KARIOS
He wondered about the power that might lie within it. If he could give it form—watch it manifest. What advantage could it provide mankind and the fae against Lyceius? Torin had only said that it was a dark and temperamental power, something Gaia had not seen.
If he prodded the goddess for more information, he risked her becoming suspicious and demanding its return.
Of course, he could just deny her and her speculations, but he’d had no quarrel with the goddess in the time she’d been here, and the thought of another conflict with a deity made him rethink his tactics.
He supposed he could consult the fates first. They favored him and would advise him against it if they thought it was unwise .
. . But on more than one occasion they had preferred to further their own agendas.
And they had either failed to see Lyceius’s rebellion—which was unlikely—or they had turned a blind eye to it.
Without another moment of hesitation, he descended to the earth below, to the fae realm.
To the Mountain Court of Calledan.
There, unbeknownst to anyone, and unseen to the naked eye, he appeared in The Keep, in the private chamber of the High Lord and Lady, where the two lay undisturbed.
He paused near the bed, lingering in his final moments of contemplation.
In theory, if the amulet worked the same way as his gods’ talismans, Karios would only need to place it upon the one he wished to imbue with power, and command it to be done.
He rolled the round stone in the palm of his hand once, twice, before staring long and hard at it.
It was made of pure obsidian, strung with a dark, silver chain that seemed all too delicate for the ominous token.
A primal mist swirled within its confines.
It looked as if it were hewn straight from the mountains amongst which he stood.
Like it belonged there.
Perhaps that was why he’d chosen this territory—this family.
Gavrin, the High Lord of Calledan, was not only an exceptionally powerful fae but also loyal, trustworthy, and righteous. Karios had entrusted him, after all, to safeguard the Talisman of Lyceius—to keep it hidden deep within the mountains.
The god-king looked at the sleeping fae who lay next to Gavrin.
Lyra, was her name. She was lovely, with long dark hair—the color of glittering night—and porcelain skin that glowed white under the moonlight that beamed through the towering window.
Her chest swelled softly as she breathed, and her eyelids fluttered, sheltering her in a dream, her swollen belly ripe with a youngling inside.
He’d chosen Lyra for this task because of her ability to glamour on a scale that was unprecedented. If whatever power this amulet contained needed concealing, she could mask it with her expert skill, and no one would be the wiser.
Karios reached out a hand and sent both fae into an even deeper sleep—one that neither would wake from until he was finished.
Then, he placed the amulet upon Lyra’s chest and imbued its power to her.
A shadow bled from all sides of the token, like ink on water-soaked parchment.
He snatched it back before it could leak out any more of its power, releasing only a fraction of what he felt the amulet contained.
The shadow remained on her skin for a moment, then seeped into it, disappearing completely.
The god-king stared down at the female as she continued to sleep. She didn’t stir as he removed his hand. She didn’t look any different at all.
He tilted his head, then his eyes snagged on movement further down her body.
The youngling moved inside her, rubbing a tiny knuckle—or heel, or elbow—along the wall of the womb.
Lyra’s brows pinched in her sleep, and she shifted onto her side, placing a hand on the edge of her belly, as if to settle the babe within.
Just as Karios stepped away to leave the High Lord and his mate to their slumber, he picked up on the faint heartbeat from the young one within Lyra.
It stuttered . . .
Then, it raged.