Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ZEVANDER

O bsidyen cantered beneath Zevander, up to the fork in the road. One path led toward The Citadel’s House of Sages, an academy dedicated to science and medicine, along with history and ancestry. A number of mages taught there, as well, but most were eager young scribes, with no other ambition than to read and study.

The other path led toward Costelwick Castle.

Kazhimyr slowed his horse alongside Zevander. “What is the name of this bone scribe you’ve asked me to seek out?”

“Allura Marabe.” Zevander stared out at the long road ahead of him. “Her uncle is Odion. As I understand, he’s well known amongst scholars. You shouldn’t have trouble finding her. But it is imperative that you not draw too much attention to yourself.”

“Of course. Do I take her by force?” Kazhimyr asked, smoothing his hand over his leather glove.

“Ask her to accompany you first. If she refuses, then yes.”

“And I’m to tell her we happened upon some scrolls for her to assist in interpreting.”

“Yes, but keep it discreet. I suspect the mere mention of the castle will spark her interest.”

“I hope so. It’d be a shame to get forceful when I’m known for my charm.” Stroking his jaw, he chuckled. “As for the items Dolion requested …”

Zevander handed off a scroll to his fellow Letalisz. “He wrote a list. While he claims no one is watching his lab, I’d advise you seek the supplies out elsewhere. Perhaps from another lab.”

“Are you asking me to steal , Brother?” Amusement colored his tone. Stealing happened to have been the reason the Solassions had imprisoned Kazhimyr all those years ago. His skills in thievery had gone unmatched, up until he’d gotten caught.

“I’m asking you to borrow . I’ll see you back at Eidolon.”

“Yes, give King Sagaerin a kiss for me.”

Zevander snorted and shook his head, then kept on toward the king’s palace. As the leader of the Letalisz, he met with the king far more frequently than the other three, and had built more of a rapport with him. Still, Zevander wasn’t looking forward to what would’ve undoubtedly made for a long afternoon.

Once inside The Citadel gates, the villagers offered a wide berth, as he guided his horse over the cobblestones, past merchants, blacksmiths and taverns, up through the narrow winding streets, lined with tall buildings whose pointed spires reached toward the sky, all the way to the gates of the castle grounds. The savory scent of smoking meat, exotic spices and burning incense muted the occasional waft of damp stones and wood. Purple and forest green sails stretched across the crowded alleyways, shielding the carts overflowing with grim-looking fruits and vegetables from the overcast sky, where dark clouds swallowed the sun. Hardly ever shined bright in Nyxteros, thanks to the positioning of the moons. Unlike in Solassia, where produce required sunlight, it was the prilunar light that helped food grow in the southern continent.

Merchants shouted from their wooden stands, offering fine silks and leather, fancy pottery, smoking pipes, and jewelry. Others wearing muted cloaks and talismans, selling arcane artifacts—enchanted tomes and crystal orbs, dowsing pendulums and ritual daggers—watched him warily as he passed.

In a clearing, a large crowd gathered around a theater platform where actors and actresses put on a play. Their laughter carried over the music that weaved through the streets, adding a festive ambience, as the minstrels played their instruments and sang.

The Citadel, with its bustling alleyways and eclectic fashion allowed him to blend in easier than the outskirts where the citizens there knew his name and curse. As it was daylight, he wore a linen tunic and leathers with a hooded cloak. The mask, which he’d mostly worn to conceal his identifiable scars, provided a bit more anonymity.

Once he arrived at the palace gates, The Imperial Guards allowed him passage. Inside the walls, to them, Zevander was nothing more than a combat tutor and guard to the king’s son, Prince Dorjan. A guise that allowed him to walk freely with his weapons, without suspicion. They had no idea the miles he’d traveled, the years he’d trained in secret, honing the skills to kill in the name of their king. No one did, as the king had gone out of his way to conceal that part of Zevander’s duties. Though they loathed the Letalisz for the way the king had always favored him, the fact was, it’d never made sense to Zevander, either—particularly as King Sagaerin had never been known as a benevolent man. Even without his curse, the Rydainn name had never been noble enough to warrant his favor. It was only his mother who’d afforded him a small bit of status.

Once inside the barbican, Obsidyen trotted toward the second gatehouse, and there, Zevander dismounted his horse, handing the reins off to one of the awaiting stable boys. As at the outer gate, he was granted permission to cross the stony bridge that hovered over Blackwater Moat, and as he made his way across, he glanced over the edge, catching the scaled spine of a water serpent, the length of which measured six meters, at least. Koryn, they were called. Vicious, flesh-eating monsters that wouldn’t hesitate to devour him whole, regardless of his stature with the king.

Beyond the bridge, he passed through yet another gate, to the castle’s much smaller courtyard, that one teeming with well-groomed shrubs and gardens, weathered fountains and monstrous statues. Few had the opportunity to pass through these gardens, as entry tended to be exceptionally strict. Mostly officers, mages, and the occasional royal–the king’s most trusted.

