Chapter Thirty
Nektos and her sense of humor can burn in the hells for eternity.
She would have me stumble upon the most powerful necromancer. And he would have a tangled history with my twin. While our first meeting in the days leading to my escape was brief, he’s different than I remember…
“I’m afforded the opportunity of welcoming you to Cerwiden after all,” the necromancer muses, a sanguine smile curling his lips as he approaches.
All eyes pin against him—on both sides of the Ferry Gate.
There’s no doubt his presence commands attention with little effort.
Where are the Malbolge bindings inked upon his face?
The glowing red eyes?
He’s not as skeletal as I recall, but he cannot be that changed in this realm.
The ominous and damned creature I met before doesn’t stand before me. And again, I’m left wondering if it’s the result of his freedom from Netharis’ contract—like Rowen.
This… revitalization strikes the same vein.
It’s easier to see how handsome he is. It’s… unexpected.
But unlike Rowen, this renowned necromancer, Cenviri, isn’t going to tell Vaelyn no—not when it comes to a contract offer. Cenviri made it clear he and Vaelyn have worked together for centuries.
With haste as he takes his final steps toward the gate, I survey every inch of the dark fae’s exposed skin for evidence of a demon mark. And find nothing. But his robes cover more than they reveal, and he’s bound to catch me staring.
This… this is a death sentence for us if I am not careful here.
I need to figure out a means to close this gate.
And never open it again.
“This gate was opened in error,” I say, keeping the icy edge in my tone.
Among demons, appearances matter and despite never having stood before this necromancer’s House before, my name carries a significant impact I need to uphold if we’re to survive this.
“Close it and you’ll have my word I shall not reopen it,” I say.
Confusion twists the necromancer’s features as he stops before the gate. He studies me, matching the intensity with which I studied him.
We’re both wary.
I’m not sure that bodes well.
Behind him, his Generals reform their single line, keeping their stares locked in our direction. It’s a subtle show of aggression and it isn’t lost on me. These fae and humans will fight to the dying breath to protect Cenviri… knowing Cenviri will use their flesh to continue fighting after.
It is a dedication unlike any other.
How Cenviri, or any Cerwiden House Patriarch, has garnered such loyalty leaves me with questions better kept to myself.
Moss green eyes—a rather intriguing color—sweep over Ryc before darting to Eve and Cyran. Returning them to me, he gives me a rather assessing stare—considering our last meeting, I’m sure I appear as changed as he.
His gaze falls upon the small, leather satchel tied to my hip—lingering far longer than I’d like—and grows narrow. But he remains silent as he meets my eyes.
A low growl rumbles behind me, and against my back Ryc’s chest vibrates. His hand settles on my hip, a clear territorial display. Cenviri’s eyes narrow once again. It’s a noticed declaration.
“You are much changed, daughter of death,” Cenviri finally says, opting to use the language of the hells. His head tilts slightly with the observation. “And not just in appearance. A demon who gives her word so freely.”
I fight my grimace from showing on my face.
Months away from the hells and I’ve already dropped too much of my guard.
“It is not you we seek,” I reply and I resist the urge to reach for Ryc’s hand, to draw his warmth. “My word was given in earnest.”
Ryc’s importance to me is better hidden.
I cannot arm Cenviri.
“I don’t want your word,” Cenviri replies with a small smile. “Fate has granted us the divine opportunity to speak. Who am I to deny her timing?”
He turns, setting into a slow pace along the width of the Ferry Gate, folding his hands behind him. He stops before Eve, staring square at her.
But speaks to me.
“Aside from her, do others in your company speak our language?” he asks.
How can he tell?
Eve’s not said a word, nor is her demon mark visible beneath her armor.
I open my mouth to answer, but Eve is a fraction faster.
“Address me directly, dark fae,” Eve retorts in Malbolge with a curling lip.
“Eve,” I warn in a low, firm urge.
Cenviri’s laughter is far warmer than I’d ever expect.
“That’s the kind of ferocity I like to see,” Cenviri replies. His eyes dart to me. “If you do not make her a General, I will.”
“I do not have a House, Cenviri. It is not the Eldoterran way,” I say, holding his stare with a fierce one of my own. “Even without one, her loyalty will not waiver.”
“And the male behind you, who is he?” He levels a brief, cool glance at Ryc.
Ryc’s fingers tighten on my hip.
I heave an annoyed sigh. “You ask unnecessary questions, necromancer,” I retort, bristling. “If you seek entertainment, seek it elsewhere. I do not tolerate my time being squandered.”
