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I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.
I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.
I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.
A shout rose above the din of agony and echoed through the yawning cavern. Then another. And another. Fury rode the notes, and she knew.
He was back.
Nyri fought a spike of panic, stuffing it back into the corner of her mind where she’d buried all her emotions. She was as the Sacred Sisters now, those tallest of twin peaks standing firm against all manner of wild thing. She was the Montrealm’s cliffs in a storm. A boulder on the shore of the Serpent Sea.
Cold. Solid. Majestic, but unwavering. And completely, utterly unfeeling.
Nyri thought she knew who he was after that first display of his power a lifetime ago, who he was pretending to be, but she was wrong. His face was new every time he left, and different when he returned. He switched seamlessly between them. And taunting her with the fact had become one of his favorite pastimes.
His face when he was himself…
Too awful, too beautiful, for words. He was not of this world—of that, she was certain.
A slow skitter crawled up her spine like so many insects, and Nyri emptied every thought.
“Good morning, my darling.” His hand wrapped around her waist from behind, nose landing against the back of her head for a sharp inhale. “I missed you. Have you thought about my last offer?”
Well, she emptied every thought but two.
I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.
I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.
I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.
I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.
I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.
I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.
Lyriat looked up as the Great Hall’s double doors closed behind the last Demon with an echoing boom, just in time to see Araxis appear.
How convenient.
He was getting ready to peel his damned skin off. The lack of progress—of any word, or hint, or clue on Bal and Nyri’s whereabouts, on who’d brutally murdered Gaulnir in this very damned seat—was a constant crawl in his flesh. An endless siphon on his hope, his energy.
The Sorcerit Son’s appearance gave Lyriat an opportunity to do something and evade some of the helplessness that was settling in.
Araxis waved a folded piece of parchment. “I have a message for Lunara from Brand. In an effort to smooth some of the tension between us, I thought I’d start here to inform you before going to find her.”
“Your efforts are appreciated,” Lyriat said, standing. “Do me a favor and come back when you’re done. We have need of you.”
He was gone with a curt nod.
“At least we didn’t have to summon him this time,” Magnus said as soon as he disappeared, crossing his arms. “How many of those tolls do you have left?”
Lyriat jangled the pouch on his belt, far too light now for his taste. “Only a couple.”
He wasted an unbearable amount of them after Araxis kidnapped Lunara, weighing each one between her and his cousins before tossing them into the portal. Although, with Lunara no longer focused so heavily on fixing Brand, Lyriat might be able to convince her to take them instead.
Of course, that would mean admitting their secret visits to the Westrealm. It wasn’t Lunara he was worried about, so much as…everyone else. The twins were going to be furious.
