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Never. With a blank expression that masked raging emotions within, Dimitri bowed instead, the motion smooth and automatic.
“Good,” she purred. The crowd tittered.
Hell to you all, Dimitri cursed them silently.
“I find myself insulted by your lack of respect to me. Princesses ought not to have to ask for such things.” She ceased circling him, but at his lack of reply, his measured stare into the distance, resumed it again with a a twitch of annoyance to her lips. She wanted him to bite.
“I think you should beg for my forgiveness.” She stopped before him, her hips level with his head, and extended a jewelled, slender hand toward him.
Dimitri clenched his jaw. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Royal Highness. No male would ever insult such beauty and wit as yours.” He was tired and irritable from his constant travelling and lack of sleep, and it took all he had not to shake with weariness and keep the snap from his voice.
“You have such a way with words. You may rise.”
He did, and remained silent, his stare blank as he filtered the loathing from it.
“Come, ladies,” Rosella called to her retinue, the flock of sparkling, noble elf-maidens who followed her wherever she went for any favour she would give them. To Dimitri, they were a cacophony of shrill, gossiping, backstabbing sparrows he preferred to keep at arm’s length.
Sensing their fun would go no further that night, courtiers began to turn away, and conversation rose around him. The stiffness in Dimitri’s shoulders eased a little at his humiliation being over—for now. As Rosella swept past him, the caress of her favourite perfume was a heady scent teasing his nose. “You will visit me tonight,” she whispered to him alone, her voice covered by the noise around them.
I’ll be damned if I do, little harpy. “I regret, I am too busy, Princess.”
She stopped in surprise, but by the time she turned around, her mouth a perfect “o”, he was already halfway to the door.
He punched the cushions on his lounger with a growl of unbridled anger. He had finally had enough. As glorious a prize as Rosella was to parade before his father, and better yet, insult the king with—adopted daughter or not, she was still Toroth’s daughter and it irked him to no end that Dimitri dallied with her—it was worth it no longer.
I’m done with her, I’m done with Toroth, and I’m done with this entire festering court. No more duplicity. It’s time to play my hand. His body ached from head to toe. It screamed at him to rest, to sink into the sumptuous, soft bed just one room away, but anger coursed through him, banishing the weariness.
Minutes later, he stood in Saradon’s chamber once more. Saradon’s watchful, wordless presence observed him, waiting for him to speak.
“I’m done with Toroth—with them all,” Dimitri said shortly, sending a mental barrage of images to Saradon, who absorbed them thoughtfully. “There is no more time for delays, but I want assurances. I will raise you, but only if you make me your right-hand advisor. I will deliver everything we have discussed. I will not be a spectator in this. I want to orchestrate it. I want to crush them myself. If you agree, I will make it so. If you do not, I walk away and find my own way for revenge.”
“You dare to speak against me?” Saradon’s customary flickering anger lapped at the edges of the cavern, ready to spring. He laughed at Dimitri’s resolute silence, his set jaw. “No matter. I know it is born from anger, not insult. Our ends are aligned, Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian. You have my word it will be so. I promise once. I promise twice. I promise thrice.”
Dimitri felt the warm, tingling magic wrap around him, clutch sharply for a moment, and then fade into nothing as their agreement bound to the magic of the world around them. “I’m going to reclaim the stone.”
Dimitri executed a short bow and fled into the world once more, hungrily seeking the area of his last dalliance with Aedon and his companions. When he arrived, he found the remnants of their camp empty, as he had expected, since they moved on every day. He followed their essence, drawing closer, until he stood on the moors before the great plains of Tournai.
They practically sat on the king’s doorstep, yet Toroth knew nothing of it. Dimitri could have laughed at the irony. But his amusement was soon tainted by fear. They were so close to being discovered. He knew he had been right to choose now. There was no more time. He drew himself toward their small fire, a tiny pinprick of warmth against the cold landscape, until he stood just outside their barriers.
With a cold rush that swept through him, he realised Harper was nowhere to be found. When he sought back along the trail he had followed, he discovered her essence was gone. Panic drenched him. He shattered the wards around Aedon’s camp only to discover the worst. Hidden behind their wards, there was no trace of the Dragonheart, either.
“Where is she? Where is it?” he thundered, striding into the firelight. Aedon had already blanched at the crushing of his wards, visibly reeling with the power of it. His companions jumped to their feet at the intrusion. Weapons appeared in their hands, and magic bloomed around Aedon. They formed a barrier against Dimitri, their backs to the fire.
“Back off!” Aedon snarled, raising a hand full of crackling, magical energy.
“Where is Harper? Where is the Dragonheart?” Dimitri enunciated every syllable, his voice dangerously even, though he shook with fear and anger.
Ragnar spat at him. Dimitri thrust a clawed hand at the dwarf. Ragnar sailed into the air, landing on the ground with a crunch. He moaned and was silent. Erika slowly backed up to tend to him, her blade raised, not daring to turn her back on Dimitri. Brand and Aedon, filled with defiance, tightened the gap between them.
“If you won’t tell me willingly, I’ll drag it out of one of you.” Dimitri swept his hand in front of him. The two males collapsed to the ground, their legs plucked out from beneath them.
“Over my dead body,” growled Brand.
Dimitri unleashed an avalanche of pain. Aedon paled, his fingers clenching into balled fists. Brand grunted, eyes shut against the agony. Ragnar lay still, and Erika shook as she dropped to all fours, still huddled over him protectively.
Again and again Dimitri blasted them with his magic, until all four lay on the ground, twitching, their veins running with white-hot fire. With a jerk of his hand, he ceased the magic. It ebbed away, along with some of his frustration. He knew they would not tell him anything. He did not know whether it was more out of loyalty to Harper or spite for him, but it did not matter.
“I will find her,” he promised them with a growl, and vanished.
