The Kral studied his noble servant in turn. The story of the battle had gotten the Nayúr invested—emotionally at least. Convincing him to participate fully would require other means of persuasion. He wasted no more time in attempting to discern what leverage the Nayúr wanted over House Vrak. “Who will be the easiest to sway?”

“Ah, not so fast,” the Nayúr said, raising a hand. “I have not yet laid out my terms.”

The Kral smiled, having pushed the Nayúr into revealing what he wanted to know. “Name them.”

“First, the best lands in the Angel Realm will go to House Varrir. We need ample space to grow the materials for our fabrics.”

“You have it,” the Kral agreed. “Name your others.”

“I have but one other,” Nayúr Ollmund paused, dragging his attention over the High Priestess. Unease curled in her gut with the way he looked at her. The veil, at least, hid her swallow, even if she wished she wasn’t forced to cover herself for their new order.

Tension hung thick in the room as the three cousins awaited his next request. “For my continued support and sway with the other nobles—because we both know I am influential, otherwise you would have sought out another—I require one favor which you cannot refuse me, to be claimed at the time of my choosing.”

A muscle feathered in the Halálhívó’s jaw. This was exactly why he didn’t like the nobles. Always scheming for more power. Always ready to drive a knife into the back of another to supplant themselves.

“No,” he growled, taking a half-step forward. “You can specify your terms or you can add caveats. We will not leave it open for you to claim the throne for yourself once we’ve shed our blood to conquer the Angel Realm.”

The Nayúr’s maroon eyes glittered. “You make a fair point, Rokath.”

A snarl tore from him and he advanced on the noble. “That name no longer exists.” At first, he’d resisted his cousin’s suggestion that he hide beneath the mantle of the Halálhívó. Yet after they’d crafted the story of the battle of Kraskiv, he’d welcomed the added mystique and anonymity. The helmet too allowed him space to hide in plain sight. It also allowed him to show parts of himself he’d always been told to suppress.

Like his infamous rage.

The Nayúr refused to tremble under the male’s wrath, despite his massive frame towering over him. Without looking away, he said to the Kral, “It seems you have more information to reveal yet.”

“Name your second and only other condition and we will explain more,” the Kral replied, his tone level and cool where his cousin vibrated with barely restrained fury.

“I will caveat my terms. I will not seek to request House Vrak to relinquish the throne. Nor will I request that all the noble houses save for mine be extinguished. I do agree that we need to save our race from those zealots. This favor will not hinder the efforts of our shared goal—more land, more gold, and more power for the Demons. So long as I am pleased with the direction everything is heading.” Each word was carefully chosen to protect House Varrir’s interests.

The Kral and the Halálhívó knew it too. To be beholden to such a male was a massive risk, yet they needed his support to accomplish their goals. “Fine,” the Kral finally agreed, hoping he hadn’t put his fate in the hands of the Reaper.

“Seal it with a blood oath,” the head of House Varrir said, drawing a short, ceremonial knife from his belted sheath. The Halálhívó’s hand immediately flew to the sword strapped across his back as he stepped forward.

“There’s no need for violence. I have no intention of harming my new partners,” the Nayúr said, disdain dripping in his pointed look at the Halálhívó.

The Kral clenched his teeth, indecision warring through him. Swearing to uphold his terms before the Fates ensured they’d have to act upon whatever the head of House Varrir wished. And yet, it would prevent the Nayúr from forcing House Vrak to relinquish the throne. He drew a blade of his own and sliced into his palm.

“Your terms shall be kept,” he said, reaching for the Nayúr. The male cut his own skin and then pressed his wound to his Kral’s.

“I am at your service, My Kral.”

After the Halálhívó and the High Priestess made similar professions, they wiped their hands clean, the wounds already closing.

“Let’s begin weaving our future.”

OceanofPDF.com

OceanofPDF.com

18

The transition from the dry, sandy air of the desert to that of the briny sea was a welcome change. As we passed over another rolling hill, the town of Fured spread before us, stretching across the plateau that led directly to the deep blue ocean. Marshy green plants lined the road, swaying in the salted breeze. I’d spent more time here in my centuries of life than anywhere else in the Demon Realm, including Uzhhorod.

The military academy Xannirin, Rapp, and I had attended sat like a solemn companion to the bustling seaside town. From the distance, it appeared as an impenetrable fortress, with high, round turrets spaced at regular intervals in every direction. The stone battlements jutted against the cliffside, preventing any attacks from the rear. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to attempt to scale the sheer cliffs battered by fierce, frothy waves.

The wind too was a formidable opponent. A vivid memory of being pushed off the tallest tower at the rear slammed into me as my gaze landed on it. The howls, the screams, the snap of wings from every initiate faced their death at the hands of the sharp rocks and rough ocean below. The way the air had buffeted me, dragging me like a leaf. The giddiness of the freefall tugged at my chest. As did the pride in how my wings had snapped open at the penultimate moment and caught a draft that carried me away from the perilous rocks.

Yet the male who’d fallen after me had exhausted himself, unable to maneuver his body properly, and dropped like a stone into the sea.

His death didn’t stir sorrow in me. Or regret. Or any other emotion. Nor did the dozen others who’d succumbed to the mighty power of nature.

War was a game of survival. If they couldn’t thrive at the academy, they wouldn’t have lived through a single battle.

Black banners whipped in the wind atop the turrets, still bearing the army’s crossed sword sigil. Which meant that the Kral had not yet arrived. When he did, they’d be replaced with burgundy banners, all bearing the triple skulls of House Vrak.

My stomach unknotted. With our late departure as we waited for Rapp to awaken, I had worried they’d beat us here. I’d secretly hoped they’d been waylaid on their journey so I had a moment to reorient myself before speaking with them.

My small prayers have been answered.

“So this is it?” Assyria asked softly beside me.

I tore my attention away from the academy and to my mate. Black leather armor clung to her like a second skin, and her posture atop her new mare was proud and square. Blaeze had gone lame after our harrowing journey, and he deserved a rest. Much like the soldiers beginning to display trauma responses trailing behind us. They’d fought, they’d bled, they’d survived countless skirmishes—some for years. That didn’t come without heavy strings attached.

Fured had always been a place of discipline. Brutality. Unforgiving training.

But perhaps it could become something…different.

With the arrival of Assyria, with the arrival of the females, with the future we were fighting for, maybe, just maybe, this would be the crucible of change. Where wounds of all types could heal. Where those long since separated could reunite.

Where the Fates would shine their favor and aid us in ending this fucking war.