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A thick ledger landed with a resounding thump on the table in front of Lord Ataen. He opened it with care, revealing pages crowded with elegant script and maps stained by decades of use. Several loose pages scattered over the table as he flipped through to a recent entry. He slid it across the polished stone toward Lucan. He didn’t bother to read even a single line; nothing in that dossier would surprise him now. For nearly a century, Ravenholm had slowly been slipping into decay.
“It has been declining for decades.”
“Things have worsened considerably, Your Highness.” Lord Raviron tried to bolster Ataen’s claims, as if he could somehow grant Lucan the power to fix everything with a simple command.
“Worsened,” Lucan repeated. “How delightfully vague.”
Another councilor—Lady Volyrin, perpetually smelling of myrrh incense, clove oil, and old blood—leaned forward. White hair streaked with brilliant strands of violet gathered atop her head, drawn taut until Lucan was certain her forehead must ache. An ornate golden circlet beset with moonstones held her curls in place. She wore almost enough jewelry to rival Anileta’s taste. Thin golden chains draped from long, pointed ears to jeweled collars at her throat, while every finger glittered with rings set with black diamonds and garnets. Wealth clung to her like a heady perfume.
“Livestock rebellions, my prince,” Lady Volyrin whispered like a furtive secret.
Elarian—who had been silent as a dormouse this entire time—shifted beside him. They caught each other’s gaze. Something strange resided in those pale eyes. A warning, almost.
“Numbers?”
Lucan turned back to the table and glanced down at the pages spread before him. Tiny ink circles marked farm after farm across Ravenholm’s countryside. Several had been crossed out entirely while question marks sat beside three more—destroyed and cut off from communication with the realm.
Finally, something interesting was happening.
Lucan would never dare admit it out loud, but he had long thought about how to weaponize the humans against their masters and slowly crumble Aurelion’s chokehold over the empire.
Lady Volyrin cleared her throat. “Five estates burned this month.”
“Hm.”
“Two overseers found hanged with their hearts ripped out.”
Lucan hummed; how many times had he dreamed of doing that to Aurelion? His master had, of late, favored ropes over blades. Said the weight of one’s own body made for a better lesson than anything he might carve into their skin. Though Lucan had never tested that theory, he somehow doubted that. Peace eventually came at the end of the rope; hollow self-loathing remained buried beneath the scars.
Unable to mask his desire to see Aurelion swinging as Lucan sliced open every wretched vein, he smiled even as the councilors continued detailing the failures in the west. For a breath, he found himself hoping whoever led the rebellion had smiled, too, while tightening the noose.
“And don’t forget they lost a breeding compound several months ago,” Ataen interjected, long nails tapping against the lacquered table. “Output has slowed significantly as a result, despite our best attempts to rebuild.”
A faint grimace touched Lucan’s lips, fangs flashing under the amber witchlights.
Oh, Anileta, her silver was truly wasted on you. I should have killed you decades ago.
Anileta had possessed exquisite taste in jewelry, terrible taste in lovers, and absolutely no talent whatsoever for governance. Left to her own devices, she would sooner host masquerades for six consecutive weeks than inspect the villages funding them.
Now, Ravenholm rotted accordingly.
“What an embarrassment for the countess,” he remarked. All eyes drifted to her empty seat beneath the purple banner opposite Lucan.
“The eastern plantations report dwindling productivity,” Ataen continued. “The surviving livestock have become...difficult.”
Lucan arched a brow. “Difficult?”
“They refuse breeding assignments.”
Across the chamber, someone shifted uncomfortably. Another added, “Several have begun maiming themselves rather than comply.”
“Creative, you must admit,” Lucan replied.
The defiance of his brethren never ceased to amaze him—and shame him for submitting so easily to Aurelion.
“Others simply starve.”
Lucan’s fingers tapped lazily against the arm of his chair. “How many?”
