Chapter 23 Choose Your Battles Wisely
(She’ll Win with the Tower Argument Every Time)
Kazimir
The sheer ostentation of the God Spire never failed to impress me, even after all these years.
Where Skyspire was built on practicality—a fortress designed to intimidate and protect in equal measure—the Spire was pure theater.
Every corridor curved like a spine. Every doorway resembled a gaping maw.
Even the floor tiles pulsed with that purple-green light, as if we were walking on the nerves of something still alive.
I led our little party toward the central channel of the Spire, what would have been the spinal cord in a living creature.
Arabella walked beside me, her eyes wide as she took in the grotesque magnificence of the place.
She’d adapted to the Spire’s horror with remarkable speed, treating the breathing corpse of a god like a tourist attraction rather than an abomination.
It was one of the many things I lo—appreciated about her.
Sebastian looked like he might be sick again, and Griffin kept stopping to examine architectural details that would probably inspire some new disaster back at Skyspire.
He paused to study a pulsing vein of light in the wall.
“The last person who tried to take a sample ended up with their fingers fused together,” I said.
Griffin snatched his hand back.
We passed a series of shops and establishments built into the smaller chambers of the vertebrae.
The Syndicate had turned the god’s corpse into a bustling hub of commerce, though what they sold here would make most kingdoms declare war on sight.
Soul fragments glistened in jars. Cursed artifacts hummed behind glass.
One shop advertised “Custom Nightmares—Delivered While Your Enemy Sleeps!”
“This place is something,” Arabella murmured, leaning closer to me.
“ ‘Something’ is certainly one word for it,” I agreed, placing a hand at the small of her back. The gesture was possessive, but also protective. The Spire attracted the worst of the worst, and while I had no doubt Arabella could handle herself, I didn’t want to test it unnecessarily.
We reached the central lift—a platform suspended by chains running down the length of the spine.
A hulking figure stood guard, its body wider than its height, skin like cracked stone.
A golem of sorts, not a person, though I’d never been able to determine exactly what magic animated it.
The Syndicate kept some secrets even from their own.
“Lord Blackrose,” it rumbled in a voice like stones grinding together. “Your quarters are prepared.”
The lift carried us upward through the hollow core of the Spire. Sebastian pressed himself against the back railing, clearly uncomfortable with the height. Griffin, in contrast, leaned precariously over the edge, watching the floors rush by with childlike fascination.
“If you fall,” I said without looking at him, “I’m not saving you.”
Griffin straightened immediately.
As we rose, a strange whisper brushed against my thoughts—not words exactly, but a sensation of recognition. As if the dead god’s bones were greeting an old friend.
I inhaled slowly. The lack of sleep was taking its toll on me.
The lift slowed as we reached the upper levels of the Spire. Here, the chambers were larger and more luxurious. A single large vertebra housed a different Chair of the Syndicate or their most valued associates. My apartment occupied the third from the top.
The doors opened onto a short hallway ending in a massive door, which like the rest of the floor was protected with wards that would make most mages weep. I pressed my palm against the center, letting the magic recognize me.
“Welcome back, Lord Blackrose,” the door said in a deep voice. “Shall I incinerate the unauthorized visitors?”
“They’re guests,” I said before Sebastian could bolt. “Full access for the duration of our stay.”
“Acknowledged. Please note: The kitchen poltergeist has been acting up again.”
“Of course it has.” I pushed the door open. “Welcome to our home away from home.”
I’d forgotten how impressive the apartment was, honestly. When you own a floating fortress made of lightning bridges and shadow magic, your standards for intimidating architecture tend to skew a bit high. But even I had to admit that my quarters in the God Spire had a certain macabre elegance.
The central atrium soared upward through the entire vertebra, revealing multiple levels connected by a spiraling staircase carved from a single massive bone.
Dark wood furniture created a warm environment against the black bone walls, and everything was draped in rich fabrics of midnight blue and silver.
Witchlights drifted lazily through the space, casting a soft glow over the polished floors.
