Chapter 31 #2
Alora nearly choked on her drink. You truly have an inflated sense of self-importance.
He hid a grin behind a curled hand. You will soon find that’s not all that’s inflated.
Would it be treason if she stabbed him in front of the entire court?
Her attention on his touch stalled when Segrith glided forward next.
She stopped at the base of the dais and held up her offering. A small scale of blackened iron, delicate yet heavy with unseen gravity. One pan held sand that burned faintly like dying coals. The other, nothing but a single white feather.
“A rare gift, my king,” Segrith murmured, her voice like a dying flame. “The Scale of Ordinance.”
Rune’s gaze sharpened. “And what does it measure?”
Segrith’s expression never changed, but the faintest tremor of a smile curved her lips. “Everything that matters. This will tell you when the balance shifts between love and hate, light and dark, beginning and end. When the feather falls, you will know the cost has been paid.”
Rune reached to take it, but the moment his fingers brushed the cold iron, the feather trembled and a single grain of ember-sand vanished in a hiss of smoke.
“Keep it,” he said tightly.
With a flick of Segrith’s clawed finger, the scale crumbled away into sand. She didn’t seem offended by his rejection. Her hand lifted, palm out as that eerie eye looked straight at Alora.
“Then in its place, I offer my queen a gift. By the end of the dance, something you’ve lost will be returned to you.”
Alora’s heart jolted, immediately thinking of her lost lark hairpin.
Rune’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and his shadows drew away from her skin.
“I ask for the same in kind,” Segrith hummed before he could speak.
He nodded once in agreement, and she retreated backward with a bowed head.
The last to approach was Sal’vathar.
Pale, silver-white hair tumbled over his shoulders like thin webs, a stark contrast to the cavernous void of his eyes that gleamed like a dying fire. The mere presence of him carried a power so terrifying, the echo of Alora’s heartbeat pounded in her ears.
“Lord Sal’vathar,” Rune greeted. His fingers slid down Alora’s shoulder and gently squeezed her arm, a reminder to stay calm.
“King of Darkness,” Sal’vathar replied, his voice like silk over razors. “We are delighted to at last greet your mortal bride.” His gaze slid to hers, his expression unreadable.
Alora kept her own impassive, pretending she wasn’t trembling inside, though all of her had gone cold. “A pleasure to meet you again, Lord Sal’vathar,” she said with idle ease. “My husband has told me much about you.”
His black lips twitch slightly. “Grotesque things, I hope.”
She returned a sharp smile. “The vilest.”
Sal’vathar made a sound that almost sounded like a laugh. He tipped his head slightly, in acknowledgement rather than a bow. “Then I hope my gift may please you, O’ Shadow King, for I offer you a gift of remembrance.”
Everyone looked to the doors as they opened again. Large arachnids crawled in, their legs clicking on the marble. On their backs they carried massive effigies of stone of grotesque beings Alora didn’t recognize but sensed that she should. The air thickened, shadows whispering in a distorted hum.
Calla inhaled a sharp breath, her complexion pale. “The Primordials.”
A startled hush fell over the crowd.
Rune’s expression went perfectly still. The only thing to move in the room were the arachnids depositing the statues against the walls, three on each side.
The largest of them looked like a writhing storm about to consume everything. Faceless yet one slitted eye at its center bore into her.
Sal’vathar’s voice dripped with casual politeness. “Samhain began with the Primordials. I thought it fitting to honor them once more.”
Rune’s smile was tight, cold. “How thoughtful.”
The torches dimmed as if the statues drank in the light.
The intensity of ancient power rippled through her bones, and when she looked at Rune, she saw the fury in his taut features and the effort it took not to destroy Sal’vathar where he stood.
“I too will bless you with remembrance,” Rune told him with eerie calm. “The next time the seven factions gather, you will be reminded how the Realms began.”
Sal’vathar’s expression remained neutral, though his twitching limbs gave his unease away.
How did they begin? Alora whispered in his mind.
A cold smile hovered at his lips. With the creation of the Gates, where each soul passes at their beginning… and at their end.
Ah.
Rune lifted his goblet, addressing the court. “Every year, Samhain marks the hour the Netherworld breathes as one with the realms above. It’s a time of indulgence, remembrance, and offerings. A night where even the dead may dance again.”
The demons cheered and clapped, the war faction beating their armored chests.
“Now let us sit and feast tonight.” With a wave of Rune’s arm, the ground groaned as a section of the floor opened to bring in six tables that expanded the hall, already fixed with gilded plates, candelabras and set up with platters of food.
