“Hey, Vagach, I know we worked you hard today, so I brought you some food. You don’t have to eat out here with the rest of us.” Izgath’s voice was muffled through the fabric, and my eyes burned once again from his kindness. But I couldn’t voice my gratitude, not in this form and not while I was trying to quietly break down.

“I’ll leave it here for you since you’re probably too sore to move,” he chuckled, and the shadow crouched, then rose again. “Join us later if you’re up for it.”

Without waiting for a response, he disappeared, back into the excitement of the camp. I waited until I was certain he was gone before crawling forward and lifting the barest hint of the canvas. True to his word, a steaming plate of food waited for me. I snatched it into my tent like a beast dragging food into its lair, and wasted no time devouring every morsel.

By the time I finished, my heart was lighter and my limbs were less heavy. Though my mind was still weighed down by thoughts of Izgath. What did he want from me? What did he suspect? And why was there this draw between us, one that kept him teasing and caring for me?

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8

Xannirin’s sitting chamber rivaled one of the smaller ballrooms on the main level of Gyor Palace in size and opulence, a glaring reminder of how far I was from where I belonged—on the battlefield. Massive fire pits roared into columns carrying the smoke up and out of the room while elegant black fur rugs that lined the floor between tables and loungers. On two sides, large windows provided an unparalleled view to the Skala Mountains, stars winking into existence over their sharp peaks as the moon rose alongside them.

A bottle of my favorite alcohol, a dark amber drink infused with pepper known as scale in the Demon Realm, waited on the gray wood table with two glasses. Xannirin sprawled on a lengthy, elegant leather sofa, flipping through a book as I entered his space.

He closed it and set it to the side as I approached. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” he chided, flashing me a mischievous grin.

Sitting back into the matching couch opposite him, I crossed an ankle over my knee and threw my arms wide. “I was merely restoring my energy for the evening ahead. Besides, everyone waits for us.”

Xannirin grabbed the bottle and poured two glasses, offering one to me. I accepted, clinking it against his, then sipped. It burned in the best way on its way down my throat and into my stomach.

“That they do,” my cousin finally responded, snapping his fingers. One of the servants clinging to the periphery disappeared through the door, returning moments later with a horde. Carts laden with platters of food and drink preceded a dozen females, sheer fabric whispering around their legs and over their torsos. Each wore a translucent veil and kept their eyes downcast.

“Over there,” we said in unison, and Xannirin grinned, burgundy eyes flashing to me before returning to the females sashaying toward an arrangement of rugs in an open space behind me. Craning my neck, I watched each of them kneel in turn, hands resting in their laps and heads dipping toward the ground.

As the Kral, Xannirin had access to the premier fallen. These were no ordinary females—they’d chosen this life and were paid staggering amounts of coin for it. With the number present, Xannirin had clearly spared no expense for my return.

Servants arranged the feast around us. Savory spices assaulted my nostrils and pulled a growl from my stomach. My mouth watered too as I caught sight of my favorite dish—a spicy, near boiling pot of soup where I could cook a variety of foods with a simple dip into it. Delicacies like these were not available in a war camp, and Xannirin knew exactly what he was doing, enticing me to remain in Uzhhorod rather than return to the budding tent city situated outside the gates.

The servants swept away with a volley of bows and words of veneration, and Xannirin basked in it. I wanted them to fuck off so I could eat. While my cousin was vain and enjoyed the sycophants, I did not. My accomplishments spoke for themselves; I didn’t need anyone else to validate my success.

Lifting slices of raw beef with a pair of tongs, I dipped them in the hot broth, watching the meat turn from red, bloody carvings into dark, broody slabs. Across from me, Xannirin piled a plate with roasted vegetables and seared meats tossed with a sticky sweet sauce that he favored.

“How is our dear cousin?” I asked Xannirin.

Through a mouthful of food, he said, “High Priestess Kiira sends her love, though Varbad Temple steals all her attention these days. I’ve hardly seen her myself since the last time you were here.”

I stabbed my food with force and shoved it into my mouth. Kiira grew up in Uzhhorod with Xannirin and me, bastard daughter of our fathers’ third brother. Like the rest of our kin, she boasted eyes of a deep burgundy and held powers over the spirits and dead. Together, we were a natural fit to conquer all of Keleti, and Kiira had both accepted and accentuated Xannirin’s plans since he claimed the throne from his father.

Kiira was the only Demon in written history to have the gift of Sight, though it differed from the Sight of the Angels. Where they foretold prophecies that may or may not come to pass, the few instances where Kirra was overcome always came to pass. The Giver blessed her with a direct connection to their weavings, using her as a channel for their desires.

“Has she seen anything lately?” I asked, jostling the vegetables so they cooked more evenly.

“She hasn’t had a vision in some time,” Xannirin paused, his attention flickering to the premier fallen. “Actually, come with me.”

Brows furrowing, I followed him into his sleeping chamber. He yanked a few drawers open before finding whatever it was he searched for. He proffered it to me, his mouth curved into a frown. Hesitantly, I accepted, wondering what had him so concerned.

The crumpled paper crinkled as I opened it. A drawing of a pair of eyes stared back at me, so striking and unnerving that they pierced the depths of my black soul. “What is this?” I asked, turning it this way and that as if a different direction would have answers for why swipes of charcoal on a page unsettled me so. They felt alive as if they had leaped off the face of a beautiful female and etched themselves here instead.

“Kiira keeps sending these, with nothing else,” Xannirin sighed, scratching his ringed fingers through his beard. The garnet signet ring of House Vrak glinted with the motion.

The Giver had blessed Kiira greatly, yet despite her many talents—namely, weaving believable tales surrounding the mythology of the three Fates—art was not one of them.

“As a joke?” I clarified, studying the long, detailed lashes and almond shape. The art was skillful, and I hadn’t been gone long enough for Kiira to master a new hobby.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in weeks. Well, over a month now,” Xannirin muttered, a hint of anxiety lacing his tone. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“And they are all like this?” I pressed. That she had been so absent and sending these notes to Xannirin was troubling.

Is our alliance crumbling? Is this a coded message? Has something happened to her?

The thoughts raced through my head one after another as my strategic mind went into overdrive. I hadn’t had nearly enough scale to calm it down.

“Nearly identical. Most are black and white, but a handful of irises have been colored burgundy. They come sealed with her wax, too, so I know it isn’t a trick of one of her acolytes.”

That answered one of my questions.

Xannirin blew out a long breath. “She won’t return any messages of mine either. I have half a mind to march to Varbad to seek her out.”