I think you've already guessed which boy the princess wanted to bear. That's right, a half-demon. Me.

It took two moons for Michelle to reach Torrin. All this time, Martha, Rick, and Henry were trying to dissuade her from her plan. They were too late. Michelle had already set her heart upon that idea as if a flame was burning inside her—a scary, black, mad flame. She had chosen her path and had no intention of changing her mind. In response to all their questions, she simply shook her head. Only once, she gathered her friends and told them her mind.

"You think me mad? You're wrong. I hoped you would understand everything yourself. Rick must, even if not quite. And yet it's simple. What do people think about me right now? That I'm a criminal, acquitted by her own father—a kinslayer, an arsonist, a witch. Abigail and her entourage made sure of that. Rudolph trusts her as if the Bright Saint himself sent her down to earth. And what awaits me after Father's death? That's right. A convent, marriage, or death. Finding a good match is unlikely; Abigail will take care of that. Actually, she already did. My reputation is in shambles. And what's left? A convent? I'd rather die—but in such a way that everyone would remember me for years. So, what's the most important thing for Rudolph and Abigail? Well?"

"The crown," replied Rick calmly. He got it.

"Exactly. The crown and everything it entitles them to. Not the work, no. Balls, jousts, hunting parties, gilded gowns, comely court whores and gigolos—that's the height of their ambition. Not mine, though. But Father cannot leave me the crown and bypass Rudolph. Martha, dear, I would have asked you to hex him, but I know there is no point. They would dispel it."

"They wouldn't."

"Forgive me, darling, but I do know the limits of your power. You're not the strongest necromancer in the world. You would need a lot to cast this curse, and it would only work much later. Rudolph would have enough time to get to me, and Abigail..."

"I could hex 'em both, if I'm lucky."

"I don't mind. But it should be something...not fatal, but quite unpleasant and natural. Could you? Ill health, or..."

"Infertility," Henry suggested smoothly. "I would obtain everything necessary, like clothes or hair..."

"Hair. Or a handkerchief with her snot, a few drops of blood, w'ever you want. Even a nail clipping. I'll manage."

Martha remembered very well how Rudolph had wanted to burn her at the stake, and necromancers have long memories.

"Great. But that's not enough," Michelle tossed her hair. Was it white or grey? "Martha, I want to give birth to a half-demon."

"Wha-at!" that was Martha.

"How!" Henry asked.

"Why!" Rick asked. He was the only one who understood.

"I need a child with inherent intelligence, yet cruel. A predator. You think I don't realize what's going to happen to this country? Rudolph is an idiot. While he's the king, everything will get stolen, and his children will be the same as him. In a few generations of such kings, Radenor will be torn apart, which is why I want my son to become king. I've researched half-demons. They're born cruel—and with a commanding presence. As for the rest, his upbringing will depend on you. Rick will teach him to rule. Henry, to fight. Martha, your task will be the hardest one, sister."

"Michelle, I—"

"Don't. You are more than a friend to me; you're my sister. But it's not the time for tears. My son will likely be born a necromancer. You will have to teach him, and more. I want you to take my place for him, so he won't grow up a feral beast. He needs a mother, and I'll be gone. You'll be the only one left. You will have other children, but never forget Alex, all right? He has to learn about love."

***

Alex was me. Alexander Leonard Radenor.

Michelle survived two hours after my birth, long enough to give me my name and put me to her breast. Then she died. A carrier pigeon set for the capital at once. In response, they sent a messenger, with the official will. It named me an heir, made Henry a count, provided he fostered the orphaned prince until the latter turned fifteen, and acknowledged Rick's baronial title and his right to the land, provided he let me live there as long as I wished to. The parcel also contained a scroll from the office of the main temple of the Bright Saint, recognizing my claim to the throne. Hard to imagine how much money it had cost my grandfather.

Michelle was buried on a cliff above the sea. I often visit her grave, sitting there and reminiscing. Half-demons remember everything from the moment of their birth. So do I. Her tangled hair, slick with sweat, her weak, yet tender hands, pressing me against her breast, the taste of milk mixed with blood, Martha screaming,

"Mistress, it's sharp teeth he has..."

And my mother's quiet voice, hoarse after all the crying, "No worries... Eat, my baby. It's the only thing I can give you. As for your teeth, you will need them. And claws. And a weapon. Grow strong, my sweet. Grow smart. Grow powerful. And I'll be looking after you—if not from heaven, then from the darkness. I promise. Remember that I love you anyway."

