Chapter 53 Balance Warfare and Spite
(The Dark Lord’s Guide to Time Management)
Kazimir
The dungeons of Skyspire had a particular smell—damp stone, old fear, and the lingering traces of necromantic experiments that even Griffin’s cleaning enchantments couldn’t quite erase.
I’d left Arabella in the Great Hall, where she was attempting to mediate a dispute between Lord Brightwater and Lady Marenti over whose ancestral claim to some insignificant valley was more legitimate.
The irony of “heroes” behaving like petty nobles wasn’t lost on me.
At least it kept her occupied while I dealt with this.
I’d handed Griffin’s detection kit to Thorne with orders to test everyone at Skyspire for doppelgangers—no exceptions. Nyx had killed the one infiltrator, but I wasn’t fool enough to assume there weren’t others.
The tests came back clean, and there were plans to adapt the same principles to the fortress wards. Until then, everyone—including our heroic guests—would submit to weekly testing.
The spiral staircase descended into the Undercroft Gaols, each step worn smooth to the point of being treacherously slippery.
I needed answers from the Alchemist about what to do with our collection of heroic bloodlines, and I needed them before Auremar sacrificed his own captives and weakened the Shadow King’s prison even further.
But first, I had to pass through Griffin’s previous punishment.
I found him exactly where I’d ordered him to be—on his hands and knees in the corridor outside the holding cells, painstakingly inscribing containment runes into the stone floor.
His robes were hiked up around his knees, and his gangly frame was bent at an awkward angle as he traced the intricate patterns with a piece of enchanted chalk before carving it.
A cart sat nearby, loaded with supplies and the Doom Scroll propped against a stack of reference books.
“My lord,” Griffin said without looking up, his voice tight with concentration. “I’m making excellent progress. Only seventy-three more runes to go.”
I stopped beside him, examining his work. The runes were precise, each line exactly the correct width and depth. No shortcuts, no magical assistance—just hours of mind-numbing manual labor.
“I’m surprised you didn’t try to delegate this to one of your apprentices again,” I observed.
Griffin’s hand jerked, smudging a line. He cursed under his breath and reached for a correction cloth. “You specifically said I was to do it myself, my lord. As penance for the, ah, incident with the prisoners.”
“I did say that.” I crouched down, inspecting the rune he’d just smudged. “And yet I’m surprised you’re actually following instructions for once.”
“I learned my lesson.” Griffin’s voice was miserable. “No more unsupervised demonstrations of necromantic theory. No more showing off to Sebastian. No more accidentally releasing prisoners who then float away in magical cages.”
The idea of Sir Darian Lightbringer and Lord Evenfall drifting across the sky in a Tempest Cage would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been such a massive security breach.
“At least you’re learning,” I said, straightening. “Continue.”
I moved toward the cart to retrieve a report I’d asked Griffin to compile on the heroic bloodlines’ magical signatures. My gaze snagged on the Doom Scroll instead, its surface rippling with fresh updates.
I picked it up, scanning the latest headlines and passing over fresh reports of magical catastrophes.
SOLANDRIAN FORCES MOBILIZE TO RETAKE NORTHERN OUTPOST
KING AUREMAR RALLIES ALLIES FOR DECISIVE BATTLE
BLACKROSE INVASION STALLS AS DEFENDERS REGROUP
My jaw clenched. I scrolled through the details, each one worse than the last. Auremar had summoned his scattered forces and was marching them toward the northern outpost we’d taken.
He was preparing for a full-scale counterattack.
Ten thousand soldiers, the Scroll reported. Allied reinforcements from Valmont and the coastal kingdoms. Mage battalions specializing in offensive magic.
I’d lost the element of surprise. The quick, brutal conquest I’d planned—sweeping through Solandris’s defenses and taking the capital before Auremar could organize—was no longer possible. Now it would be a grinding, bloody siege where I was outnumbered at least two to one.
Perfect, the Shadow King purred in my mind. A proper battlefield. Rivers of blood to consecrate our victory.
The thought sent a thrill through me—anticipation mixed with hunger. I could already see my shadow warriors tearing through enemy ranks, hear the screams of the dying, feel the satisfying crunch of bones beneath my magic—
I slammed the mental walls down so hard I saw stars.
When they cleared, my hands were shaking.
How much of that bloodlust was mine? How much had always been the Shadow King’s influence, whispering in the back of my mind since I was a child? I’d built my entire reputation on ruthless conquest, on the thrill of warfare. But was any of it real?
Does it matter? the voice laughed. We are the same now. Your desires, my desires—there’s no difference.
“Shut up,” I muttered.
“My lord?” Griffin looked up from his rune work, confused.
“Not you.” I forced my breathing to steady.
I tossed the Doom Scroll back onto the cart.
The damned thing had delivered news about my enemy before my own intelligence network.
“Go find Thorne. Tell him to send scouts to confirm this report about Auremar’s army.
I want numbers, positions, and an assessment of their defenses. ”
Griffin scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his robes. “Right now, my lord? But the runes—”
“Can wait.” I turned toward the deeper cells where the Alchemist was being held. “This takes priority.”
“Of course, my lord.”
I needed to deal with the Alchemist first. Then I’d tell Arabella that our invasion had just become exponentially more complicated. That instead of a quick strike at the capital, we were looking at a prolonged campaign.
You’re going soft, the Shadow King whispered. Weak. All because of her.
I ignored him and continued down the corridor. The cells here were older. Reserved for prisoners who required special attention.
“Blackrose!” a voice roared from one of the cells. “You bastard! You can’t leave me down here to rot!”
Evenfall.
I paused outside his cell, considering. The man pressed against the bars in the door, his once-fine clothes filthy and torn. His eyes were wild, desperate.
“I’m a lord of Solandris.” His voice cracked. “I can—”
I leaned closer to the bars, forming shadows into wolves with glowing silver eyes. Evenfall backed into the wall of his cell. “I think about your death often. Every day, I imagine how creatively I can kill you—and how long I can make it last.”
Evenfall’s face went pale.
I let my dominion magic fill the corridor with the scent of ozone and winter storms. My eyes flared silver as more shadows writhed along the walls of his cell, responding to the raw power I was channeling. I wanted him to see a figure of terror, one who would deliver on each promise of violence.
“As soon as Lady Blackrose gives the word,” I said in a soft, dangerous voice. “I’ll come for you, Evenfall. Mine will be the last face you ever see.”
One of the shadow wolves drifted through the door of the cell and became solid. It looked real, with its hair and gleaming teeth. The smell of a predator filled the space, and it snarled silently. Evenfall was about to piss his pants—pity I couldn’t wait around to watch.
I turned away from the cell. I’d leave the construct there for a while.
Evenfall’s desperate sob echoed off the stone as I descended deeper into the dungeons.
The Alchemist waited in the most secure cell we had, and I needed answers more than I needed to torment Arabella’s pathetic excuse for a father.
Though I had to admit, it had been satisfying.
See? the Shadow King murmured. You enjoy the cruelty. We’re not so different.
I rebuilt my mental walls in preparation for the conversation with the Alchemist. As a bonus, it also cut off the Shadow King’s laughter.