While most kings tended to keep themselves insulated from the public for their own protection, King Sagaerin was most strict about it.

Zevander climbed the stone stairs lined with grotesques and unlit torches, up to the stately entrance of the castle that was nearly hidden by the encroaching moss and vines which covered its towering gray walls. Gargoyle waterspouts peered down between flying buttresses, drawing attention to the castle’s elaborately carved stonework. The iron doors creaked open with his approach, flanked on either side by more guards who offered him no passing gestures, or acknowledgment, which suited Zevander just fine, as he hadn’t come for niceties.

En route to Hemwell Tower, where the king often held meetings with his advisors, a familiar face strode up alongside him. Garbed in a fine silk tunic, and brocade surcoat decorated with the Sagaerin heraldry, he was only a decade, or so, younger than Zevander, but carried himself with the kind of regal grace that the Letalisz clearly lacked.

“Prince Dorjan,” Zevander said with a respectful nod, not bothering to slow his strides as the prince kept up with him.

“I understand my father called on you for a meeting.”

“Will you be in attendance?”

“I’d much prefer to pluck my own eyeballs from their sockets and toss them to the Koryn.”

Zevander smirked behind his mask. “Then, to what do I owe the honor of your company?”

Still keeping the pace, the prince leaned to the side. “I understand you traveled to Corvus Keep recently,” he said in a lowered voice. “What were they like?”

“The Carnificans? Vicious, pale as the fallen snow, emaciated, precisely your type.”

The prince chuckled, knocking Zevander in the arm. “Your reputation as a brute rears its ugly head once again.” Few knew of the prince’s penchant for men, aside from Zevander, who’d sometimes escorted his lovers safely to and from the castle. His father, the king, turned a blind eye, so long as Dorjan agreed to fulfill his duty by producing an heir. “I understand they sometimes toy with their prey before feasting on their flesh.”

“You sound exceptionally intrigued by this.”

“I’m intrigued by the state of mind that would compel someone to consume flesh.” Prince Dorjan possessed the rare power of reading thoughts, though in his case, it required some form of contact with the other person.

“If you value your hand, I don’t advise touching one to find out.”

“I’ve no intentions, but can you imagine the utter chaos? To desire the flesh and blood of another so … violently? It’s almost macabrely romantic.”

Zevander shot him a frown. “I can assure you, there is not one romantic thought in their minds when they’re gnawing the flesh from your bones.”

“Well, speaking of gnawing flesh from bones, enjoy your meeting.” Chuckling, the prince patted him on the back. “I’m off to paint in the gardens.”

“Enjoy,” Zevander grumbled, as he kept on down the corridor toward the two Imperial Guards who stood posted outside the king’s meeting chambers..

One held out his hand as Zevander approached. With a sigh, he removed his baldric and sword, the two daggers at his thigh, the small dagger strapped to his arm, and the fragor from the pocket of his leathers. Zevander smirked behind the mask, as the guard regarded the stone with trepidation and plucked it from his palm as if he were offering up a venomous snake. One chant was all it would have taken to activate the rock, which could’ve easily leveled all of Hemwell Tower in one blow. The sight of them tended to make most want to shit their trousers.

The long table within was often crowded with all variety of disciplines–war general, the silver master for the treasury, the king’s cohort, which included his advisors for both tactical and social affairs. On that occasion, it sat only Akmyrios–the Magelord, or Mage Superior—the Imperial Captain, and a woman Zevander didn’t recognize. Behind the king stood his cup bearer, a boy no more than sixteen, by Zevander’s estimates.

A thread of tension wound in the Letalisz’s muscles, as he contemplated the possibility that the king might’ve been privy to the bloodstones, and that the otherwise casual meeting might’ve been called as a pretense to an inquisition and arrest.

King Sagaerin sat at the head of the table, sipping out of a silver goblet that he lifted when the Letalisz approached. “Ah, Zevander. Always a pleasure.” The mention of his name struck him as odd, considering the king took measures to ensure Zevander’s anonymity. In fact, Zevander only knew who was in attendance during the usual meetings because he hid in the shadows as an unseen guard for the king. Any meetings he openly attended were strictly between him and the king–not even his cup bearer was allowed entry.

Wordlessly, Zevander took his seat two down from the king. “I was under the impression this was a private meeting.”

“It was, but we’ve encountered a bit of a problem.” King Sagaerin gulped back his wine, holding the goblet out for the boy, who promptly filled it. “A number of guards from the Imperial Army have gone missing. Captain Zivant has scoured the city in search of not only his men, but whomever may be responsible for their disappearances.”

“And, so, why am I here?”

“Your name was mentioned. By one of the guards,” Captain Zivant said, glaring at him from across the table where he sat. The animosity in his eyes surged with his accusation. “We asked him if he’d seen anything unusual. He only got so far as saying your name before he suffered an attack, of some sort.”

The scorpion. It would’ve stung him to death for having said Zevander’s name.

