Chapter Six
Were Lilith to ever encounter a demon and attempt to negotiate a contract, she would be damned. Damned to the fullest degree. Lilith is the exact type of fae that makes a demon’s job too easy.
I’ll have to sit down with her and explain why she should never do that again. Even with me.
But she delivered on her end of the bargain.
The conniving creature knew more than I expected—despite her centuries long distance from the council.
She cleared the table of the scattered books and replaced them with unfurled maps, reminding me of the day before the eclipse—all the Sovereign Kings, their guards, their intense stares at the demon standing among them…
Following Lilith’s breakdown of the Sovereign Kings, she held my attention as she went on to detail each country or nation in Eldoterra. While she admitted her experience with the human kings is assuredly out of date, she was confident the lineages remain the same.
All in all, Lilith proved to be a cistern of enlightenment.
One I should have drawn from sooner.
I suppose all that matters now is I’ll not be wandering witless into a war room filled with fae ready to wag their tongues. I do not envy Rowen and his position, nor do I understand how he has the patience to lead the High Council.
Nearly twenty-five centuries old, Rowen has ruled Vis for fourteen of them, and led the council for the last ten. He may not have been Sovereign King during the last reign of the High Rulers, but he was alive. It makes him useful in matters other than the size of his army and willingness to fight.
Also learning which kings are mated—aside from Ryc—leaves much to be desired. There aren’t enough—Vaelyn could approach roughly half the council. The Sovereign Kings of Aeros, Renna, Sol, and Vis all stand without a Sovereign Queen. Vis though… Vaelyn has already approached Rowen.
Not that it would matter if he hadn’t.
The Sovereign King of Vis has already found and lost his mate.
Lilith wouldn’t divulge the details, claiming foggy memory, but it was easy to tell she was uncomfortable recounting what happened.
I assume it lends itself into the reason for Rowen’s willingness to sign with Netharis.
Either way, Rowen has proven he’s not liable to listen to the god of death a second time.
A small smirk curls my lips with the thought.
I don’t want my twin to fail in his role.
But seeing him struggle with his own changes feeds a darkened side of me.
A twisted sense of satisfaction settles into my blood.
Were he not Netharis’ favorite, I would have earned the title of heir of the hells, and I know better than to be making these mistakes.
Regardless, it leaves Aeros, Renna, and Sol—Darin, Eloric, and Fenryn unmated and open for Vaelyn to approach.
Ryc trusts Fenryn.
And Fenryn’s relationship with Lilith may make him less likely to listen to the god of death. I want to say Fenryn is a non-concern, but the truth of the matter is, Vaelyn can be convincing.
Head buzzing with thoughts, I step into the afternoon sun as it pours over the north lawn. A cold wind sweeps through, hailing from the mountains in the north, and I draw my cloak tighter against the chill.
Swift-moving clouds streak across the sky, blanketing the sun and stealing away its warmth. Bright blue vanishes, replaced by dark gray, as I cross the springy grass.
Rain is coming.
I can scent it.
Ideally, it’ll hold. At least until after whatever it is Ryc requires out here today. If it doesn’t, Ryc is going to learn I’m not willing to wait in the cold rain for him.
“You won’t need your cloak,” Ryc says and I whirl on my toes, catching his gaze as he approaches.
Sans a cloak himself, he approaches and my eyes catch on his face. More of it sits visible, his hair pulled back. It’s rare to see him without it down and I can’t help but stare openly. He stops before me, rolling up the last of his sleeve, and a grin crosses his lips.
Despite the thought-wiping beauty I’m offered, suspicion snakes down my spine.
“The wind is chill,” I retort, confused. “Why would I discard my cloak?”
His smile turns utterly dazzling. “It’ll hinder you, little death,” he answers.
Hinder me?
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s faster to speak.
“Today, we start your sparring lessons,” he announces with a loud clap of his hands and a smirk.
My what?
Sparring?
Absolutely not.
I take a step back, bewildered by his words.
“You’ve evaded your lessons with Cyran for weeks and I’ve said nothing,” he says, stepping forward to match the distance I’d put between us.
As I begin to backpedal, shaking my head, he matches pace, grinning.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he asks, arching a dark brow.
I never doubted he would notice. My mistake lies in believing he wouldn’t do anything about it. Now I’m set to reap the reward of my negligence and obstinance.
Damn fae.
“Lilith tells me you were interested in learning about the council today.” The note of surprise in his tone is almost insulting.
