Soulbreaker by Terry C. Simpson Page B

traits from other bloodlines, it’s been passed down to the boy. It’s the will of the Dominion. I, for one, do not question the choices made by the Gods. Neither should you.”
    “You sit upon the Soul Throne, so you would not.” Licking his lips, Leroi cast nervous glances at the throne. Greed lived in those eyes. So did fear.
    “That I do.” Ainslen leaned over to the count. “I know what you feel, my friend. I suffered much the same foolishness. Do as I did: if you hear word from any man questioning your grandson’s parentage, then challenge him to a duel. After you kill the first few, they will get the message. Now, if it’s not too much, our guests should be here at any moment.”
    “Yes, sire.” Count Shenen bowed stiffly before striding away toward the other nobles.
    Expelling a breath, Ainslen sat back on his throne but did not relax. He couldn’t, for the Soul Throne ate those who sat upon it. Not literally. It didn’t devour their meat, bones, and blood; it partook of their soul. And a person’s soul was as much a part of them as their physical being. While sitting upon the chair he fought a constant battle to prevent it from consuming him.
    To negate the leeching effect, he could’ve chosen a similar path as Jemare and so many other monarchs before him: encase the throne in its mold of grey metal. But then he wouldn’t feel alive. The persistent battle was a reminder that things more powerful than him existed in the world. He had the mold consigned to a storeroom.
    Thinking of the throne, he stroked the armrest, tracing his fingers along its silver-scaled design. Another person might think the scales an intricate work of a master metalsmith, but he knew them for what they were.
    Dracodar scales.
    Someone had crafted the throne using parts taken from beasts most thought to be dead, their remains powerful relics coveted by the nobility. Not only that, but the wall itself held even more secrets: the bones of legendary Blades as well as other remains, those placed there by Jemare in his heinous practice from the Trial of Bravery. That last made him grimace. Perhaps, like Hemene the Savage, the Soul Throne had driven Jemare mad, for only one who had lost himself to the soul craze would’ve committed such atrocities against noble children.
    Expression still sour, Ainslen thought of the man held prisoner in the dungeons, proof the Dracodar still lived. He could see Delisar even now, golden scales bursting through a layer of human skin. As he’d done on several occasions, the king wondered if Keedar and Winslow were the same, this change dormant in them. The king shook his head, not wanting to believe his own imagination.
    Even more fascinating was the idea that Jemare had known of Delisar and his family this entire time. Prior to the Night of Blades, the dead king had revealed his suspicions as to the location of Tharkensen and Elysse, but not once had Jemare mentioned that he suspected the renowned female assassin of being a Dracodar.
    Ainslen frowned. Or had the king not known? Was it a chance discovery? Ainslen himself hadn’t realized his find until he had Delisar in chains, recognized the man’s face and smell from the Night of Blades. All these years spent tracing their bloodlines, hoping to take advantage of the Smear’s dregs, when in fact there were actual Dracodar among them.
    The Night of Blades played out in his head. He sent Kenslen to take the Trial of Bravery, the test that particular night serving two purposes: to ascertain the skill level of the noble children and for an assault into the Smear led by King Jemare himself. When he returned home from a meeting he discovered Marjorie’s note, stating she’d chased after their son to stop his participation in the trial.
    With High Priest Jarod as his guide, he dashed into the Smear, but before they could find Marjorie, they were caught in Jemare’s battle at some home in Pauper’s Circle. Elysse’s home, he later discovered. He