Archways led off to various chambers—dining room, library, guest quarters, and my private suite.
“This is incredible,” Arabella breathed, immediately drawn to the tall windows. The view was admittedly spectacular, if you enjoyed looking at a wasteland dotted with the occasional explosion or monster attack.
“You keep this place fully staffed?” she asked, noting the fresh flowers, the polished surfaces, the distinct lack of dust.
As if to answer her question, a line of staff appeared from a side door.
“I make regular trips to the Spire for Syndicate business. It’s more practical to maintain a permanent residence than to arrange accommodations each time.”
What I didn’t say, but knew she would understand, was that the staff were also my eyes and ears within the Spire. They reported everything they saw and heard, providing invaluable intelligence on the other Syndicate members’ activities.
A door at the far end of the chamber opened, and a tall, thin man emerged. His shoulder-length gray hair was tied back, and he wore the standard servant’s uniform but with throwing knives strapped to his thighs.
“Lord Blackrose,” he said, bowing. “Lady Blackrose. Welcome to the Spire. I am Marlowe, the head of staff at the apartment.”
“Marlowe’s managed this residence for five years,” I explained to Arabella. “He ensures everything runs smoothly in my absence.”
“I’ve prepared your rooms as instructed, my lord,” he said.
I turned to our companions. “Thorne, you know where your quarters are. Griffin, Sebastian—Marlowe will show you to yours.”
Marlowe gestured for Griffin and Sebastian to follow him. “This way, gentlemen.”
As they moved toward the staircase, Griffin hefted his satchel higher, trying to look casual and failing miserably. The bag clinked.
“Griffin.” My voice was dangerously soft. “What’s in the bag?”
He clutched it protectively. “Just some personal items. Books.”
“They clink.” I took a step toward him, and he backed up until he hit the door.
“Metallic books?”
I held out my hand. “Show me.”
With the air of a condemned man, Griffin opened his satchel. Inside, nestled between actual books, was a device that looked like an octopus mated with a clock. Gears protruded at odd angles, tentacle-like tubes connected various components, and the whole thing hummed with barely contained energy.
“Is that going to explode?” I asked with forced calm.
“No!” Griffin said quickly. “Well, not explode exactly. More of a controlled implosion that creates a localized temporal bubble—”
“I specifically ordered you not to bring anything that could explode,” I reminded him, my voice dropping to a register that made even Thorne stand a little straighter. “Did I not make myself clear?”
“You did, my lord, but—”
“But you decided my direct order was more of a suggestion?”
Griffin clutched his bag tighter, and his mouth began opening and closing as my shadows curled around his neck. They weren’t touching him, not yet, but for the thousandth time since I’d hired the enchanter, I was seriously considering it.
To family, Arabella had toasted. But my experience with family was they were always trying to kill you in one way or another. Griffin was no exception. In fact, he proved the rule.
My shadows curled tighter, and for a split second, I wanted to squeeze. Not just threaten—actually crush the life from him. Watch his eyes bulge, hear the wet snap of—
I reined the shadows back sharply, my jaw clenching. What the hell was wrong with me?
“I—I didn’t think—” he stammered.
“No, you didn’t.” I plucked the device from his hands. “Thorne.”
My security chief stepped up, having watched the entire exchange with his usual stoicism.
“Lock this in the warded safe until we leave,” I ordered. “If Griffin asks for it before I give permission, break one of his fingers.”
Griffin made a strangled sound. “It’s perfectly safe. I’ve tested it exten—”
A sharp look from me silenced him. “The last time you said something was ‘perfectly safe,’ a suit of armor developed a bloodthirsty personality and beheaded three servants before I got there.”
Oblivious to the drama unfolding below, Sebastian’s voice drifted down the stairs in a cry of delight. “Is this a fully stocked kitchen?”
“Yes, my lord,” came Marlowe’s response.
“This is perfect!” Sebastian’s excitement was palpable even from a distance. Sebastian appeared at the railing, his face bright with joy—though his smile wavered when his gaze landed not on me, but on Griffin’s face. “Griffin, would you like to help?”