“We had one of our physicians examine him afterward,” the Magelord said from beside the captain. “All his organs had completely liquefied, somehow.”

“So, perhaps you might tell us who murdered my men?”

“Murder? How do you know they didn’t abandon their duty and leave The Citadel?” A stupid question, but Zevander certainly had no intentions of confessing he’d burnt them to a pile of dust.

“For what?” Captain Zivant spat the words like a sour taste in his mouth. “What could possibly exist outside the walls that would interest a highly decorated soldier?” It was true that soldiers to the king were afforded a life of privilege not granted to most. They were also loathed beyond the walls of The Citadel.

“Then, what leads you to the conclusion that something happened to them?”

“An aura was left behind,” the Magelord answered.

Impossible. Zevander had trained for centuries, to learn how to avoid leaving the trace bits of magic. It came down to burning efficiently and hot enough that the aura was singed and incomplete. Undetectable, even by the most skilled forenzycaris, whose magic picked up on the faintest element. Hence, the liquefied organs. After stinging the guard, the scorpion would’ve burst into black flame inside of him.

“We’ve determined the aura is Corvikae,” the woman beside the Magelord said.

“Zevander, this is Melantha, apprentice to the Magelord.” With a small bit of apathy in his voice, King Sagaerin waved his hand toward the woman with auburn hair.

Apprentice? As far as Zevander knew, women had historically been denied positions in the Magestroli.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. His majesty speaks highly of you.”

Something about the woman struck him as untrustworthy, and as subtly as he could muster, he removed his glove beneath the table and pushed an invisible veil of protection around him, in the event she attempted to scour his memories. Without responding to her comment, Zevander turned his attention back to Captain Zivant. “I’m afraid I know nothing of these missing soldiers. Or whatever a Corvikae might be.”

The Magelord cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. “The Corvikae are an ancient civilization that existed centuries ago. A very hostile people. They raided villages, plundered, and raped. Spread diseases throughout all of Nyxteros.”

Lies, of course. What fuckery, to falsify the history of a people that was nearly extinct.

Magic pulsed around Zevander as something prodded to get past his defenses. A glance toward Melantha showed her staring back at him, unabashed.

“An ancient civilization. As in, no longer existing?” Zevander asked.

“Yes,” Magelord Akmyrios answered. “Though, it is our understanding that one of our colleagues, a rogue mage, had spent some time in Corvus Keep. We think it might be possible that he acquired scrolls and may have practiced a bit of demutomancy.”

It was then Zevander knew for certain that they had knowledge of the stones and reminded himself to tread lightly. “What does demutomancy have to do with the missing guards? Or my quarry, for that matter, seeing as I’ve already disposed of him.”

“Precisely as I said,” King Sagaerin sat forward, placing his palms on the tabletop. “Zevander is my best Letalisz. He does not fail.”

“Still, we’d like to confirm,” the Captain chimed.

The king sighed and drummed his fingers. “Zevander, the captain and Magelord Akmyrios have asked that you take Nilmirth. I’d personally like to lay this matter to rest and begin searching for our missing men.”

Nilmirth was a known toxin that, when ingested, assured only truth was spoken. If a lie happened to slip past the offender’s lips, he’d spend the next hour in excruciating pain while the poison worked its way through the system. If the offense was serious enough, he’d be swiftly executed after. Lying to the king and his advisors would’ve certainly added Zevander to the list of upcoming executions scheduled.

Fortunately, he’d also trained to tolerate Nilmirth. While it did nauseate him, it would fail to elicit pain, no matter how many lies he might tell them.

“If it pleases Your Majesty, I’m happy to oblige.”

“It would, and I thank you for your cooperation.”

“Very well.” The Magelord reached into a satchel clipped at his side and retrieved a vial of black liquid. The very sight of it churned Zevander’s stomach, but he schooled his expression and reached out for the proffered toxin. “If you’d be so kind as to consume the entirety of it.”

It’d taken small increments over the course of a century to build up the tolerance to an entire vial, and Zevander had suffered his share of agonizing pain in the process. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to swallowing it right then. After popping the cork, he tipped back the fluid, and it assaulted his tongue with the horrific flavor of charred wood and ashes. Left an unbearable aftertaste in his mouth that had him yearning for a sip of ale to wash it down.

“Now, let us begin …” the woman said, her lips curved to a smile. “State your full name.”

“Zevander Rydainn.”

“And where were you born, Zevander Rydainn?”

“Castle Eidolon, north of the Aeramere River.”

“And what is your sigil?” She continued to pry, much to his irritation.

“May I ask why all the banal questions?”

“To establish that the toxin is working, Your Lordship.” She turned toward the king, who gave Zevander a subtle nod.

Huffing, the Letalisz swung his gaze back toward the woman. “The Scorpion.”

“Ah. The sigil of pain and fear. You are said to be cursed.”

“Yes.” He clenched his jaw, growing more impatient with her questions.

“Who laid this curse upon you?”

