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Three Centuries Earlier

Sharp spice overpowered the metallic tang of blood as the three cousins sat in a potent silence. The pot of soup rolled to a low boil, so much like the simmering tension building on their continent. All were reeling from the occurrences of late while they waited for their dinner. In the lifespan of a Demon, it was merely a blink. Yet, so much had changed, and needed to continue to change, to save their race.

The Angels had increased the frequency of their attacks since Koron Stadiel slaughtered his competitors to seat himself on the Angel throne. The Kral and his two brothers had stood by while more and more skirmishes took place. His nephew with the tattooed head knew better than anyone just how bloodthirsty the Angels were. The latest attack was what had him calling the others to meet in his palatial home in Uzhhorod.

As he looked down at his hands, bits of dried ruby flaked off. He hadn’t bathed yet, wanting the two to see the full impact of what he had endured. They both eyed his blood-soaked form as he reached for a glass of scale—a spicy alcohol that he both loved and rarely indulged in—and drank it to the dregs.

“The time has come, Xannirin. We need you on the throne,” he said with a hiss once he finished.

Xannirin didn’t tear his gaze away from the boiling soup, merely sat with numb detachment. Bits of his long hair had come loose from its band, and he made no move to clear them from his face. He had known this day was coming—after all, they had been planning this since that fateful day their fathers had forced Rokath to kill their friend.

That it was finally here was still a shock to him.

Their female cousin shifted in her seat, rearranging the sweep of her dress. Like everything she wore, it was feminine, flirty, and showed off her tan skin. She pinned the bloody, broody warrior with a hard stare. “Will you make it hurt, Rokath?”

“Aye, Kiira. They deserve it,” Rokath rumbled. Her father had beaten Kiira to the brink of death only a week prior. The bruises on her ribs, arms, and face were still a fat purple. Sweeping his attention over the marks made him grind his teeth again. His uncle’s actions had only further solidified his plan to slaughter the three eldest members of House Vrak.

Rokath was protective by nature, and anyone who hurt those he deeply cared for faced his infamous wrath. Even now, all the nobility was firmly aware of just how cruel he could be if pressed the wrong way.

It was still far better than their fathers’ tempers.

Xannirin finally lifted his gaze from the steam. “We need to talk about the changes we want to implement upon my ascension. It’s better to hash them out now before I am crowned rather than after people have settled into the new regime.”

Then, he pinned Kiira with a serious look. “I want to elevate you to High Priestess.”

Their cousin flashed her gaze between the two, brows pinching together as her mind worked over the proposition. Her mother—a commoner—had not been the wife of her father. Despite her shameful status, she’d grown up under his too-watchful eye with riches and a modicum of influence. To raise her to the position of High Priestess was an enormous leap.

“But I’m a bastard,” she protested, like she could sway Xannirin when it sounded like he’d already made up his mind. “I can’t possibly accept the position.”

“We’ll bury your bloodline like we’ll erase Rokath’s name from common memory,” Xannirin said, straightening and rolling out his shoulders.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she replied with a frown. “Besides, I’m not worthy.”

“Well, I say you are. And I will be the Kral.” A cunning smirk rose to his lips. “The three of us will become the three Fates that walk the earth.”

Kiira’s teeth raked over her bottom lip. “The Kral, the Halálhívó, the High Priestess. The Speaker, the Caller, the Seer.”

As a Seer, the Fates offered her direct access to their weavings, unlike the Angel Seers who only glimpsed what could be through their Goddess. She was the only Demon in recorded history to be given such a gift, the uniqueness similar to her cousins. Their fathers’ powers were all duplicates of prior members of House Vrak.

“Exactly,” Xannirin replied, leaning forward. Excitement sparked off him like the strike of a hammer against forged metal. “Our power, our story has to be as hallowed, as fearsome as the myth of the Fates themselves. You are the key to swaying the people to believe in us like they believe in the Weaver, the Giver, and the Reaper.”

Across from him, Rokath shifted in his seat. Attention was not something he handled well. He much preferred to remain private about his life and his accomplishments. To be thrust into the notice of the masses was not something he desired. Every action picked apart by clueless, primped nobles with nothing better to do. Every decision questioned by those lacking the knowledge to comment on the matter at hand. Every set of eyes on him, judging, seeking weaknesses or shortcomings.

No, he’d rather remain in the shadows.

Another smile pressed Xannirin’s lips into a wicked curve. “Have I told you about my most recent encounter?”

“You went into the beyond again?” Rokath groused, reaching for the half-empty bottle of the spicy alcohol and pouring himself another glass. Irritation nipped at him as he recalled how many days it had taken for his cousin to return to their world on his previous trip. He’d made Xannirin promise never to use his Speaking powers again without telling him first.

Clearly, he’d gone against Rokath’s request.

“I did,” he said slowly, gauging Rokath’s reactions. By the tense set of his jaw, Xannirin knew he was angry. But he didn’t care. His cousin would let go of the transgression eventually. Especially with the information he had gleaned.

“And I know exactly how we’re going to beat back the Angels.”

That seemed to cool some of the embers of his rage, as Xannirin had predicted.

“How?” Rokath asked with no inflection whatsoever, but the stillness of his posture told Xannirin he’d captured his interest.

Xannirin spoke of his experience with a great king from another world who conquered vast swaths of territory. Rokath and Kiira listened with rapt attention, asking questions here and there. When he finished, Kiira slumped in her seat, while Rokath rubbed the stubble across his jaw.

“So we declare war on the Angels then?” Rokath clarified, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

“Not quite. We’re not ready for that yet. It’s true that Koron Stadiel will not stop until all Demons are dead, but for now he can be mitigated. First, we need the nobles on our side. They have far more influence in the countryside than we do, and they’ll help us shape society to serve the end goal. Then, we start bolstering our defenses,” Xannirin explained, stealing the bottle of scale from Rokath and splashing it into his cup.

“And what is that?” Kiira asked after sipping from her wine glass.

Xannirin laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “What better way to protect the Demon race than to conquer Keleti for ourselves?”

The question hung in the air like smoke—stifling, inescapable, and already clouding their futures.

“For that to happen, we need more bodies,” Rokath growled. Their fathers had allowed the military to shrink dramatically while they ruled, preferring to spend coin on their own indulgences while the populace suffered. Poverty had bloomed. The people were growing restless. None of that would serve Xannirin’s ambitions.

“Which is where Kiira comes in.” Xannirin returned his attention to their cousin. His heart twisted as the embers highlighted the split in her lip. Like Rokath, he wanted to protect her from further harm. “As High Priestess, she spins tales about the Fates. She leads spiritual life in the Demon Realm. She can encourage more marriages and more coupling to produce more offspring. By the time we’re ready to launch a full-scale war, you’ll have the bodies you need to lead the entire army, Rokath. And we’ll have high-powered nobles to maintain order in conquered territories.”