While he didn’t head their forces—yet—Rokath had studied military strategy since his first day at the academy as a youngling. He’d always had a mind for it, which complimented his cousin’s cunning and manipulation perfectly. Rokath raised a brow, crinkling the inked snake fang that stretched onto his temple. “You’d want me in charge?”

“Who else?” Xannirin said. The legs of his chair smacked against the ground. “Come on, we’ve whispered of this for decades. Once you kill our fathers, we will have snatched all powers for ourselves. Let’s make it happen. Starting with society. Kiira, what do you say?”

Kiira blew out a long breath, twisting the end of her long, straight, hair around her finger. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

Xannirin grasped her free hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “The Demons need to worship the Fates with the fervor the Angels worship the Goddess. They need to venerate us to the point where they trust what we say no matter what. In return, we’ll give them a better life. More food. More coin.”

“You want worship, not devotion. That’s not faith, not as we practice it now. That’s obedience,” Kiira pointed out, withdrawing and sinking back into her seat.

“We need their obedience to make the necessary changes to protect us—to protect them,” Xannirin argued. “Tell her, Rokath.”

Their warrior-cousin, still covered in blood, nodded. “He’s right. In the military, too many questions delay action, and that often comes with severe consequences. Implicit compliance can be the difference between life and death.”

Xannirin only grew more animated as he pounded out his other points, fueled by Rokath’s affirmation. “Females will be worshiped for their ability to bear children for our future. They won’t need to work, merely embrace their femininity. They’ll be taken care of, placed on a pedestal. Protected from all the evils of this world.”

Kiira stiffened more and more as he continued speaking of their new society. Finally, she sat forward, interrupting the future Kral. “I don’t like how this is unfolding. Surely there is another way than removing autonomy from females?”

“Don’t frame it that way, Kiira,” Xannirin crooned, snatching her hand back into his. “We’re empowering them in a different way. Asking them to contribute to our collective future in a way only they can.”

Kiira dragged her palms out of her cousin’s, looking across the steam at Rokath’s blurred form. “What do you think?”

He rubbed his temples, drawing her attention to the blood caked on his scalp. “Xannirin’s points are solid. As much as I don’t like it either, I don’t see a way to do it more quickly. Look at how fast Koron Stadiel turned the Angel race into a bunch of overzealous insects.”

In fact, it had scarcely been a century and their militant fanaticism had rooted itself in society deeper than the massive trees in the Eső Forest.

Kiira was silent for many minutes, staring into the distance. When it was clear she wouldn’t soon speak, Rokath and Xannirin took the raw food around them and dipped it into the boiling liquid. Spice wafted, meat hissed, vegetables wilted, all while they waited for their third to shift, to move, to do anything other than sit with an utterly blank expression.

Finally, she lifted her glass and drained it. When she placed it on the table, the clang shattered the quiet. “I have conditions.”

“Name them,” Xannirin said without hesitation.

“First, bastards acquire full rights of their father’s houses. Second, priestesses will remain unmarried.” This caveat she added should any female wish to avoid contact with males altogether. “Third, I retain equal status with the two of you.” She lifted her chin and straightened in her seat. With her body decorated in bruises, she exuded power with the posture. “I will never be beneath a male again, vulnerable to his whims. You will not force me to marry against my will. You will allow me to build a temple in equal splendor to Gyor Palace.” She continued to list off her requirements, refusing to bend under the males’ heavy stares.

“You have all of them,” Xannirin pronounced immediately upon the end of her soliloquy. “However, I need to approve any marriage you should want to make. Same for you, Rokath, though I doubt it will ever come to that.” Kiira opened her mouth to protest, but Xannirin cut her off. “I don’t expect to need to intervene for you either, Kiira, but I must also protect House Vrak from outside harm. Someone far beneath our station would not suit the High Priestess. You will be a Goddess to the Demon race, remember?”

Kiira huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Beneath the table, her foot swung in an erratic rhythm as she considered the amendment to her condition. She stilled, then returned her attention to her cousins. “Fine. We have a deal?”

Xannirin picked up a wickedly sharp knife, letting the edge flash in the low light. “Aye.” With it, he sliced into his palm, then offered it to Kiira. She did the same before they clasped hands and spoke the words to solidify their alliance. Rokath drew a dagger from his thigh and drew ruby to the surface of his skin, making the same oath to each of them.

Once their wounds had begun to heal, Xannirin poured another round of drinks. Then, he made a daring toast. “To the future of the Demon Race. To us, who will rule as Gods. And to a painful death to our fathers.”

The three smacked their glasses against the table with resounding thuds, the effects of which wouldn’t be felt for centuries to come.

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1

Pillars of twisting flame speared into the sky, sending the souls of the fallen soldiers onto their next lives. My nose had long since numbed to the scent of scorched flesh. I paused atop a rocky ridgeline, still stained ruby from the slaughter a few days prior, and surveyed the scene we left behind.

Nausea churned my gut at the sheer size of the blazing war camp. So many dead; so many sacrificed so I could live. But my resolve to whet my own blade in blood, my determination to seek vengeance, hardened with each step, with each glance at Rokath’s broken hands.

The silver stakes Zaph had used to pin him in place weighed heavily in my pack. I didn’t carry them as relics. No, I had plans for them. A promise to keep—for myself if not for Rokath.

Day by day while we worked, I imagined the moment I’d drive them into the fucking Angel. They wouldn’t lock down his magic like they had Rokath’s; that was what the bronze blades were for. But the pain as I separated the bones of his hands with them would be enormous. Especially since Rokath had promised that he’d torture him—excruciatingly slowly—for daring to take me from him.

“The bodies will continue to burn for a while,” my mate told me, coming to a stop and following my line of sight. “With the number of them, probably until we reunite with the rest of the army.”

Rokath tugged on Blaeze’s reins, leading the small wagon over bumpy gravel and blood-caked sand. The earth crunched beneath his boots and the wheels. Rokath was enormous, built like the craggy Skala Mountains at our back, but now, he carried far more than his powerful presence. Zeec, still too weak to walk, hung limp against his chest. Another pack on his back, the worn leather one falling apart at the seams, held our clothes. In his still-healing hand, he hefted a bag brimming with food.

“Let me carry something else,” I offered, jogging to catch up with them, Grem at my side. Barrels of water filled the cart, braced against a few more of our belongings and the throne of bones. We each hauled as much as we could to save Blaeze from pulling any more weight.