An eerie light, pale and wan, passed through the tall, arched windows on either side of the corridor. Maybe it was closer to morning than he thought? “What hour is it?” he asked one of the guards flanking the hallway.

The guard cleared his throat, surprised at having been addressed by his monarch. “Not an hour past midnight,” he grunted.

King Vedran peered through the pane of glass, frowning. There was no sun to be found. Why would there be at one in the morning? And yet the sky was filled with that strange light, like an echo of the day had remained long after the firmament should’ve darkened to allow for the stars and moons to peek out from their hidden places.

“They’re calling it the Nightdawn, Your Majesty,” the guard said, the same who’d answered his question.

“Who is?” He didn’t turn, his gaze fixed on the unnaturally bright night sky.

“Everyone. Guards, servants, even the priests. Half the city is awake. They’re scared, Majesty.”

“Scared of what?”

“Whatever it means.”

“And what do they think it means?” He finally turned to meet the guard’s gaze, which wavered slightly under the scrutiny of the most powerful man in this part of the world.

“That something is going to happen, Your Majesty. Something bad.”

“What utter rot,” Artemus spat. “Spread the word. Anyone who speaks ill of this so-called Nightdawn shall be tried and found guilty.”

“Guilty of what, Your Majesty?”

“Fearmongering and stupidity. It is an omen, that is for damn sure, but not of ill fortune, for on this night your prince has been born.”

He didn’t wait for the superstitious fool to reply, ignoring the light that swarmed around his feet as he continued toward his destination. He stopped at the door to catch his breath, listening. It wasn’t a king’s place to wait, and yet something made him hesitate before entering the room.

A frown creased his brow. Something felt…off, and this time it wasn’t the Nightdawn or the guard’s talk of bad omens. Shouldn’t he hear crying? Or at least the soft cooing of women comforting a newborn child?

But then he did hear a sound, so out of place amongst the silence that it made the small hairs on his neck stand on end. A sort of groan and scrape of shoes against stone.

He waited no longer, turning the knob and shoving the door open with enough force that it crashed into the inside wall, the sound echoing through his ears. His eyes made quick work of assessing the windowless room, though none of what he saw made a lick of sense. There was the bed his wife, Queen Elwyn, had been confined to for the last few months. But it was empty, the bedclothes in disarray and fouled with brownish fluid.