“You may,” I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion.
And he bites me gently, his razor-sharp fangs sinking into my skin, and apart from the faint bloom of pain at the beginning, there’s nothing but warmth and the thrill of his mouth against my wrist.
Everything fades to grey. For a moment, I’m aware of nothing but his decadent lips and fangs and the thudding of my own heartbeat in my ears.
The magic in me snaps and fizzles, a faint rippling sensation running down my forearms.
Then the world returns to me in stark relief, and the fractious magic in me yields to his thirst.
Everything goes quiet.
I let him take my essence, because he’s in need.
It feels so good when my magic is subdued by his. I close my eyes and savor the feeling of being so utterly wanted and cherished.
I feel at peace. He makes me feel this way.
And if he intends to tear the world apart and put everything in its right place for me, who am I to stop him?
55
CORVAN
Adjacent to the Inner Sanctum is the headquarters of the Elite Guard. I know this place like the back of my hand. I spent many a time here when I was a boy, fascinated by the men of the Guard themselves; by their armor and weapons.
The soldiers were gruff but well-meaning; they accommodated me good-naturedly, although now I can understand that they probably didn’t have much of a choice.
Overqualified child-minders, they were.
I thought they were incredible—big, powerful, larger than life and equipped with the finest weapons I’d ever seen.
Never in a thousand years could have I imagined I’d be training them when I was older.
The very first time I was allowed to hold a sword was when one of them—a burly, gravelly-voiced man called Braemar—called me over.
How they’d laughed when I tried to lift it—and failed miserably.
That moment is etched into my mind. It’s probably the very thing that ignited my passion for the sword. I couldn’t have imagined that someday I’d wield it with such ease.
The trainers called me a freak of nature. It was soon discovered that I had a great aptitude for the fighting arts. I progressed at an alarming rate, besting seasoned veterans, easily winning tournaments.
Now I understand why.
I push open the big wooden doors and enter the War Room. The scent of aged oak fills my nostrils. That’s because of the large oval table in the center. Worn and pitted and ancient, it’s where the Guards sit and plot strategy; where they eat and drink and smoke and wager.
Where I used to play with my toy soldiers.
I pull a chair and take a seat in the middle. There’s a seldom-used chair at the end of the room, elevated on a wooden platform. A smaller version of a throne, where my father used to sit and receive briefings or issue orders.
I’m not interested in sitting in that chair.
I wait.
My mouth is filled with the taste of her. Her scent lingers in my consciousness. I can hear her, several rooms away, leafing through ancient texts.
She’s in my father’s secret library, searching for information about her Dryad heritage; about her mysterious powers.
A feeling of calm descends upon me. I don’t quite know why. I’m just filled with certainty that Finley will become formidable—even more so than she already is.
She managed to handle me, didn’t she?
If she wasn’t there at the pinnacle of my anger, I probably would have done something destructive.
But now I’m satiated and somewhat contained, so when I hear footsteps—one of the Guard, no doubt—echoing down the corridor, I’m able to compose my thoughts and conceal my emotions behind an expressionless mask.
Eventually, he enters the room. He stops dead in his tracks as he catches sight of me.
He’s one of the guards that greeted me at the entrance. I know him. Tarron.
Huge, muscular, freckled, and crimson-bearded, he’s a warrior to be feared for his cunning, endless stamina, and incredible strength. He’s also blessed with unwavering loyalty and a relentless work ethic. I’d gladly have had him in my crew, but there’s no way he would have left the Elite Guard.
Once an Elite, always an Elite. They swore an oath. They would have defended my father to the death.
And now that he’s gone…
Who are they going to be loyal to?
It’s up to me to convince them to swear fealty to me, and Tarron, their leader, is instrumental in that equation.
He approaches me, holding his hands with his palms facing outwards to show that he’s no threat, even though I know he could have his fingers curled around the hilt of his broadsword faster than the human eye can see.
I tip my head in greeting. “Tarron.”
“Your Highness.” His tone is grave. I wonder if he realizes what’s come to pass. “I’d be lying if I said I was surprised to find you here.”
“Thank you for respecting my privacy earlier,” I say quietly.
He offers a gruff nod in response.
I gesture toward a nearby chair. “Let’s talk, Tarron.”
“‘Course.” He takes a seat, moving gracefully in spite of his bulk.
He waits for me to speak. Tarron’s smart. He knows when to keep quiet.
I stare at him intently, trying to read him. On the outside, he gives away nothing, but his heart is beating a little faster than it should.
I make him uneasy.
“What are you going to do, Tarron, when the old man dies?”
Tarron lets out a deep sigh. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I’ll be straight with you, Your Highness. We can’t serve your brother. He isn’t his own man. I fear he’s been corrupted by the Dark Arts. If he’s going to succeed your father, we’ll all relinquish our positions and go look for private mercenary work. The young prince would probably have us gone, anyway. He’s surrounded himself with people from House Talavarra.” He gives me a wry look. “I hear there’s a certain young lord in the north who hires mercenaries from time to time, if they’re good enough.”
“And if this young lord had need of you for more than a season or two, would you consider permanent employment?”
Tarron shrugs. “Might consider it. If the pay and conditions were right.”
“I think the young lord might be highly suggestible when it came to pay and conditions. There might even be the opportunity to remain in Lukiria.”
“We’ll only follow someone that’s stronger than us. I think the young lord might fit that criteria.”
“Absolute loyalty. No questions. No objections.”
“Once we swear an oath, that’s a given.”
Have we just negotiated the terms of the Elite Guard’s new contract?
I lean forward. “Tarron, he’s dead.”
For a moment, the Commander of the Imperial Elite Guard says nothing. He just looks at me, his brow furrowing in concern. He doesn’t seem the least bit surprised.
“My condolences, Your Highness,” he says at last. If he’s aware of the rift between father and I, he doesn’t show it.