Chapter 11
Daed
Isee the echoes of House Taramethos woven into the bones of this place, the remnants of a world before war, before destruction.
Before the rebellion that burned their legacy to the ground.
Marlayna has done what she can to salvage that lost grandeur.
The walls bearing the mark of artisans, etched with intricate filigree, pulsing with old enchantments that no longer have purpose.
Gilded archways curve like the delicate strokes of a painter’s brush, their edges adorned with faded sigils of prosperity and power, now little more than relics of a dynasty that chose exile over honor.
Once, House Taramethos ruled over Thyros, a stronghold nestled within the embrace of the Thraelis Mountains.
Their castle had been more than a seat of power.
It was a temple of creation, a sanctum where magic was not merely wielded but shaped.
They crafted artifacts that could shake empires: crowns that made kings kneel, blades that turned the tide of war, mirrors that could unravel the very fabric of fate.
But time tarnishes even the finest craft.
Here in Ballamar City, what remains of that splendor is a poor imitation of its former self.
The artistry, the tapestries, the hoarded relics of a lost age.
They do not inspire awe. They clutter, they crowd, as though Marlayna is desperately trying to press the past into the narrow walls of a place unworthy of its history. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.
Because I have not forgotten. When the war came, when the firestorm of the Legion rose against us, House Taramethos turned their backs.
They fled, taking their weapons, their magic, their carefully hoarded power with them.
They abandoned the Mordorin warriors at Greenmist Gorge, left them to be slaughtered while their promised reinforcements never came.
As if sensing the bitterness in my gaze, Marlayna glances over her shoulder, her lips curling into a sly smile. I return it, forced and placating, though my mind is still with the bodies that once littered the gorge.
Like its mistress, this house wears its splendor like a mask. Dazzling, breathtaking, but hollow beneath the surface.
Marlayna guides us into a large room, and the moment I lift my head, I realize we are not alone.
The parlor is steeped in darkness, shadows flickering over silk and skin.
Candlelight trembles across the walls, painting the silhouettes of writhing bodies, limbs entwined, sweat-slicked and glistening beneath the spill of moonlight slanting through the open windows.Scents of musk and wine linger in the air, threaded with sighs and whispered names.
Those not lost to pleasure lounge on velvet divans, sipping wine dark as spilled blood, indulging in silver platters piled high with cream-filled confections and sun-ripe fruit, their sweet juice running down eager chins.
Ballamar City is far more of a hedonistic pleasure nest than I ever imagined.
I turn to Marlayna, ready to demand why she has brought us here, but then I see it, past the haze of desire and debauchery, a small cluster of Fae huddled in the farthest corner. Unlike the others, they are not indulging. They murmur in hushed tones, their gazes fixed on something between them.
I strain to see, stepping closer, and when the figures shift, my breath stills.
A gleam of tarnished silver. A surface I would recognize anywhere.
The scrying mirror.
I move toward it, but before I can take another step, Marlayna’s hand presses against my chest, fingers curling, kneading as if she can make my body yield with touch alone.
“There will be time for that,” she murmurs, her voice silk-soft. “I have many, many questions. Please, you and your companions must eat. Drink.”
I shake my head. “The mirror…”
“Eat and drink,” she interrupts sharply, the command hidden beneath honeyed words as her guards close around me.
My eyes narrow, but she shows no regard for my irritation. Instead she laughs, light and musical, her lashes lowering as if in feigned modesty. But there is nothing coy about her.
“You are in my kingdom now,” she says. “And we will play by my rules.”
I lean in, my voice low, edged with warning. “You are brave to think you hold any true power over me. Especially when you know exactly what I am capable of.”
Her brows lift, amusement curling at the corner of her lips. “Oh, I know,” she says, stepping even closer, so close I can feel the warmth of her breath. “But the fact that you have not murdered me and my guests already tells me you will not use that power. And that makes me curious.”
She tilts her head. “So, please,” she breathes. “Eat. Drink.”
I turn my back on Marlayna for only a moment, my allies pressing in close. We take in the scene with guarded detachment. The moans, the clinking goblets, the scent of sweat and spice. These indulgences do not rattle us. Such things are common in our world.
But we are not in our world.
