“They’re insufferable,” Nymre murmured, watching the ritualists slip into the empty throne chamber. Their faces, as always, were veiled in tightly stitched cloth, but she felt their eyes – burning, invasive – passing over her bare arms and legs. Normally, she wore her robes like a second skin, reveling in the way her beauty, mystery, and glamour made other fae turn, stare at her, admire. But the priests, led by Corupir, were a wound in her flesh – dragging, warm, sticky. “Like vermin wrapped in clothes.”
Lorian’s hand – hot, unbearably, as if the sun itself were dying inside him – rested on her palm. And with his touch, his mind spilled inside hers. It spread through her, deep, more intimate than a breath inside the mouth. Soothing. Sensual but also a medicine on a pus-ridden wound. He lounged on the throne as if he weren’t to end the world.
Or remake it.
“Annoying, yes,” he said with a smile that could charm the sky. “But not the worst this world has to offer. They bite and claw… but our skin is created of night. Harder than iron, my raven.”
“Iron melts in flame, Lorian.”
The hall was drowning in darkness. Even the fairy lights fled, repelled by the ritualists’ presence. Eaten alive, they weren’t only dark – they were an offering. Their strength had been silenced, surrendered to an invisible fire. What they endured was but a piece of Lorian’s torment, yet the flame had gnawed at them longer, corroding their auras and their bodies.
They were living corpses.
The thought of Lorian ever joining them frightened her more than their usually undecipherable prophecies.
Corupir – less consumed, more preserved – knelt before the throne, her forehead pressed to the cold stone.
“The vessel has been delivered to Natsel’sorl, Your Majesty.”
“Were his needs met?” Lorian’s finger traced the curve of Nymre’s hip.
“He screamed,” Nymre almost could feel the smile beneath her veil. “But the wailing stopped. The ancestors heard his suffering. We felt their fear, their fury like a fire ocean’s rage. They are displeased – violently” She laughed, sharp and wild. “They toss in our minds, desperate to reach us. Two priests died.”
“And the rest?”
“They guard. They know the price. And the prize.”
Cold fingers brushed Nymre’s spine – so freezing, like winter’s last breath before spring’s awakening. Only Lorian’s heat kept her from an unwanted shiver.
Prize.
And price.
The prize was exquisite. A feast. A sweetness. But the price…
…was something she could never accept.
Lorian understood the cost. Every thread he wove, every plan he birthed, led to this moment.
“How many priests guard him?”
The words slipped from Nymre’s lips before she thought them.
Corupir raised her head. The veil shifted, revealing a part of her face – raw, red, like fresh meat. She hadn’t worn veil days ago. Something had scorched her in the gods’ prison.
“Two brothers stand on the watch, my lady.”
“Not enough.”
“My lady… if the gods could destroy him before His Majesty claims them, they would do so even with hundreds of us at his side.”
Lorian laughed – softly, silently.
“I suspect my raven wonders whether you’ve taken precautions to keep him from ending himself… prematurely.”
“He is numbed, my Lord,” Corupir replied, the veil clinging to her burned flesh again. “He received the crostlick leaves.”
“Ah, the old herbs. Good for silencing the senses,” Lorian’s arm embraced Nymre’s waist as she sat on the throne’s arm. He felt her tension. She knew he did. Tonight, everything would unravel, untangle, unroot. And she couldn’t stop thinking about it. “Some say the gods need those leaves more than this poor human soul.”
“The gods would burn them, Your Majesty.”
“Of course. No one has ever discovered how to hush divine potency. But my hand will be the first to seal their flame in an iron casket.”
“Your Majesty… we will serve you in this, even if it means suffering.”
“Even… death?” Lorian’s brow arched, his gaze inquisitive.
Corupir said nothing. Her silence made Nymre laugh – sharp, dark, flooded with unease.
“Look at them, Lorian. They dare to predict my demise, dare to prophesy my death – yet they are cowards. They won’t follow you, even though they breathe only because you allow it.”
“Ah, fools always imagine others will perish first. A fool is always… do beautifully hopeful.”
She couldn’t see Corupir’s face, nor any of the priests’, but she felt his words buried in the fragile places.
Lorian waved a hand. The ritualists rose from their knees, dragging themselves toward the door. As they passed, Nymre scoffed.
“They are not fools. They’re idiots.”
“They are hungry for normalcy.”
“And what is normalcy now?”
He pulled her onto his knee. Nymre twisted, but he held her fast, his hands cradling her face.
“Look at me, raven.”
“No…” She tried to break free, but his grip locked her neck in place. “Let me go…”
Her eyes met his – endless black voids. Her body stilled. Her wings ceased to clap in protest. His smile, fresh as mountain wind, stole the ground from beneath her feet.
“This is not death, Nymre,” he purred, and she softened like wax. Too much doubt. Too much pain. Too much… him. “This is death only to the world we knew. Weak. Deceitful.”
His shadows slithered over her skin, clinging like silk bathed in fire. She would walk into flame just to feel it.
“You… you are deception, Lorian…”
“Perhaps. But a beautiful one…”
His kiss was molten gold – like he had swallowed the gods and now burned with their pure, unfiltered flame. She melted into him. She allowed it. She always did allow. That was her choice and her power.
When he pulled away, she despised the moment. She could swear golden sap lingered on her lips. He bled gold.
He was a fool. Reckless. Sadistic and brilliant. He was her night. Her storm. Her suffocation and her breath. And he would become her god.
“Tonight,” he whispered. “We will make the day scream.”
*
Two snowfalls later, two bone-maned sholi horses departed Dal’coler, black figures astride their backs. Behind them loomed a wall of shadows, thick as snow. The night was cold, stark, pure – there was no wind, no sound but the creaking of snow beneath hooves. The creatures’ red eyes were the only light in the landscape.
They rode toward the faery portal – the gate of many eyes and many tongues.
Which saw both victory and failure.
With tongues dripping saliva in hunger, it tasted the marrow of their souls, savoring the blood they would spill today.