Cenviri, unbothered by my sharpened tone, returns the few paces to stand before me. “The last I spoke to Vaelyn, he attested you traded power and the whole of the hells for a mundane, mortal life and a flock of chickens.”
A dry, amused scoff escapes me.
The statement is far too accurate and yet wildly wrong at the same time.
“You could have had the hells,” he adds and my annoyance swiftly returns.
I had this conversation plenty enough when I returned to the hells.
I don’t want to have it here.
“Why didn’t you take it?” he asks. “All of this could have been avoided if you had.”
My face pinches with confusion. “All of what?”
“A conversation better meant for all ears,” the necromancer sighs. In a swift pitch, he bows, extending a flourished arm to his side. “I am Cenviri Shadowspire, Patriarch of House Cenviri, the dominating House of Cerwiden,” he says in crystal clear common tongue as he rises.
He focuses upon Ryc expectantly.
Bastard.
“Alaryc Witherhorn, Sovereign King of Erus,” Ryc rises to the occasion with grace.
Cenviri’s silver brows raise, but he keeps his thoughts to himself and instead swings his stare to Cyran.
“Cyran Stargarden, Captain of the Royal Guard of Erus,” Cyran answers in a tone more glacial than the ice he wields.
Last, Cenviri turns to Eve once again. “Your name I know. Eve Willowgrace, correct?”
Eve, confused, takes a small step away from the gate, brushing against Cyran.
“Druka likes to talk about you,” Cenviri says with a small grin. “Attests you have the prettiest eyes she’s ever seen. As per usual demon nature, I thought she was embellishing. It seems she wasn’t.”
“Druka?” Her name leaves my lips in a surprised and breathy sound. “You know Druka?”
Cenviri’s smile grows. “She’s been an immense help as a point of contact in the hells. She’s helped me better understand demons. Not all of you are as duplicitous as Netharis or Vaelyn.”
What?
“Do we trust this necromancer?” Ryc’s deep voice unfurls in my mind.
“Had you asked me five minutes ago, I would have said no,” I quickly reply. “Now I’m not so sure. Last I knew, he and Vaelyn were close. He’s made that questionable.”
“Are you thinking of soliciting his help?”
“We may not have a choice. Mending my soul requires a necromancer,” I send the thought along with a healthy dose of apprehension through our bond. “Cenviri has stood as the dominating House for centuries. There isn’t another who comes close to matching his abilities.”
Holding Cerwiden for longer than a century verges on a godlike achievement in itself.
“We always have a choice, little love.” Ryc’s warmth seeps around my heart.
“You stray awfully close to blasphemy, necromancer,” I say. “Is it wise for the dominating House of Cerwiden to walk that line?”
“Il-akiv,” he says, smiling, and my jaw tightens with the title.
God-killer.
It was whispered throughout the halls of the Tower in the weeks following Netharis’ death. When Layer Lords and demons expected me to rise as the goddess of death.
It’s a title I refute.
A title I ignore.
A title that should be left in the hells.
Not used here.
“That line was crossed the moment you ended Netharis,” Cenviri finishes, flashing a smile broad enough to show his fangs. “For the first time since its inception, House Cenviri has no patron god.”
I stare at the fae, stunned silent while my mind screams with thoughts.
“None carry his mark,” the violet-eyed General behind him says. “Those who did no longer breathe.”
“They serve their House in other ways,” another, one with dark hair and dark eyes, says.
The reminder of Netharis strikes hard, its blade sharp.
But it’s overridden, cast aside by the surprise in hearing Cenviri has turned upon the hells. There is the motivator behind the Layer Lords’ agitation—the reason they antagonize Vaelyn. The loss of Cerwiden’s dominating House denies the archdemons access to hundreds of thousands of fae and humans.
It’s more than a significant blow to their ability to offer and close on contracts. It’s a lethal one. The power structure of the hells will grow unstable, if it hasn’t become so already.
And while there are millions still to choose from throughout the country, power seeks power, and powerful souls are more likely to bolster Cenviri’s ranks.
Vaelyn isn’t simply floundering as a god.
He’s failing.
I don’t understand how.
Netharis taught him everything.
He was the one chosen to be the heir of the hells.
“All of this to say, there are things I need you to hear.” Cenviri’s intense gaze pins against me. “As to why Fate has arranged this moment.”
“Fate has provided enough for me to contend with,” I counter, my tone sharp. “Appeal your plight elsewhere, necromancer.”
His brows fly high as a smile brightens his features.
“Then let me make myself worthy of the il-akiv and her time,” Cenviri replies, letting his hands fall to his sides. “You came to Illa Ysari for something. If not to take the citadel, for what?”