The concept of a royal inheritance usually involved gold, land, or a crown, but the Vane family legacy was a chair made of rotting flesh and biological theft.
"You're staring," King Alistair rasped from his throne.
The golden tubes wired into his spine clicked and hissed, pumping a steady, dark stream of unrefined nectar into his shriveled neck.
His solid black eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at Lucien and Kael.
"I suppose I don't look like the oil paintings in the grand gala hall, do I? Three hundred years in the basement will do that to a man's complexion."
"You're supposed to be dead," Kael said, his voice flat with horror as he gripped his bloody Vanguard sword.
He took a half step forward, but his knees shook slightly.
"The records said the first king sacrificed his physical body to launch the capital city."
"The records were written by me, boy," Alistair cackled.
The sound was like dry autumn leaves scraping across stone.