And the Fae cannot be trusted.
“What does she want?” Zyphoro murmurs, arms folding across her waist, long, dark nails tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against her ribs.
Reon sighs, exasperated. “Surely you are not that oblivious?” He flicks a glance toward Marlayna. “I believe she wants your brother.”
Zyphoro scrunches her face in distaste. “What for?”
Reon smirks. “I imagine she’d like to sample the royal cock.”
Zyphoro gags, sticking out her tongue, throat bobbing with visible disgust. I frown at her overreaction.
“You cannot bed her,” Solena interjects, her voice firm, her brow furrowed.
I turn to her, exhaling slowly. “We need access to that mirror.”
“Then kill them,” she says simply. “Kill them all. Any who stands in our way.”
Orios nods his agreement.
I shake my head. “I must tread carefully with the void. If I summon too much, if I step through it, I will make myself known to him.”
Orios shrugs. “Then I will kill them.”
Zyphoro raises a hand. “I’ll help.”
“No.” The word is a snarl, my canines pressing against my lip. “We do this my way. Without bloodshed.”
Their gazes weigh heavy on me, unspoken questions thick between us. The prince who carved a reputation in blood and battle now speaks of restraint?
I answer before they can voice their doubts.
“This conflict cannot be solved with smoke and steel. Carving my way through land and sea will not bring me closer to my love. No amount of blood on my hands will make my heart whole. Only Amara can do that and so I must play their game.”
Zyphoro studies me through half-lidded eyes, skepticism laced in her smirk.
“How admirable of you, brother.” She exhales, rolling her neck. “Boring as fuck. But admirable nonetheless.”
The others nod, but there is something different in their eyes, something searching, as if they are seeing me for the first time, as if this shift within me unsettles even them.
I do not like it.
I have never needed their approval, only their obedience. I want them to see me as they always have. The wicked prince of the Mordorin, the creature they fear, the warlord who does not bend. But now, beneath their scrutiny, I feel something I have never allowed myself to feel. Exposed.
And I know the reason.
Amara has stripped me bare. She has unraveled me, unmade me, and I let her. My need for her outweighs the mask I once wore so effortlessly. She has changed me, and now I fear I cannot be both.
The prince I was feared nothing.
But the husband I am now is nothing without her.
Without my mate.
“Prince Daedalus,” Marlayna says, her voice laced with formality, though we both know my title holds no weight here. “Would you care to join me?”
She gestures to a deep blue chaise, its gilded baroque edges gleaming in the dim light.
I nod stiffly, though the irritation gnawing at me feels sharp enough to draw blood. She smiles, a knowing curve of her lips, and sways toward the chaise. I take a moment to glance at the others.
“Leave this to me. Blend in. Try to enjoy yourselves,” I murmur. Before they can scatter, I glance back at them, eyes narrowing. “And don’t kill anyone.”
Zyphoro and Orios exchange disappointed looks, but they fade into the crowd.
Reon, however, takes to the scene like a fish to water, slipping into the company of two masked females whose pale, naked forms entwine slowly, almost languorously.
Zyphoro sprawls in a large chair, legs draped over the arm as she casually plucks a string of grapes from the table while Solena and Orios help themselves to goblets of wine.
I stride toward Marlayna, and she pats the velvet cushion beside her in invitation.
Unbuttoning my coat, I shrug it back, letting the fabric settle as I sink onto the chaise.
My legs sprawl apart, a deliberate display of ease I don’t quite feel, my chin resting between my fingers as I stare into the space before me, lost in thought.
A slender male approaches, his face hidden behind a silver mask, and offers us each a goblet. When I lift it to my lips, the dry ache in my throat nags at me, but I pause, my gaze flicking to Marlayna. She watches me with a curious gleam in her eyes.
I pull the goblet back, inspecting the blood-red liquid, inhaling its scent, looking for any trace of poison.
She laughs softly, a melodic sound that only adds to my suspicion. “Do not fear, Prince Daedalus,” she says with a teasing smile. “Your bargain has me far too intrigued to kill you.”
“Why do you call me that?” I ask sharply, the word bitter on my tongue as I hold the goblet aloft, still wary. “I am no prince here in Ballamar, and no law forces you to bow.”