“The king’s former Magelord. Cadavros.”

The way she shifted in her seat left Zevander wondering if the name made her uncomfortable. “And you were enslaved because of this curse, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“It was the good King Sagaerin who freed you and made you one of his elite Letalisz.”

Zevander had spent years ensuring that only those who were seconds from death at his hands were privy to that information. And no one else, no matter their station. Again, he shot a glance toward the king, who nodded back at him. “Yes.”

“He commissioned you to kill Dolion Gevarys?”

“He did.”

“And did you carry out this request?”

“I did.” The poison bubbled in his stomach, churning like it wanted out through his mouth, but Zevander swallowed it back.

“You’re absolutely certain that Dolion is dead.”

“I am.” Another gurgling that rose up into his chest that time, and the Letalisz breathed through his nose to hold it down.

“How did you dispose of him?”

“My sword.”

A cold sweat came over him, his hands trembling against his thigh where he rested them under the table.

“Were you aware that he attempted to collect bloodstones?”

“No.”

A tightening in his chest expanded behind his ribs, and Zevander took deep breaths through his nose.

“You’ve absolutely no awareness of these stones?”

“None.” Acids rushed up his throat, and Zevander gripped the chair, swallowing the toxin back down.

“The guard who mentioned your name … do you know him?”

“Yes.” Zevander answered honestly that time, not wanting to risk vomiting what he fought so hard to choke back right then.

“How?”

“Seen him at the tavern a time, or two.” A deep, aching cramp twisted his insides, his hands trembling while his guts churned in chaos.

Still, the insufferable shrew kept on with her questions. “And why do you think he would mention your name with regard to the missing guards?”

“Don’t think he much cared for me.” Nothing that time, and Zevander was grateful for that.

“Did you kill the guards?”

Fuck.

“No.” A sharp stabbing ache sent another round of acids shooting up his throat. Zevander tensed and clawed the arms of the chair, his eyes damn near watering. Surely, his face must have gone pale. Thankfully, that wasn’t entirely unusual with Nilmirth–not even for those who told the truth.

“Interesting.” She sat back in her chair, tongue sweeping across her lips as she tapped her fingernail against the tabletop. “Would you be privy to what may have left the aura back at Bonesguard?”

“Enough of this. He’s not a seer, by the gods. What kind of question is that?” The king tipped back another sip of his wine and slammed the goblet onto the table, clearly vexed. “He’s answered your inquiries quite sufficiently. Dolion is dead. Perhaps your skills at identifying auras could use some sharpening.”

Magelord Akmyrios straightened in his chair, and even after the king’s insult, the woman’s gaze didn’t waver once, as she continued to stare back at Zevander. “I beg your pardon, My Lordship, but Melantha’s skills are unparalleled. She is exceptional.”

“Good. Perhaps she can put them to use and track down the real culprit in all of this. You put Zevander at great risk by requesting this meeting. By the gods, should any one of you divulge that he is a member of my Letalisz, I will see to it that you’re thoroughly interrogated in the dungeons. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” all three answered in unison.

“Good. I’ll ask you to give me the room.”

The three of them stood and bowed respectfully toward the king, Zevander bracing his hand on the table to keep from toppling over as he joined them.

“Not you, Zevander. I’d like you to stay a moment.”

“As you wish.” The thought of a longer meeting would’ve ordinarily left the Letalisz inwardly groaning, but Zevander was grateful to sit and breathe a moment more.

When the others finally filed out of the room, the king shook his head. “My sincere apologies. I did not mean to offend your loyalty. I simply wanted to establish your integrity, particularly with this new apprentice. As I understand, she’s to take over as Magelord at some point.”

“Where does she come from?”

“The north, apparently. I’d never be inclined to allow a woman to attend my council meetings, as you know, but Akmyrios speaks very highly of her. Though, I must say, I’m not impressed,” the king said, running his finger over the rim of the goblet, before taking another sip.

Zevander swallowed back another round of acids and cleared his throat.

Waving his hand in dismissal, King Sagaerin rose up from his chair. “Princess Calisza’s Becoming Ceremony is a fortnight away and I will be expected to open the castle to a number of guests. I do loathe these social affairs, but what kind of king would I be, to deny my daughter her Becoming?”

When girls reached the age of fertility, roughly seventeen years old, or so, a Becoming Ceremony was thrown, and young men would fight for the right to claim her virginity. At times, the coupling resulted in marriage, but most often, it was simply a rite of passage to celebrate the fertility goddess, who’d ironically been raped and plundered at a young age. Zevander had long thought it a vicious custom, particularly when Rykaia had gone through it. She’d cried for days after, but it was believed that a virgin was bad luck and would result in the decline of a bloodline.

“I’d like all of the Letalisz in attendance. The Solassions are expected. Such a brutal lot, all of them.”

The very mention of them ground at his nerves. “You’re inviting the Solassions?”