I remember the smell of blood and death. And I remember her loving blue eyes. I've never once seen such an expression anywhere else—of love, affection, joy, resignation, and of frantic, furious, frenzied triumph.

Princess Michelle died victoriously.

***

Alexander the Second died three moons after his daughter's demise. Rudolph took the throne—His Royal Majesty, first of his name. There were a grand ball and a joust in honor of his coronation.

Meanwhile, our neighbors snatched a piece of land away from us, sending a letter with apologies for "their vassals' usurpation of power," a spectacular suit of armor, and a war stallion. They didn't move the border back, though. Uncle swallowed it up. He didn't even notice anything was wrong—after all, they sent a gift to his beloved Abigail, a fancy necklace inlaid with sapphires and a white mare with golden ribbons in her mane. Delighted, she forgot all about her grudges. The neighbors, in the meantime, hiked the toll and trade fees so much that merchants wept. But who cared about all those cattle? Definitely not Rudolph, the noble king.

Two moons after his father's death, His Majesty sent a letter ordering that I be brought to the capital. So as to provide a poor orphan, the son of our late beloved sister, Michelle, an education befitting a royal prince.

Rick and Henry, who had never been fools, quickly concocted a note that said the prince was about to breathe his last. He would never survive the journey—he is constantly coughing, choking, falling sick every other day—and really, could the king send a mage healer to help the child recover? His Majesty's loyal subjects are scared for the boy's life.

The healer never came. The letter requesting my presence in the capital arrived twice a year, but Rick and Henry found a way to deal with that. They said the child had a very dangerous sickness—brittle bone disease. It does happen. A simple fall could mean a fracture, and a powerful hug could kill, cracking the ribs. After that, His Majesty never insisted on seeing me, although he did routinely inquire about my health. Rick and Henry answered him. I think that in a couple of years, they managed to break all the bones in my body, sometimes by turn, sometimes, all at once. And that's not talking about various inflammations and aggravations. Each moon, I also suffered from common cold and fever.

The only things my caretakers never mentioned were brain fever and concussions. They did the opposite actually. They wrote that I was exceptionally smart and a good student. What else could I do while sick? Please send a mage healer, we beg you! Or your kin might not survive till adulthood! Nobody sent the healer.

Meanwhile, trouble was brewing in the capital. After sweeping into power, Rudolph wallowed in feasts and hunts. Abigail kept up with him, shining at royal balls. All of this cost a fortune. People were starving. Her Majesty also dragged all of her poverty-ridden relatives into the capital, making each of them a baron, if not a count. Her father's plot of land grew thrice as big, on top of him pilfering money from the treasury not even in cups, but in sacks.

All of that clique held positions at court. They broke things. They littered. They stole so much, the walls of the treasury shrieked in terror. They didn't produce any income. There was no way of nailing them down—Abigail took care of that. Anyone who dared touch any of her relatives would be either executed or banished. People fled their lands by the hundreds, so the good king decided to bind them to the land. From then on, the lord had total power over the serf's life and death. You could hang your serf on your fence for fun, and nobody would give a damn. There was nobody to complain to, either. And if you dared to, you would end up burned at the stake, as a villain and a heretic. Why? See, there was a certain logic. If you are not happy with your lord, it means you are unhappy with your king—the man appointed to be your lord by the Bright Saint himself—and that means you are against the Bright Saint's will. Filthy heretic! Maybe you are a warlock, too? Let's burn him at the stake, brothers!

And so they did. The Royal Court, you say? The Supreme Judge was Abigail's older brother, and it really showed. He was great at taking bribes but passing judgment without knowing the laws...

The number of bandits grew so much that if I got a copper coin for each, I could support the whole kingdom—for five years. I can't even blame those people, either. Trade was choking under the yoke of taxes and tolls. Neighbors sent bards and minstrels to Radenorian court, all to sing praises to Rudolph's valor and Abigail's beauty, and gave them gifts, while quietly chipping away at our border, bit by bit. They took Vednian Forest, then Mining Ridge. After learning about the latter, His Majesty just said, "Who needs that bunch of rocks anyway? Let them take it!"

What? Home to the richest copper vein in the country? Whatever! Copper's non-precious. Now, if it were gold...

Not to mention, the inhabitants of that land didn't give a hoot about the Bright Saint. Grandfather hadn't bothered them; he was the same, anyway. And now, when slaves and thralls of the Bright Saint could get to them, they'd burn one half and make the other into ruffians.