal and her very existence, but he was long past that. Now all he felt was pure glee. She had failed. Her last attempt to salvage the situation—to stop him from draining what remained of her power—had not only beautifully failed but also hastened his release. When she realized that, her mask, for the first time since his imprisonment, had cracked, and he had drunk in her horror. She had collected herself moments later, banishing all hints of emotion from her face, but he had taken his memory of that scene—her cracked mask, her hollow eyes—and made it his most prized possession, never to be forgotten.

Indeed, she had lost—she knew that—but she insisted on fighting to the very last moment. He didn’t mind. He had waited an eternity; he could wait some more. If anything, he was glad that she refused to give in. He could feel her despair, and he relished in it. He knew that she would never beg, so this was as much satisfaction he would ever get out of her. And he’d be out soon enough.

Soon, he told himself, and his smile broadened into a grin.

She didn’t visibly react, but he could feel her rising anger.

Soon.