The first thing Prince Aaron Damascus tasted was blood. The second was betrayal. “Your Highness, please forgive us.” The assassin's voice was almost gentle. Aaron lay on the cold marble floor of his private chambers, one hand clutching his throat. His lungs burned as though invisible flames were devouring them from within. Every breath came shorter than the last, and the poison coursing through his veins was steadily stealing the strength from his limbs. He tried to speak. Nothing came out. The man standing over him wore the uniform of the royal guard. Aaron had seen that uniform countless times throughout his life. He had trusted the men who wore it to protect his family, his home, and his kingdom. What a foolish prince he had been. “It's a shame,” the assassin murmured, crouching beside him. “You might have made a fine king.” King? Aaron almost laughed. He was the sixth child of the Damascus royal family. Three older brothers, three sisters, and a palace filled with people who smiled at him during the day. Apparently, some of those smiles had concealed knives. The poison tightened around his lungs. He coughed, and a thin trail of blood stained the floor. So this is how it ends? Not in battle. Not protecting his people. Not even facing an enemy he could see. Just a poisoned prince, abandoned in his own chambers while the people sworn to serve him prepared to erase his existence. His fingers curled against the marble. No. Not yet. Aaron Damascus had never wanted the throne. He had wanted something much simpler. A kingdom where people could sleep without fearing the next morning. A family that did not measure affection in political advantage. A life in which he could walk through a marketplace without a dozen guards following him. But he had been born a prince. And princes were not permitted to choose their own destinies. For years, Aaron had watched the royal court carefully. He had noticed the sudden changes in his father's advisors, the unexplained movements of soldiers, and the quiet disappearance of servants who had witnessed things they should not have seen. He had suspected a conspiracy. He simply hadn't expected it to reach him so soon. Or to come from people whose identities he had never imagined questioning. The kingdom was in danger. That realization frightened him more than death ever could. If he died tonight, who would protect the throne from the hands reaching for it? Who would recognize the enemy hiding behind the royal family's smiles? His brothers would fight for influence. The nobles would exploit the confusion. The military might fracture into opposing factions. And the people? They would pay for every mistake their rulers had made. Aaron's breathing grew ragged. I cannot die. The thought was desperate, almost childish. Then his expression changed. No. Desperation would accomplish nothing. He had spent his entire life being underestimated, hiding the extent of his abilities because revealing them would invite questions he wasn't prepared to answer. He had played the obedient prince. The harmless sixth child. The one who would never threaten his brothers' ambitions. And now they had mistaken his restraint for weakness. A cold, bitter smile touched his lips. If I survive this, I'll never be anyone's pawn again. “Is he dead?” The question came from the doorway. Aaron recognized the voice, though the poison had begun to blur his thoughts. Another assassin entered the chamber, carrying a small black case. He glanced at Aaron's motionless body and knelt to examine him. “His pulse is gone.” “Good. Make certain no one discovers what happened here until morning.” “And the records?” “Burn them. Every report concerning the prince's unusual magical readings. We cannot allow anyone to discover what he was capable of.” Aaron heard every word. Unusual magical readings? So they knew. Perhaps not everything, but enough to make his death necessary. The second assassin stood. “Should we inform the others?” “Tell them the sixth prince is dead. By sunrise, this will be nothing more than a tragic incident.” Their footsteps receded down the corridor. The heavy doors closed. Silence returned to the chamber. Aaron lay motionless. His body was failing. The poison had nearly destroyed his ability to breathe, and the last remnants of consciousness were slipping away. Yet somewhere deep inside him, something stirred. Something ancient. Something he had sworn never to awaken. A blue spark appeared beneath his fingertips. Then another. The air trembled. A nearby candle flame froze in place, its golden light suspended like a painted image. A droplet of blood hanging from Aaron's hand stopped halfway toward the floor. The world had begun to lose its movement. Aaron's eyes remained closed, but a strange warmth spread through his chest. He had always known his magic was unusual. He had never understood how unusual. The power he had buried beneath years of careful restraint was answering his desperation. Time magic. A forbidden art that existed only in fragments of ancient records, dismissed by modern scholars as impossible. The blue light intensified. Across the chamber, the clock stopped ticking. One second passed. Then another. Except nothing was moving. Aaron felt the poison in his veins. He felt the terrible damage it had done. But beneath the pain, he sensed something else—a thread connecting him to every moment that had led him here. A moment he could not afford to lose. A moment he could perhaps take back. So this is my power. His heart gave one final, faint beat. Then stopped. Outside the chamber, the assassins paused at the end of the corridor. “It's done,” one said. “The prince is dead.” They walked away, already discussing how the news would reshape the royal succession. Neither noticed the blue light seeping beneath the chamber doors. Neither heard the clock begin ticking backward. Inside, the poison remained in Aaron's blood. His body was still broken, and the world still believed him dead. But something impossible had happened. The flow of time had answered his call. Aaron's fingers twitched. His chest rose. And then— His eyes snapped open. Brilliant blue light blazed from his irises, illuminating the darkness with the glow of forbidden magic. The stopped clock shattered. Every candle in the chamber ignited at once. Aaron drew a sudden, desperate breath, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as unfamiliar memories and impossible possibilities flooded his mind. He was alive. But he was no longer the prince who had entered this chamber. Slowly, he turned his head toward the closed door. His trembling hand clenched into a fist. “I'm not…” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Then his blue eyes narrowed. “…dying for you.” The air warped around him. For the first time in centuries, the forbidden magic of time had awakened within the Damascus royal bloodline. And Prince Aaron had only just begun to understand what that meant.

A Prince's Last Breath