“Stunning,” the Kral said, running his fingers over his bottom lip.

The High Priestess stopped, the fabric gathering around her ankles before she shook it out again. “All priestesses will now wear black, like a crow’s feather. Others will have their choice of colors, but all will wear veils like this.” Her smile—tight, cracked, brittle—was a mask with little difference from the sheer fabric covering her face. Gone were the days of her revealing summer dresses. Of showing her toned arms and lithe frame. Now, she and all females of the realm needed to hide behind dark fabric.

At least she was still her male cousin’s equal in this new world, even if her flock was not.

“Nayúr Ollmund Varrir should be here any moment. With the Fates on our side, he’ll prove less of a snake than the others,” the Kral told her, gesturing for her to take the place on his left. “You can explain your clothing plans to him once we have his agreement. He is, after all, the premier textile producer for the Demon Realm.”

The High Priestess settled into place. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she waited for the noble they all hoped would assist them in swaying the rest.

At the door, a page knocked, announcing the Nayúr’s arrival.

“Enter,” the Kral called out. The doors opened, revealing the maroon-eyed noble. While he was far older than any of the cousins, he still retained the vibrancy of youth. Yet the cunning curve of his lips as he knelt before his new Kral lodged a pit of worry in the High Priestess’s stomach.

The Halálhívó merely looked down on the Nayúr through the slits in his new helmet. Only one class of people drew his ire—the nobility. He’d much prefer if they could keep the sycophants out of their plans. At the military academy, the noble’s sons had all attempted to curry favor with the Kral and him, and he’d hated every moment of it. Hated every ball he’d been forced to attend at Gyor Palace by his father. Hated the shallow conversations, the false flattery, the deals done in the dark.

None of them understood the true cost of power. Because none of them possessed it. What they had was merely a grand illusion.

But the Kral had insisted time and time again nothing could be done without their aid.

“My Kral,” the Nayúr purred as he straightened. “How may I serve you? That is why you called me here, is it not?”

The Kral didn’t respond. With practiced slowness, he dragged his gaze over his noble. The Nayúr merely waited, unfazed by the untried Kral’s assessment.

“By now you have heard of the battle of Kraskiv.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I have heard whispers, but I would love to hear a full account from the male who managed to survive such an assault,” Nayúr Ollmund replied, his attention settling heavily on the Halálhívó.

His fingers tightened behind his back as he prepared to offer the rehearsed statement he’d crafted with the High Priestess. Stories, she’d told him countless times these last few weeks, held immense power. Moving people to emotion was what would drive quick change. Their fervency, their outrage, their indignation, was all key to selling the three’s newfound statuses.

“A horde of Angels dared to enter our sovereign territory along the Kraskiv outpost. At the time, I happened to be inspecting fresh construction along our wall. I never expected such a force to attack. It was far larger than I’ve seen in my time serving the Demon army. Thousands upon thousands at the very least. We were overwhelmed immediately, and only a few managed to escape the initial onslaught. Yet instead of shoving their blades into our bellies or slicing them across our necks, the Angels strung ropes from the wall and looped them around each captured male’s neck. We watched on as they proceeded to keep them alive and allow the birds to pick out their eyes before they let their entrails spill for feasting.”

At that grotesque picture, the Nayúr paled. The High Priestess watched his reactions intently, for this was the first test of her carefully crafted tale.

“Those of us who survived refused to leave until we could burn the bodies of our tortured comrades. Yet that itself was a carefully laid trap. Once the fires took hold, they attacked again. We filled the Fates’ greedy bellies with Angel blood that night. I called upon my deceased soldiers to help us, their bodies still blazing. It is only by the will of the Weaver that I stand before you now.”

Nayúr Ollmund’s face reddened as the Halálhívó relayed the reattack. “The Reaper’s eye passed over you. Tell me you slaughtered them all.”

“Aye,” the Halálhívó confirmed, his tone laced with dark intent. “The Giver endowed me with Calling for a reason. To lead the Demon army.”

“We are blessed that the Fates shine so brightly on you,” he replied, straightening and turning his attention to the veiled female. “And you, High Priestess.”

“Do not forget your Kral,” he tsked, rising from his throne, “for my Speaking powers have brought me great insight.” He stepped down the dais and approached the Nayúr. “How many years has it been since you ascended?”

“Centuries, My Kral. It has been long enough that the exact count eludes me,” the Nayúr replied.

“And in that time, a male such as yourself has built strong relationships,” the Kral ventured next.

“Certainly. Though that doesn’t mean I am set in my ways.” His attention flicked between the three cousins. “I am always open to building new ones. So long as the relationship is mutually beneficial.”

The Kral circled the Nayúr like a predator circles its prey. His polished boots clicked against the floor. “And what sort of benefits do you seek?”

He let out a low chuckle. “What male doesn’t want gold? Power? Prestige?”

“It seems we have that in common. And isn’t that a great foundation for an aligned relationship?” The Kral tossed out the statement like it was a fleeting thought and not a well-executed plan.

The High Priestess stiffened. Had he said that to manipulate Ollmund, or did he truly mean it? Doubt about his intentions clawed up her spine. Yet she couldn’t voice them—not here, not now.

“I’m inclined to agree, My Kral. So why don’t you tell me what it is you seek?” The Nayúr raised a brow, staring down the highest ranking Demon in all of Keleti.

The gemstones scattered flits of light around the room as the Kral stepped into the streaming sun. “It is our belief,” he gestured to his cousins flanking him, “that Demon society is in dire need of a change. The people need to eat. They need to work. They need to serve. Males, in the army and the fields. Females, in increasing our population. We’ll need all of that if we are to straddle both sides of the Skala Mountains.”

The corners of the Nayúr’s mouth rose. “I see you offer a mix of all three.”

“Aye,” the Kral replied. “So long as you can guarantee the support of the rest of the nobility.”

“You know as well as I that there are factions within us, all vying for more,” the Nayúr said, his head tilting ever so slightly. “So what makes you think that I have the power to unite them if you yourself—no offense meant, of course—cannot?”

The previous ruler had been cruel, wicked even, and had to be dealt with a delicate hand. His son was proving to be no different—though he hadn’t the centuries of experience the Nayúr did in such matters.

It was the Kral’s turn to chuckle. “Oh, Ollmund. I could easily bring them to heel, should I choose to do so. But that would require force I do not wish to use so early in my reign. Relationships—hard won as some may be—are the true way to install order.”

The grin on the Nayúr’s face widened, but it wasn’t born of friendliness or amusement. He had underestimated this new Kral’s cunning. Where he had expected a male easily manipulated from inexperience, he was instead met with political power in the making. “You are quite right, My Kral. The promise of additional lands and opportunities to build wealth will certainly sway many to your plans. As well as this horrific incident in Kraskiv.”