“Not by choice. I find them repulsive, but it is a matter of social graces.” He waved the cup bearer over, and when the boy placed a second cup down in front of Zevander, he politely declined. “I attended their princess’s Becoming years ago, and it would serve as an insult if I were to deny King Jeret a returned invitation. I would like you and your men to watch over both Dorjan and Calisza. Ensure that there are no complications.” He leveled his gaze on Zevander. “But watch Dorjan closest of all.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve appreciated your loyalty. As I hope you’ve appreciated my hospitality. When I heard those ruthless Solassions were holding such a brilliantly talented young boy all those years ago, I knew I needed to bring you back here to Costelwick. My hope is, when General Loyce sets eyes on you again, she’ll be reminded of their foolish attempt to murder a highly skilled Lunasier.”

A pulsing tension hammered at his muscles. “Loyce is expected to attend, as well?”

“Yes, she is Jeret’s highest in command. She’ll be heading the Solassion guards that accompany the king. Will that be difficult for you?”

The very name sent a bolt of rage through Zevander’s blood.

“On your knees, Boy.”

“Now, swallow.”

“Not at all,” he answered, and let out a quiet grunt when a cramping ache writhed in his stomach. Fucking Nilmirth .

“Good. Your sister is welcome to attend, as well, if you’d like.”

The king’s words were nothing but a distant sound to the thoughts clamoring through his mind. “I’m afraid Rykaia has not been feeling herself lately.”

“Of course.” The king pushed up from his chair, stealing another sip of wine. “If you wouldn’t mind removing your mask so that I might see the progression.”

Swallowing back his reluctance, Zevander lowered the mask from his face and allowed the king to examine him, as he sometimes requested.

A look of concern furrowed the king’s brow. “It’s gotten worse.”

“Every day.”

“What is this beast that longs to consume?” King Sagaerin strode toward a box set out on a chest and, with a small key, opened it. He retrieved a bag of coin and something else from inside, and locked it again before returning to the table. “I’ve consulted with every mage and priestess from every corner of Aethyria. Not one of them have offered any insight for a cure.” As kind as the gesture was, Zevander was already well aware. For centuries, he’d searched every corner of Nyxteros–the deserts of Eremicia, and the farthest reaches of Solassia, consulting with priestesses, healers, and holy men. It wasn’t until Dolion had suggested the bloodstones that Zevander had felt even the slightest shred of hope for a cure.

Placing one hand on Zevander’s shoulder, he handed him the coin and a small vial of white liquid. “The vivicantem slows it a bit?”

“Seems to.” Zevander knew it slowed the spread, as he’d already watched his brother suffer the course of it during a time when his family couldn’t afford vivicantem. “I appreciate it.”

“A small show of gratitude for taking care of that noisy and obnoxious mage.”

Zevander wanted to laugh at the image of Dolion lounging in his cell, eating, drinking his ale as he studied the forbidden scrolls of Corvus Keep.

“The absolute lunacy is what I find most difficult to understand. Dolion was a very dear friend before he began all that ranting and raving of Cadavros. Can you imagine? Why on earth would he dream that the beast would rise from the dead?”

“Before I slid my blade across his throat, he spoke of an entity in the mortal lands.” A fresh gurgling stirred in Zevander’s stomach, and acids prickled in his chest with the lie. “He believed Cadavros resides there. That he was banished.”

With a calm smile, the king shook his head. “I feel compelled to show you something, my friend.” The smile on his face faded as he pulled an object from beneath the high neck of his brocade jerkin. A black amulet, or so it appeared, given the small dragon’s claw dangling alongside it that was thought to secure an incantation. Attached to a small black chain, the shiny stone bore a spider etched into whatever metal made up the amulet. “Do you know what this is?”

“An ominous charm of some sort.”

“Ominous, indeed.” He chuckled, holding it in his palm. “It is chaos contained. A veritable Pandora’s box. Sorrow. Disease. Violence. Madness. Death.” In a manner that seemed more admirable than fearsome, he caressed the object with his thumb. “I had it made the day Dorjan was born. I distinctly remember holding him in my arms and feeling this overwhelming emotion to protect him. Furious at the thought of someone ever hurting him, or taking him from me.” Beneath the sadness of his gaze flickered a spark of rage. “What would I do, if someone took my son from me …” His jaw shifted, lips curving to a snarl. “His blood is linked to this amulet. If something should happen to him, a plague will be unleashed, and all of Nyxteros will be destroyed by it. Nothing would survive.” A quiet tension rippled through Zevander as he silently absorbed the information. “I’ve not told anyone of this. My conscience has urged me to destroy it a number of times throughout the years, but you cannot destroy magic like this. Not even destroying the claw which binds it. I’ve tried.” He stroked a thumb over the severed appendage. “It is a magic that comes from the darkest depths, where fear and vengeance reside.” Tucking the amulet back into his tunic, he stood, thoughtful, for a moment. “It was Cadavros who bound the amulet to my newborn son. He was the only one who knew that it carried Dorjan’s blood and not mine. Not even Captain Zivant is privy to this binding. A king is nothing without his legacy, after all. Do you understand why Cadavros had to die? Why it’s absurd to imagine that I would let him live?”

