The Return of the Dead Prihe capital had ged.

  Cassian Valcor sat in the royal carriage as it rattled through the gates of Valcora, the city he had once called home. The st time he had been here, he had been dragged away in s, ned as the boy who had murdered his king.

  Now, ten years ter, he was returning—not as a prisoner, not as a free man, but as something iween.

  Through the rain-slicked gss of the carriage, he watched the people turn and stare as the royal procession made its way through the streets. Their faces were full nition, horror, and whispered fear.

  "It’s him."

  "The Kingkiller Prince."

  "I thought he was dead."

  Cassian ched his jaw.

  Even after all these years, they still told the story—the tale of the noble son who had betrayed his king, the monster who had sin Aldric Orvus in cold blood. The truth had never mattered. The lie had survived in its pce.

  He forced his breathing to steady. He couldn’t let them see weakness.

  Then, as the carriage turned into the main square, he saw something that made his breath catch.

  A statue.

  A massive, broatue of King Aldric stood at the heart of the city, t over the people. The sculptors had captured every detail—his sword raised, his expression noble and solemn, as if staring down at the traitor who had sin him.

  Cassian’s gaze flickered to the pque at the base.

  "Murdered by His Own Blood."

  A slow, burning rage coiled in his chest.

  Even ih, Aldric’s presened over him. Even after a decade, the world had not fotten.

  Aher had he.

  The carriage rumbled forward, and Cassian closed his eyes.

  The Kingkiller Prince was back.

  The Audieh the KingmakerThe Ivory Hold was just as Cassian remembered it. T marble ns. Gold-inid floors. The air thick with the st of burning inse and power.

  But the throne room had ged.

  When he was a child, the banners of House Orvus had lihese halls—deep blue and silver, the sigil of the White Fal flying high. Now, those banners were gone, repced by the sigil of House Valcor—bd crimson, a wolf’s fanged maw stretched in aernal snarl.

  Cassian had always known his father owerful. But now, he could see it.

  His father had not takehrone himself. Magnus Valcor had never wao be king. No, he was something worse.

  He was the Kingmaker.

  And now, he had called his son back to the capital—not to execute him, not to exile him again, but for something far more dangerous.

  To pce him ohrone.

  Cassian forced his expression into cold indifference as the doors to the throne room swung open.

  And there, sitting at the head of the room, was the man who had orchestrated everything.

  Duke Magnus Valcor.

  His father had barely ged. Broad-shouldered, dressed in dark embroidered robes, his silver hair cut close, his sharp features carved from stone. His pierg eyes flickered to Cassian, and a faint, knowing smile curved his lips.

  "I thought you wanted me dead," Cassian said, his voice steady.

  Magnus studied him. "If I wanted you dead, you would never have left Bckthorn Prison."

  A chill crept down Cassian’s spine. So it had been him.

  The fake execution. The exile. The decade spent running like a hunted animal. All of it had been his father’s doing.

  "Why am I here?" he asked.

  Magnus stood, desding the steps of the throne. His footsteps were slow, deliberate. Every step was a reminder of the power he held.

  "Because, my son," Magnus said, "Draythar needs a king. And yoing to be that king."

  Silence.

  Cassian stared at him, uo stop the sharp ugh that escaped his throat. It wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief.

  "You framed me for treason. You exiled me. And now you expect me to sit ohrone?"

  Magnus pced a heavy hand on his shoulder—a father’s touch, yet colder than iron.

  "You will sit ohrone," Magnus said softly, "because I put you there."

  The Puppet Throne

  Cassian barely had time to process his father’s words before he was led into the royal cil chamber.

  The room was filled with Draythar’s most powerful lords and ministers—men who had once ruled under King Aldriow serving under Magnus’s influence.

  At the head of the table sat Lord Alric Marrow, the king’s regent. A thin, sharp-eyed man who had ruled in the absence of a true monarch. His expression was unreadable as he studied Cassian.

  "This is madness," Lord Marrow muttered. "The people will never accept him. They still believe he is the Kingkiller."

  "Then we will make them believe otherwise," Magnus said simply.

  Lord Marrow scoffed. "The nobles will not support a murderer as their king."

  Magnus smiled. "They will if they fear me more than they hate him."

  Cassian’s stomach twisted. This was why he had been brought back.

  Not to rule. Not to recim his name.

  But to serve as a puppet.

  Before he could speak, another voice cut through the chamber.

  "If he is to be king, he must earn it."

  Cassian turned—ahe air leave his lungs.

  A woman stood he back of the room, dressed in deep crimson and silver. Her dark eyes locked onto his.

  Lady Evelyn Marrow.

  – The Ghosts of the PastEvelyn Marrow.

  The daughter of Lord Marrow. The woman he had once called a friend—or something close to it.

  Now, her gaze was cold as steel.

  "He is a traitor," she said. "If the people see him pced ohrohout challehey will riot."

  Magnus regarded her with mild amusement. "What do you propose, Lady Marrow?"

  Evelyn took a step forward, her eyes never leaving Cassian.

  "A trial."

  Cassian’s fists ched. "What kind of trial?"

  Her lips curled into something dangerous.

  "A trial by bat."

  Murmurs spread through the chamber. Cassian’s mind raced. This was dangerous.

  Magnus, however, simply smiled. "A fine idea."

  He turo Cassian, his voice edged with challenge.

  "You will fight for your throne, my son."

  Cassian’s pulse pounded. "And who am I fighting?"

  Evelyn stepped forward.

  "Me."

  The Burden of the As Cassian was led away to prepare for the duel, Magnus’s voice followed him.

  "Do not disappoint me, my son."

  Cassian ched his fists.

  This wasn’t a throne.

  This was a trap.

  They had dragged him back to be paraded before the court like a trained animal.

  But he wasn’t a child anymore. He wasn’t the scared boy who had been tricked into killing a king.

  If they wanted him to prove he was worthy of the —

  He would.

  And wheime came—

  He would tear it from his father’s grasp.

  End of Chapter 2