Irritation peaks in my chest.
Maybe a full contract with Lilith was needed after all.
Though, I should have anticipated it—why wouldn’t she discuss my lessons with Ryc? Even so, it stings a bit like betrayal when it shouldn’t.
“We both know Rowen’s visit changes things,” I reply, managing to keep my tone casual despite my clear backward retreat.
We’ve passed the center of the lawn, and I’m quickly running out of distance before my backside greets the castle curtain wall. If I could ferry, I would have done so at the mention of sparring. Instead, I’m here, trying to figure out a means to escape Ryc and his teasing smile.
“I need to be ready to face the council,” I add and his grin grows impish.
“Exactly,” he matches my casual tone, planting his hands on his hips as he strolls along. “I will not have my queen stand before the council unable to defend herself. Today, you start learning,” he says.
I halt in my step.
Queen.
Of course the damn fae would know to appeal to the ego of a demon.
I resist the sudden singing of my blood with the promise of power. “I know how to defend myself,” I shoot back, my tone cutting. “I’m capable of handling situations as needed.”
Best case and example: escaping the hells.
He shrugs. “Prove it.”
“I do not spar with mortals,” I counter, the words vitriolic.
He throws his arms wide in open invitation, laughing. “A nyraphim then?”
I smother the rising groan in my throat.
I should have seen that coming.
“No,” I answer flatly.
His hands drop to his sides as he shakes his head in a rueful toss. “I expected you to be reluctant.”
“Add my departure to your expectations,” I counter, moving with a swift step past him to return to the castle.
With a damnable grin on his face and a speed I should have also expected, Ryc snatches my wrist, and I whirl. A low snarl rips itself from my throat as our eyes lock. Warm golden eyes meet my scowl.
“Put your pride away, little death,” he urges gently. “I will forever be on your side.”
Damn him.
Damn him and this damned bond and the damn leak of emotions through it. I feel his worry. It’s rooted in genuine care. He likely feels my reluctance, and while it’s certainly tied to pride—it’s driven by fear.
I fought for centuries to learn control of my innate.
I relied upon it to defend myself.
It kept me safe and sane through times meant to shatter. Times Netharis has scrubbed from my memory, of which only pieces have been recovered or remembered.
Sparring without it means accepting I no longer have that part of me.
I’m not ready for that.
“Release me, nyraphim,” I demand, using the same cold and commanding tone I’d often use in the hells.
Surprise streaks through his eyes, but he otherwise remains unaffected, a smirk firmly planted on his face. He studies me for a moment, likely sensing for telling emotions through our bond.
“Free yourself, demon,” he counters in a low challenge. He lifts my wrist, dangling it between us, his grip firm but not painful. “Show me how you defend yourself.”
“Light take you,” I growl in Malbolge.
Lowering my wrist and quirking a brow, he quips back—in Yggdrasil. Singsong words I’ll never understand nor have the desire to.
Grimacing against the sudden wash of coarse power rushing over my skin, I turn my face away. And leaning into my rising irritation, I snap to the side, ripping my wrist upward, freeing it from his grasp in a fluid motion. Without waiting, I begin toward the castle once again.
“I know you’re not defenseless,” Ryc calls after me, laughing. “Yet you act like you are. Why?”
Because without my innate, I might as well be.
I remain silent as I stalk toward the guards standing beside the north lawn entrance. They watch me, whatever thoughts they may have hidden behind their stoic faces.
Cyran’s trained them well, I see.
“Is all this part of your particular demonic deception?” he asks and my jaw tightens. “Lure prey by appearing helpless?” he raises his voice slightly, ensuring I hear him as the distance between us grows.
With a bewildered laugh, I take a page from Eve’s book and lift a single-fingered gesture over my shoulder. Ryc’s roaring laughter fills the lawn. If he’s trying to get a rise out of me, he’s going to have to try harder.
The guards at the door exchange a quick glance. One turns to me, opening his mouth—
A snap of light on my left blinds me, forcing my eyes shut as a hulking mass crashes into me.
For a second I free-fall, until the ground finds my back, knocking the air from my lungs in a painful crush with the sudden weight upon my ribs. Gasping, I force my eyes open, finding Ryc and the darkened sky overhead.
Pinned.
He has me pinned beneath him.
My budding irritation becomes utter heated rage within the span of a heartbeat. Wrists trapped beside my face, his hands tighten, keeping me locked in place.
And he continues to laugh.