“Yes,” Zevander answered. Though, it made sense that the king would’ve had him killed for such a thing, he didn’t bother to dispute him with the speculations he had about Cadavros in the mortal lands. Doing so would’ve been a slap in the face. Of what little the Letalisz had come to know of Sagaerin over the years, one thing was certain–the king did not like to be challenged. It would’ve had him investigating matters that would’ve unveiled secrets.

“This is why it is imperative that you watch Dorjan closely, in particular.”

“And what of Calisza?”

With a dolorous expression, he gripped the back of his chair and sighed. “I would sooner see my beloved daughter consumed by insects and famine, than to watch her suffer at the hands of my enemies who would surely do worse. It brings me tremendous grief to imagine such a thing.” He set his goblet down and patted Zevander on the shoulder. “All the more reason I’m grateful you’ve taken care of this rogue mage. One less preoccupation as Calisza’s Becoming draws closer. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears sharp for any mention of what may have happened to those missing guards. While I never once doubted that you took care of the mage, it is a curious coincidence that the aura at Bonesguard turned out to be Corvikae.”

“Dolion might’ve been working with someone.”

“Perhaps. I’d like you to be involved in finding out. Keep it between us. I don’t want Magelord Akmyrios thinking I’m undermining his efforts.”

“Of course.”

He waved Zevander toward the door. “That is all. Safe travels back to Eidolon.”

Zevander gave a courteous nod and pushed up from the chair, the nausea from before tugging at his throat again.

L eaning into the post beneath the bridge, Zevander expelled what he hoped was the last of the toxin into the moat. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head and wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “Fuck,” he muttered, his guts finally settling down. It’d been years since he’d had to take in that much Nilmirth, and his body had surely reminded him how much it remembered its distaste. He stuffed the vial of vivicantem back inside his leathers–the catalyst for having expelled the last of it—and covered his face with the mask.

“How long have you been immune to Nilmirth?” The feminine voice came from behind, and he turned to see Melantha emerge from behind one of the posts, her head covered beneath the purple, velvet cloak that all of the king’s mages wore.

“A bad batch, I suspect.”

“Not likely. I made it myself.”

In as subtle a movement as he could muster, he twisted his hand, palm up to summon his shield.

“No need. I’ve no intentions of probing you. Not now, anyway. I suspect your mind is a complicated labyrinth just waiting to be explored. Perhaps some other time.”

“Perhaps you might consider a swim with the Koryn in the meantime.”

Arms crossed, she sauntered closer, her lips clinging to a smile. “Is it that I’m a woman seated at the council or you truly do not care for me?”

“I care more for the vomit I just expelled than I do the members of the king’s council.”

Her smile widened and she tipped her head. “I’m offended that you have no interest in knowing who I am, when I’ve taken great care to study you, Zevander Rydainn. The Scorpion of Nyxteros. Lord of Eidolon. How has no one caught on that you’re one of the king’s infamous Letalisz?”

“I’ve made a point to draw little attention. Until today.”

She chuckled, her flirtatious eyes doing nothing for him. “I find that hard to believe. A man as fierce looking as you must draw quite a bit of attention.”

He didn’t bother to respond to that, watching her make her way toward the edge of the moat, not far from where he’d just thrown up.

“The king isn’t aware of your little secret, is he?” She held out her hand, agitating the water with whatever power she casted toward it. “He believes your sigil, the scorpion, to be the curse itself. A mere affliction propagated by Cadavros. He has no idea of its derivation, does he?”

Zevander kept his thoughts narrowed and focused, refusing to confirm.

“He has no idea the ancient power that resides in you. The mystical black flame that could wreak havoc on his kingdom, with no more than a wave of your hand.”

A bold accusation, given the belief held by the highest mages, that no one had ever successfully undergone the Emberforge ritual without losing their powers. Still, he held his tongue, rejecting her manipulative provocations.

The Koryn rose up out of the water, eyes glowing with menace.

Zevander’s scorpions stirred at the sight of the beast looming over him, primed to strike at any moment. Melantha reached out a hand and petted the serpent’s scaly snout, then turned around to face Zevander, putting her back to the creature that slowly retreated into the moat. “My apologies for the inquisition earlier. On one hand, I wanted to clear the air. On the other, I hoped for an opportunity to meet the skilled man cursed by sablefyre.”

Eyes narrowed, Zevander studied her, trying to discern if she had, in fact, scanned his thoughts.

“We’ve mutual acquaintances in the Solassions. I once suffered the very mines that held you prisoner.” It didn’t surprise Zevander. The Solassions were ruthless cunts, and would’ve had no qualms about keeping a woman as prisoner.

“Look at you now. Apprentice to the Magelord.”

