Chapter 1

The rain did not fall; it attacked.

Prince Alistair stood on the balcony of the Navia Palace, the storm lashing against his heavy velvet cloak. The fabric soaked through, clinging to his broad shoulders like a second skin, but he didn't feel the cold. He couldn't feel anything except the violent hammering of his own heart against his ribs.

He stared down at the mud-slicked courtyard below.

A squad of the King's Royal Guard marched through the sludge. They were dragging three civilian women toward an iron-barred carriage. The women were screaming. The sound sliced through the thunder, raw and guttural.

One of the women dug her bare heels into the mud, fighting back. She thrashed, her fingernails clawing at a guard's armored forearm.

The guard didn't even flinch. He raised the heavy pommel of his broadsword and brought it down hard against the side of her head.

A sickening crack echoed in the courtyard. The woman went limp, collapsing face-first into the filthy puddle. The guards grabbed her by the ankles and tossed her into the cage like a sack of dead weight.

Alistair's pupils contracted. His jaw locked so tight his teeth ground together. He gripped the marble balustrade. The ancient marble felt cold and unyielding, threatening to crack his own bones under the immense pressure of his white-knuckled grip.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Bile rose in the back of his throat.

This was the world the Wither virus had left them. Women were gone. The few who survived, the rare ones who were born, were no longer human beings. They were currency. They were meat. They were the cheapest and most expensive commodities in the kingdom.

A massive crack of thunder shook the balcony.

Alistair's eyes snapped open. The terror he felt for the women below morphed into a suffocating, paralyzing panic for the woman inside.

His wife was in labor. Right now.

He spun around. He didn't care about the rain or the mud tracking onto the pristine carpets. He sprinted down the corridor. His heavy leather boots slammed against the stone floor, the rapid thuds echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

He ducked into the shadows of the dim, torch-lit hallway. He had to avoid the main arteries of the palace. If his brother, King Orestus, found out about the birth tonight, it would be over.

Alistair pressed his back against a cold stone alcove. He held his breath. His lungs burned.

A patrol of four royal guards strolled past. They were laughing.

"Did you see the blonde they loaded up?" one guard sneered. "I bet a month's wages she goes to the breeding houses before dawn."

Alistair's stomach twisted into a violent knot. He pressed his head against the stone, fighting the urge to draw his sword and slaughter them all. He waited until their heavy footsteps faded into the distance.

He pushed off the wall and ran.

He reached the deepest, most desolate part of the palace-the West Tower. He stopped in front of a heavy oak door that looked abandoned. Dust coated the hinges.

He knocked three times. A specific, rapid rhythm.

The heavy iron deadbolt scraped back. The door opened an inch.

Alistair shoved his way inside.

The smell hit him instantly. Copper and sweat. Blood and bitter herbs. It was so thick it coated the back of his tongue. He choked on his next breath.

The room was lit by a few flickering candles. Queen Pandora lay on a blood-soaked mattress. Her skin was the color of ash. Her nightgown was plastered to her body with sweat. Her back arched off the bed as a violent contraction ripped through her.

Healer Agnes stood at the foot of the bed. Her hands were slick with bright red blood. She was shaking.

Alistair rushed to the side of the bed. Pandora's hands were thrashing in the air. He caught them. He pressed her clammy palms against his cheeks.

Pandora's unfocused eyes fluttered open. She felt his warmth. A weak, broken moan escaped her cracked lips.

Another contraction hit. Pandora's body jerked. Her fingernails dug deep into the back of Alistair's hands. They pierced his skin. Blood welled up around her nails.

Alistair didn't pull away. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. Their sweat mixed. "I'm here," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm right here."

"Push, Your Grace!" Agnes yelled from the foot of the bed. Her bloody hands worked frantically beneath the sheets. "The head is right here!"

Pandora bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard blood trickled down her chin. She let out a bloodcurdling, chest-tearing scream. She pushed with every ounce of life she had left in her fragile body.

Suddenly, Pandora's hands went completely limp in Alistair's grip.

Alistair's heart stopped. He snapped his head toward the foot of the bed.

Agnes yanked her arms back. Cradled in her bloody palms was a tiny, motionless mass covered in fluid and gore.

The room went dead silent.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

The only sound was the violent wind howling against the narrow stone window. Alistair forgot how to breathe. He stared at the unmoving lump of flesh. His mind went entirely blank.

Then, the tiny chest hitched.

A sharp, piercing cry shattered the heavy silence of the room.

Alistair exhaled a breath he felt like he'd been holding for nine months. His knees buckled. He hit the stone floor beside the bed, his hands still gripping Pandora's. Tears hot and fast pricked his eyes.

Pandora heard the cry. A weak, exhausted smile touched her bloody lips. She tried to lift her head to see.

Agnes grabbed a warm, wet cloth from a copper basin. She started wiping the blood and fluid from the screaming infant's body.

Alistair forced himself to stand. He walked toward the foot of the bed. His eyes locked onto Agnes's moving hands. He waited for the answer that would dictate whether his family lived or died.

Boy, or girl.