Julian Cross stumbled through the ridiculously oversized, electronically controlled front doors of his family's estate.
He was a ghost.
A pale, trembling ghost haunting his own pristine, marble-floored home.
He moved like a sleepwalker, his mind a screaming vortex of shattered images.
A boy with glowing eyes.
A lobby exploding into a storm of silver and black lightning.
A quiet girl who had calmed a monster with a touch.
He was a prince who had just seen the dragon, and the dragon was real, and the princess wasn't afraid of it.
His world was broken.
He found his father in the study.
Silas Cross was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, a single lamp casting his face in sharp, predatory shadows.
He was looking at a data tablet, his expression as calm and unreadable as a slab of granite.
He didn't look up when Julian entered.
"You're late," Silas said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion.
"Your little 'trap' was an unmitigated failure."