There was a pause, then Griffin’s hesitant voice: “I’m not particularly skilled in the culinary arts.”
“Nonsense! Everyone can bake. I’ll give you something simple that can’t possibly explode.”
“You’d be surprised,” I muttered.
Arabella squeezed my arm. “It might keep Griffin out of trouble.”
“Doubtful, but one can hope.” I turned to Thorne. “Keep one eye on them as you go about your other duties. I’ll deal with his insubordination more thoroughly later.”
Thorne nodded, his expression stoic as ever. “I’ll ensure they remain within acceptable parameters of chaos, my lord.”
With that settled, I led Arabella up the spiral staircase, past the kitchen where Griffin’s gaze was fixed on Sebastian with rapt attention.
Our suite was the largest in the apartment, dominated by a bed that could comfortably sleep six and windows that offered an even more impressive view. The bathroom alone was the size of most inn rooms, featuring a tub carved from a single piece of black marble.
“This is where you stay when you visit?” Arabella asked, running her hand along the silk bedding.
“When I must.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I prefer Skyspire but business sometimes requires a presence here.”
Arabella moved to the windows, gazing out at the strange landscape below. “It’s beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way.”
“The Syndicate appreciates luxury just as I do,” I explained, watching her. “Power without comfort is just work.”
She turned, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. “Speaking of luxury, tell me about this Gilded Gallows place the Alchemist mentioned.”
I groaned. “It’s a waste of space. A playground for villains with more gold than sense.”
“But what is it?” She perched on the edge of the bed, looking up at me expectantly.
“A nightclub,” I said, removing my coat and draping it over a chair. “Music, dancing, overpriced drinks, the occasional ritual sacrifice—though that’s usually restricted to the VIP section.”
“I’ve never been to a nightclub before,” she admitted, curiosity bright in her eyes. “What’s it like?”
I sat beside her, loosening the collar of my shirt. “You remember how the overt hedonism of our wedding feast threw you off balance? The Gilded Gallows is significantly less… tasteful.”
“I’ve grown since then,” she protested. “I’m not the same sheltered noblewoman you kidnapped.”
“Clearly not.” I reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face, and then lingered with my hand moving to her neck. “You’re the Dark Lady of Skyspire now. Mistress of the Healing Arts.” I brushed my thumb over her lower lip, watching it part. “Scourge of pickled organs.”
She laughed, leaning into my touch. “Exactly. We’re the most powerful people here. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Now you’re just inviting trouble.”
“—and there’s no reason not to experience something new.” She took my hand, her expression turning serious. “I spent my entire life locked in a tower, Kaz. Everything was controlled, measured, restricted. Now I have the chance to see things I’ve never seen before, do things I’ve never done.”
I studied her face, saw the determination there. My instinct was to refuse, but the way she was looking at me—eager and excited and alive—made my arguments crumble. Denying her this small adventure felt wrong. Like I’d be no better than her father, keeping her caged for my own comfort.
Anyway, Arabella’s freedom wasn’t mine to give, but hers to take. Ironically, the closer we became, the more I had to remind myself of that simple truth.
“When you put it like that…” I sighed.
She grinned, knowing she’d used the one argument that would win every time, and straddled my lap with her arms around my neck. “I promise to be on my best behavior.”
I rested my hands on her hips. “Your best behavior still involves setting things on fire.”
She laughed, and the sound should have warmed me. It did warm me. But underneath that pleasant feeling, a possessive fury so intense it made my teeth ache. It was completely involuntary, and completely out of place for the situation.
I brushed it off with a smirk. “You should know, membership requires a crime.”
She pulled back. “What?”
“To enter the Gilded Gallows, you need to have committed a crime. It’s their way of admitting only the right sort of clientele.”
She considered this for a moment. “Does killing the knight-commander of the Hero’s Guild count?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’m qualified.” She leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “What’s your crime of entry?”
I smirked. “You know I have plenty.”