Chapter 4 #2
“Details.”
Seraphae leaned forward, her tail flicking.
“He’s not throwing himself into demon duels the moment the brand is completed.”
Goroth shrugged.
“Of course not. He’ll need time. Training. But the will is there.” He looked at Aldric again, clearly pleased. “And that’s what matters.”
He lifted his goblet toward Aldric.
“Finish your brand. Then we’ll see which demon is foolish enough to stand in your way.”
No one was really listening.
Across the table, Mareth glanced at Seraphae.
She met his look with a smug, victorious smile, eyebrows slightly raised. The expression of a sister who had just won a fight.
Aldric poured himself another drink.
Mareth leaned back in his chair, swirling the last of his wine.
“If you’re open we could go on a hunt.”
Silence fell over the table.
Goroth stared at him for a heartbeat—
then burst out laughing.
“Yeeees!” he boomed. “My boy! That’s the spirit! When? Where? Don’t tell me that you found a predator worthy of a hunt.”
Mareth’s smile was slow, deliberate.
“I did. A dragon. It’s big. And there’s no decree that forbids an unbranded knight from joining.” His gaze slid to Aldric. “Unless you’d rather sit this one out.”
Under the table, Seraphae’s hand found Aldric’s.
She squeezed—hard.
A clear warning.
Aldric didn’t look at her.
He met Mareth’s eyes, calm and steady.
“When do we leave?”
Mareth’s brows lifted just a fraction. Surprise quickly masked, but there all the same.
Seraphae went rigid.
Goroth slammed his hand on the table again, delighted.
“Hah! That’s what I like to hear!”
Vaeris groaned loudly, stabbing her fork into her plate.
“Gods,” she muttered, “can we eat now? I’m starving.”
The tension didn’t lift.
But something had been set in motion.
? ? ?
The second Aldric’s chamber door closed, she marched—no, she nearly flew.
Fury radiated off her as she stormed down the familiar corridor and slammed straight through the solid darkoak door, throwing it open wide.
And there he was.
Mareth.
Lounging in a chair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, a servant kneading his shoulders while he looked thoroughly pleased with himself.
Of course.
What else would he be doing?
He barely glanced up as she entered.
“Woah,” he drawled. “I thought they taught manners in this palace. You knock before you enter.”
He flicked two fingers toward the servant. The giggling demon girl vanished in a blink, leaving the room suddenly very quiet.
Seraphae didn’t bother closing the door.
Her eyes burned.
“…What the hell are you doing here?”
Mareth leaned back fully now, posture relaxed, expression smug in that infuriating way only an older brother could perfect.
“You know you’re not a child anymore,” he said mildly. “You can say the word fuck.”
“I know,” she shot back. “I choose not to. I like to keep my mouth clean.”
He snorted.
“I highly doubt that.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I wish you’d die of something hideous and disgusting.”
He hummed, considering.
“Might happen.”
“Could you?” she asked sweetly.
Mareth grinned. Then his gaze slid past her, toward the palace corridors, toward Aldric’s chamber.
“So,” he said, tone shifting just enough to be noticed. “This Aldric fellow, you serious about him?”
“Yes.” A beat. “Why?”
Mareth straightened.
“Because he’s not going to last. A dragon hunt? No completed brand? I’m honestly impressed he’s still breathing. What were you thinking, bringing him here?”
Seraphae laughed—sharp, humorless.
“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t we ask all the trashy, empty-headed hoochies you’ve dragged through these halls over the years?”
His jaw tightened.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” she snapped. “Because I distinctly remember at least three of them trying to stab each other over your boots.”
“They admired them.”
“They admired your title.”
Mareth straightened and pointed with his chin at the corridor behind her.
“This one doesn’t even have that.”
“He has me,” she said flatly.
That stopped him.
For a moment, the teasing slipped. Something heavier, crept into his expression.
“I’ve never seen you like that Saphie… you’re really serious.”
“Yes.”
He studied her face, searching for doubt. Finding none.
Finally, he exhaled.
“Then I hope he’s tougher than he looks.”
Seraphae just looked at him, the fury ebbing away.
“Why did you come here, Mareth?”
“I missed the family.”
She gave him a flat look.
“What? I can’t visit from time to time?”
She laughed.
“Visit? You haven’t seen us in almost a millennium.”
“I was busy.”
“Busy with what?” She planted a hand on her hip. “Burying your face in trash?”
He chuckled.
“Don’t insult me,” she said sharply. “Why did you really come here?”
Mareth drew a shallow breath and opened his mouth, then laughed instead. There was defensiveness in it, enough that she caught it at once.
She waited, eyebrows raised.
He sighed, took a sip of his wine, then muttered, “You won’t believe me.”
She frowned, sensing something she hadn’t expected.
“Try me.”
He exhaled.
“Someone close to me said that once the Fog changes, I’ll be needed. That the only way to see where my path ends is to come back home.” He shrugged. “That’s it.”
Seraphae shook her head.
“Mareth, I’m serious. You sound like an oracle. Gods, I hate it when you play games. And this one is particularly stupid.”
“It’s true,” he said firmly. “I didn’t even know you and your knight would be here.”
“Liar. You’re trying to sabotage my relationship.”
His expression hardened.
“No. I’m not.”
A sharp, disbelieving sound escaped her.
“I doubt it. What was that at dinner then?”
“Doubt all you want,” he said evenly. “You’re my younger sister. I won’t let you bind yourself to a weak man.”
Her eyes went cold.
“And who says you have any say in who I choose?”
Mareth laughed.
“I’m your brother. That is my role. I test him. If Aldric is weak, I want him gone. I won’t have you settling for a pretty face.”
She stared at him.
Actually speechless.
Then.
“…Who are you, and what did you do to my annoying, selfish, unhinged brother?”
He smiled faintly.
“Your brother has changed.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
She turned toward the door, then paused.
“And if you try to mess with Aldric in any way during that hunt of yours,” she added lightly, “I will find whichever bimbo you’re currently obsessed with, and she and I will have a very long chat.”
Mareth watched her.
“That won’t be necessary.”
She didn’t turn back.
“We’ll see, dear brother.”
And she was gone.
? ? ?
The next morning, Aldric dressed in silence.
His hands shook as he fastened his shirt. Not from cold. From something coiling tight beneath his skin.
Frustration crept in first. Then anger. Slow, insistent. His jaw tightened as Mareth’s smug, knowing smile surfaced unbidden in his mind. The way he’d looked at him. Measuring. Judging.
His skin felt wrong. Too tight. As if it were pulling against his bones.
A dragon hunt.
Of course.
The thought only sharpened it.
Why do I have to play these stupid games?
The question echoed in his mind, unanswered.
Another thought followed, uninvited. Quieter. More dangerous.
You could just take her and leave.
Carve through anyone who tries to lay their hands on her…
His attention snapped—
His finger slipped on a button.
He tried again.
Too tight.
His breath came sharper.
He yanked the fabric free—
The shirt tore with a harsh rip.
His fists clenched.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
The brand beneath his skin burned.
Demanding.
Then—
The doors to his chamber opened.
The sound cut through the storm in his head, snapping his focus outward in an instant.
Seraphae came bouncing in, all light and motion, a smile already in place.