A new table appeared below the dais, set with six grand chairs, each one was carved differently. Some elegant, some grotesque, shaped like creatures long dead.
The seats of the Dominions.
By the time everyone was seated, Karag D?r was absorbed the infernal statues into the wall without anyone noticing.
Alora released a faint, shaky exhale and met Rune’s pleased smirk. His shadows curled around her arm, gently tickling her skin as his nose trailed over her ear.
You may survive this yet, he said through their connection, his breath falling like smoke over her neck.
Alora shivered. Don’t try to distract me. I haven’t forgotten our discussion.
Patience, songbird. Calla has chastised me for neglecting my duties for too long. Once this dinner is over, I am all yours.
She warmed at the implication in his seductive tone, his crimson gaze holding hers. Then he snapped his fingers and shadows swarmed their table, vanishing as quickly.
The feast now laid was nothing short of terrible decadence.
Platers of glazed meats still steaming, blood pooling beneath them, spiced with strange herbs.
At the center of the table, a spiked platter displayed a roasted sea creature with two heads, its eyes replaced with pearls, its mouth still grinning.
Smoke curled from its open belly, where glowing coals kept the flesh hot.
Demons tore off the limbs with sickening cracks to eat with black bread crusted with ash, slathered in creams of silvery ichor. Veins of ruby syrup laced through strange pastries that bled when broken open.
A banquet for those who had long since forgotten mercy.
Alora looked away to the goblets of wines, some fizzing with violet foam, others glowing faintly with green fire.
In bone-plated bowls offered fruit that didn’t exist in the mortal world: glistening orbs in luminous gold.
They shimmered, oozed, with a tempting sweet scent that made her mouth water.
Succubi dressed in translucent fabric danced with seductive rolls of their hips as they as laid out bowls of gleaming golden apples at every table.
Alora reached for one, but Rune caught her wrist.
Demon food is poisonous to mortals.
He slid a single plate of simple beef stew in front of her. Fresh bread. Butter. Water. Pears from the surface.
He took the golden apple, and she watched as his fangs sank into the plump flesh. It was dark red inside, juices spilling down his chin like blood. Her mouth watered and she had the strange urge to lick the juice off his skin.
Did you enjoy the gifts? Rune asked with a sly smile.
She nodded, canting her head innocently. Well, the chest of daggers is your Exchange of Flames gift to me. But as the Queen, I have yet to receive a gift from the Dominion of the Pride faction.
He chuckled, tucking a loose lock of her hair behind her air. Ah, I was hasty when I pledged to give you anything you desire, wasn’t I? Tell me then. What tribute would please my Queen?
Grant Caelum his freedom, Alora said right away, then added. Please.
Rune’s expression shifted and she held her breath. He came here with the intention to rescue what he believes is his fair maiden. His glowing eyes held hers. But I have no intention of surrendering you to him, wife.
She blushed at the possessiveness in his tone.
Very well. He relented, playing with a lock of her hair. He may go. But his life is all he will take.
She exhaled, relieved. I am grateful for your clemency.
As she ate her food, she studied the dining hall and the way floating embers flickered along the walls like restless ghosts. Demons of every rank feasted at the table.
The only ones not eating were the Harbinger’s. His quiet generals watched the room as carefully as she did, perhaps listening to what her mortal ears couldn’t hear, anticipating and gauging. Not merely for her protection, but for Rune’s.
“Calla, darling,” Morvenna purred, idly waving her empty chalice. “Pour me more wine.”
The Harbinger jerked to her feet as if her body reacted before she did. Her jaw tightened, biting back a snarl. The decanter rattled when she seized it, crimson sloshing against the glass as she poured. Morvenna watched closely, a sharp smile curling her lips.
The wine crested the rim and spilled, running down the side of the chalice and across the table, spilling on Calla’s shoes.
Morvenna giggled. “That’s enough.”
Calla quickly set the decanter down with a faint tremor, the stiffness easing from her limbs as if something had released its hold.
Alora looked to Rune, half-expecting him to intervene.
His expression darkened. Regretfully, I cannot when it comes to a Dominion commanding their subject.
“You are so tense,” Morvenna hummed, laughter soft as she tugged a handful of Calla’s lavender tresses. “Tell me, do you have a mate to tend to you? Surely, you must.”
Calla’s gaze fixed on the floor. “No, my lady.”