Chapter Sixty-Eight
Forgotten Things
Forgotten things do not sleep forever.
They wait. They hunger.
Leolis approached Zeporah’s chamber door, unfastening the straps of his armor as he climbed the steps.
“Let him in,” Zeporah’s voice cut from the other side.
The guards obeyed, and Leolis pushed through, tossing a glove aside. He tore the laces of his cuirass, ripping it off in a single violent pull. The black breastplate struck stone with a hollow thud.
“He’s healed himself,” he growled. “Who betrays us in Elváliev?”
“Saecily Evryn…” Zeporah breathed the name like venom. She leaned against her scrying table, clad only in a shift of dark red silk.
Leolis threw his head back in a jagged laugh.
“She’s been warming Masten’s bed for years.”
Zeporah’s glance could have seared flesh from bone.
“You didn’t know?” His grin split wide.
Her eyes narrowed, stilled.
The realization struck him—slow, cold.
“…you cannot see Fyreglade.”
Before he could speak again, Zeporah’s dagger flashed from her thigh, biting against his throat.
“You lost us one hundred men,” she seethed.
“Seraphim was there!”
“I burned Seraphim!”
“He’s healed, Zeporah.” Leolis wrenched the blade from her hand and cast it aside. The clang rang sharp through the chamber. “He. Conjures. Storms.”
Her mouth crashed into his, teeth raking his lip until blood rose.
“If not for your father,” she hissed against him, “I would be rid of you.”
Leolis laughed low and dangerous—the scrape of steel drawn from its sheath. His lips dragged across her ear.
“He never won you Adamar Seraphim’s soul…”
A vial slid from his sleeve into his palm, glass catching the torchlight. His smile twisted sharp.
“Without me—” he leaned in, voice a scorch against her skin, “—you’ll never claim Viktor Seraphim’s, either.”
She lunged for it, but he twisted away. Snared by his stare, she yanked him forward by his belt, ripping the clasp free. Her lips brushed his jaw.
“He will come to me,” she whispered.
Her teeth grazed his throat.
“Hear me.”
Her voice lowered, silk stretched thin over steel.
“I shall conjure my own storm—not one of wind or rain, but of fire. A horde of dragons, set loose, and he will choke on the price of his treason.”
Leolis tossed his head back, laughter knifing through the chamber. “A storm of dragons? You’re not ready to take Sevrak.”
“Not Sevrak.”
Her lips burned against his ear.
“Aerdania.”