32. Koros

The messenger's wings flutter anxiously as I tower over him, his throat bobbing with each swallow. The parchment in his hands trembles. Smart boy. Most messengers don't last long in this business if they can't read the room.

I snatch the letter from his grasp, my eyes sweeping from the wax seal on the letter to the messenger. He takes three steps back. The wax breaks under my thumb, and the scent of earth hits my nose. Ikoth. The tang of it coats my tongue.

The parchment crumples in my fist as I read. Aamon has secured a marriage contract with Praexa Malachi's niece. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding. The same demon bastard who's been snatching every rare metal shipment from under my nose for the past decade.

"More news, sir." The messenger's voice cracks. "The betrothal ceremony is to be held in New Solas at the end of the month. They say he's bringing a dowry of shadowsteel and void-touched silver."

A growl builds in my chest. My wings, dark as storm clouds, snap open, knocking over a vase. Water splashes across the floor, and the messenger yelps.

"Get out."

He bolts, nearly tripping over his own feet. The door slams behind him, and I'm left alone with the crushed letter and my rage.

The marriage means Aamon will have direct access to New Solas's trade routes. More importantly, he'll have the backing of one of the most powerful praexa in the city. Every auction, every rare shipment, every unique material - he'll have first claim.

My massive hands clench around the letter, crumpling it further. The memory of Aamon's smirking face burns behind my eyes. Last month's shadowsteel shipment still haunts me - twenty bars of pure, void-touched metal that would have revolutionized my forge work. I'd spent months cultivating contacts, greasing palms, ensuring every detail was perfect.

Fury courses through my veins. I can still see Aamon's guards surrounding the caravan, their weapons drawn. The carriers I'd hired, dead in the dirt. All that precious metal, gone.

My wings scrape against the ceiling as I pace. The workshop walls feel too close, too confining. Weapons of my own making line the walls - beautiful pieces, deadly and precise. But they could be so much more. That shadowsteel would have given them an edge unlike anything seen in centuries.

Each failure plays through my mind: the crystalline ore from the southern mines, the dragon-forged steel from the western peaks, the enchanted silver from the coastal towns. Every time, Aamon's been there first. Every time, he's left me with nothing but corpses and excuses.

The letter crumbles to ash in my grip, dark flakes drifting to the floor. Ten years of being outmaneuvered, of watching my work stagnate while he grows fat on stolen goods. And now this marriage will give him everything I've fought for.

A dark chuckle escapes my throat as I brush the letter's ashes from my scarred hands. My reflection catches in the polished steel of a nearby blade - one golden eye blazing, one black as pitch.

Raven likes to tease it's the two sides of my personality. I may seem like a good guy to my friends - and I can be - I have a darker side than any other xaphan I've met.

"A betrothal ceremony." The words roll off my tongue like honey-coated poison. My dark red hair falls over my shoulders as I tip my head back and run a hand down my face. "Such a grand affair deserves an equally grand entrance."

The great houses always throw these ceremonies in the same place - the Golden Spire, that gaudy monument to xaphan excess. I know every entrance, every service corridor, every hidden path. Years of dealing in rare materials have taught me the value of knowing where the servants slip in and out.

I trace the route with one finger, my nail leaving slight scratches in the parchment. The main hall will be packed with nobility, all of them preening and posturing. Aamon will be at the center of it all, probably wearing that insufferable smirk while he parades his new bride-to-be around like a prize mare.

"Let's see how well you smirk when I'm done." My voice comes out as a growl as my anger takes root. I know now that if I looked up, both of my eyes would be solid black.

My massive frame straightens to its full height, wings spreading wider until they brush the walls. Even in a town for xaphan, the houses aren't quite built for my stature.

The candlelight plays across their surface, creating patterns like oil on water. Each feather holds the promise of vengeance, each shadow a weapon in my arsenal.

I bare my teeth in what might pass for a smile, if smiles were made of razor blades and broken promises. I'll make sure that my wedding gift will be one they'll never forget.

Besides, stealing a bride worked out so well for Uriel, I suppose I can try it. If nothing else, I'll savor liberating someone from Aamon and ruining his day.

I've spent too long playing the careful merchant, the quiet giant who helps shape weapons and procures rare materials. Always in control, always holding back.

A laugh rumbles in my chest, deep and dangerous. "Time to remind them what I was before I became a merchant." My voice carries the edge of old battles, of victories written in blood and steel.

Before I traded in rare metals, I traded in death. The scars on my face weren't earned in market disputes.

The thought of Aamon's face when his perfect plan crumbles sends another wicked grin across my features. He thinks he's won - the trade routes, the praexa's backing, a beautiful bride. He's about to learn what happens when you push a predator too far.