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“She has asked for your blade alone.”
Elarian fell to her knees.
“The Knight-Saint,” she breathed.
It had been so long, she convinced herself the woman who once called her gods-blessed had all but forgotten about her promise.
Gods, she could almost smell the clear air beyond the endless mists.
“She spoke?” The words stuck in her mouth like thick honey.
“Yes. But only this: let her fly north. The vampires are moving again, and you are the only Blade she trusts.” So do not ask for more.
“I must see her!” Elarian blurted out despite herself. She spoke again, softer this time. “Please, Reshva.”
He shook his head, eyes full of sorrow. “She must rest, child. But she left this for you.” Reshva slid a letter sealed with silver wax across the table. “Let this be done once and for all, Elarian. If you cross the Evermist, you will only return with his head in your hands.”
Maybe she had not failed, but merely not been given the chance to succeed.
And now she would.
“Lucan will be dead before the next full moon, Reshva,” Elarian whispered at last.
Starin flared in her chest, heat washing over her until sweat formed against her neck. Elarian’s eyes glowed like pale reflections of the godsdamned shivaem. At last, she could do things her way. Elarian trembled at the thought.
Reshva’s smile tightened as she stood.
“Guard yourself well, Elarian.”
His cold gaze unnerved her, his answer burrowing under her skin like a needle. The long, fresh scar down her arm burned. No, no—she would not fail again. As the thrill of the hunt rose like a viper, she brushed aside Reshva’s doubt.
“North, then. I will return, Reshva.”
She turned away, unwilling to speak any further. As Elarian stalked off, Reshva sank into his chair, one hand over the orb while another tugged at his raven-black hair.
“Keep her well,” he murmured.
Elarian didn’t hear his words as she shoved the wooden door open. Much more important things weighed on her mind.
At last, the hunt could begin.
three
The Dutiful Son
Lucan
Lucan had always loved being the center of attention. It came as naturally as the white hair from his mother and the royal inheritance from his father. As a child, he relished entertaining the courtiers and sowing the seeds of his future kingdom. With age came the delight of maidens in his bed, their warm skin and soft bodies offered as freely as wine. Council meetings and war plans soon followed—ambushes in the Evermist, prisoners to torture, and a fey kingdom to fell.
Every step through his father’s glittering new castle had reminded Lucan that the future was his for the taking.
Human foolishness.
Now, he reclined on a black, marble throne fitted to his frozen form, surveying the roving court below. A sneer lifted the corner of his mouth, revealing a fang streaked with inlaid gold. He rather liked the way it glinted when it caught the light and the gasps it drew from those who had not seen him since his return.
The court, he thought ruefully. Imprisoned again with these simpering fools.
Vaulted ceilings stretched high overhead, hazy with smoke. A large portrait of a pale man with long, honey-amber hair—the Bloodlord Aurelion—dominated the opposite wall. In place of his eyes, two large rubies glowed bright with stolen moonlight. Shades of crimson cast long shadows over the lithe forms gliding over the white marble floors. Chandeliers hung low, crowning the feasting tables splattered with blood and carrying the echo of dying screams.