“Yes. I’ve lived an interesting life.” Hands behind her back, she sauntered toward him. “Not without suffering, though. Perhaps we can exchange stories sometime.”

“I don’t think so.” Zevander strode past her toward the hill.

“Zevander,” she said, bringing him to a reluctant halt. “I failed to mention in the meeting that three of the Magestroli have also gone missing.”

“Strange that you wouldn’t mention that in front of the king.”

“He has enough on his plate, what with his soldiers missing and his daughter’s Becoming. Word is, the mages were headed to Corvus Keep.”

He didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction, instead keeping his expression stoic. “Did they have such little confidence that I would take care of the mage myself?”

“They were under the impression that Dolion had taken the bloodstones there. I don’t suppose you retrieved them before killing him?”

“I’ve answered all of your questions. I have no awareness of the stones.” A thousand tiny needles surged across his abdomen, proving that he hadn’t expelled all of the Nilmirth.

“Pity. It’s said the stones are the only thing that can destroy sablefyre.”

“Interesting.”

“It is. Exceptionally interesting. I shall see you at the Becoming, then.” With that, she sauntered past him, her fingers brushing over his chest, and Zevander’s flame reached out, as if drawn to her somehow.

Snarling, he pulled it back into himself.

D arkness had fallen by the time Zevander reached Eidolon, and every muscle in his body ached from the residual toxin still circulating in his blood. He’d expelled twice more on the ride back, and was ready to sleep it off. The moment he entered the castle, he found Rykaia sitting on stairs, a glass of wine dangling from her fingertips.

“Why keep the mortal in the dungeons?” she asked as he approached.

“I am in no mood tonight.”

“You’d prefer to be fetching me from The Hovel again, is that it? Because this is what being off elixirs is like, Brother. I have to distract myself with life.”

He halted and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She is of interest. That is all.”

“Oh, clearly she is of interest. I cannot summon a single memory of when you brought another woman back to the castle. I find that intriguing.”

“I’m happy to oblige your curiosity.”

“Women do not belong in cages, Brother. Perhaps you might offer better accommodations to our guest.”

“She’s not our guest.”

Brows raised, she tipped her head. “Is she your prisoner, then?”

“I’ve no idea what she is. I’m not interested in this discussion. I’ve had a long journey.” He strode past her, up the staircase.

“Yes, you look a little peaked.”

“Nilmirth,” he threw over his shoulder.

The clack of her heeled boots had him inwardly groaning, as she followed after him. “Who forced you to drink Nilmirth?”

“The new apprentice to the Magelord.”

“New apprentice? Is he handsome?”

“ She is going to be a headache for me.”

“She?” Rykaia frowned. “I’m sorry, did you just say she ? As in, next in line for Magelord?”

“If she backs off, I suppose. Otherwise, she’ll be next in line for my blade.”

She finally caught up to him, her wine sloshing around in the glass as she walked briskly at his side. “If you didn’t go through so much trouble on my behalf, I’d almost think you loathed women altogether.”

“I loathe the torment your kind puts me through.” Zevander pushed through the door of his office, desperate for a drink.

“At least let Maevyth take a bath.” Rykaia entered after him, and as he rounded his desk, she plopped herself into one of the chairs across from him. “She smells awful. And you have to get better about feeding your prisoners. I’m not your kennel keeper. In fact, she’ll need supper soon. I’ll leave that to you.”

“Fine.” He quietly growled to himself. “She can take a bath. But I’m putting you on watch duty to make sure she doesn’t try anything tricky.”

“She’s worried about her sister. She may be in danger.”

“I don’t give a damn about her sister.” He poured a drink and tipped it back, the burn of the liquor warming his tense muscles. “She should be grateful I bothered to bring her here, at all. When I found her, she had three Imperial Guards and a prisoner ready to tear into her.”

Rykaia slid her wine onto the desk, as though no longer interested in it. “Tell me you punished them for that.”

“Every one of them burned.”

“Good.” She nodded and rolled her shoulders back. “She gets a bath. And time out of that godforsaken cell.”

“A bath? Yes. Time out of the cell? No.” Zevander still didn’t trust the mortal to be freely wandering about the castle.

“She asked to speak with you. If you’re going to keep her locked away down there, the least you can do is give her your ear for a moment.”

“I’ve no interest.”

“Then, why keep her?”

He’d asked himself the same question numerous times. The girl was the closest he’d come to a cure, and the fact that he couldn’t kill her only added to his intrigue. “I have my reasons.”

“You have your reasons,” she echoed in a mocking tone. “Is this not my home, as well, Zevander? Or am I one of your guests?” When he didn’t bother to answer, she swiped up her wine and gulped the whole thing back. “At least tell me this … are you planning to kill her? I’d like to know, so I don’t get too attached to the prey.”

“Stay away from her, Rykaia,” was all he said, as he pushed up from his desk, abandoning his drink. Too many conflicts muddled his brain, and he didn’t need his sister stirring the chaos. He exited the office, and instead of heading toward his chambers, he kept on, following the clanking of metal as he approached the sparring room.

Ravezio and Torryn swung swords at each other–both equal in speed and skill, but as Torryn had been born without a sigil, he’d honed the strength of his body, which made him undefeated with a sword. Even without a sigil, he possessed one of the most dangerous powers of the four Letalisz–the ability to absorb large amounts of vivicantem from others, which made him twice as strong as any of the Letalisz, but also twice as unstable. Mentally, Torryn was a mess, his mind in constant chaos, always battling the effects of vivicantem toxicity that, in any other, would’ve turned him Carnifican.

In one swift move, Torryn swiped Ravezio’s feet out from under him, knocking the graces out of his opponent.

Ravezio lay on the ground, coughing and wheezing, as Zevander entered the room, chuckling. “Is it the golden basilisk that supplies your wits?” Zevander asked.

Ravezio shot him a disgruntled look and pushed to his feet. “It is my basilisk that would’ve poisoned his blood.” While Ravezio didn’t have the power to summon an actual basilisk, like with Zevander’s scorpions, his blood carried a potent venom. A bite, scratch, or prick from one of the spikes that protruded through his scales when threatened rendered his enemy dead within seconds.

“Not before he’d have depleted all of your vivicantem.” It only took one touch from Torryn, as simple as a handshake, to weaken his opponent. But the magic always came at a cost. Depleting more than one person at a time sent him into delirium.

Torryn adjusted the wrappings he wore on his hands during sparring matches to avoid inadvertently sapping his opponent. “Did you come looking for a match?”

“Perhaps some other time. I came to tell you I have a woman in the dungeon.”

Ravezio’s brows kicked up with nauseating interest. “A woman, you say? Here?”

A scratch of annoyance jabbed at Zevander, curling his lip. “You will not lay your hands on her,” he said, more gruffly than intended, and cleared his throat of whatever green-eyed monstrum had spoken for him. “She’s a prisoner. The mortal who crossed the Umbravale.”

“Ah, yes. Is that why you’re keeping her locked in a cage?” Ravezio teased, stoking Zevander’s frustration.

“It isn’t a damned cage.” Again, Zevander had to force his anger away. “Have you forgotten what a true cage looks like?”

“I’ve not. Which is why I certainly wouldn’t wish one upon a frightened young mortal who probably has no idea why she’s been brought here.”

“Why is she here?” Torryn asked, getting to the point of the interruption.

“She’s to be trained,” Zevander grumbled, still bitter about it.

“Trained? What would a mortal need training for?” If only Torryn had seen how easily she’d resisted Zevander’s flame, he might not have found the question so perplexing.

“According to Dolion, she harbors a unique power.”

Torryn sneered. “How does a mortal possess any power? They’re brittle and weak.”

“She’s apparently Corvikae.”

“What is–”

Before Torryn could finish, Zevander shook his head. “I’ll fill you in later,” he said, too damned tired to give a history lesson right then. “The point is, she may very well offer something unique. But she has absolutely no awareness of it, nor understanding of how to use it.”

Torryn snorted. “I feel for the bastard who has to train with her.”

“Funny you should say …. That bastard will be you.”

“What?” The amusement in his expression faded to a frown. “Why?”

“You’re the most skilled at defense. If she begins with something natural, like fighting, it may help her tap into her powers, just as yours manifested.”

Torryn frowned harder. “I’m not certain that I’m right for this.” Except that he’d given Rykaia lessons years ago at Zevander’s request, and she’d come to be quite proficient at defending herself.

“You are most skilled with a blade,” Ravezio added. “Even if you move like cattle.”

“I should’ve stabbed you earlier.”

“What of the flammelian in The Hovel?” Zevander nodded toward Torryn, interrupting their banter.

“Hasn’t attacked in days. No leads, as of yet. I’m chasing a fucking ghost.”

“I’ll join the hunt.” Zevander’s plan was to plant rumor in The Hovel of a possible killer, to keep Melantha off his back and skew her investigation into the missing guardsmen whose bodies had long scattered into the wind.

“And what of this woman you want me to train? Does she have any fighting skill, at all?” Once again Zevander was reminded of her resistance to his flame.

“Very little. But I wouldn’t call her weak. She did attempt to take on three Imperial Guards.”

Torryn raised a brow. “I like her already.”

“You intend to train a girl to fight and wield magic, you may want to consider nicer accommodations. Don’t want her coming after you for a shit night’s sleep, now, do we?” Chuckling, Ravezio yanked his blade out and chucked it across the room toward a log of wood that held a half-dozen other throwing knives.

“She may try to flee. Her sister is apparently in danger.”

“You of all people should relate to such a thing,” Ravezio said, and strode off after his blade.

Groaning, Zevander turned for the door. “I relate to nothing with a mortal.”

“You did remember to feed the little mortal supper, though, didn’t you?” Ravezio called out after him.

Zevander squeezed his eyes shut and quietly growled as he strode from the room.