"Phase one?" Casteel asked, though he suspected he didn't want to know the answer.
Doran's smile was razor-sharp. "Establishing legitimacy was merely the beginning. Now comes the true work—uniting the kingdom under divine authority and rooting out those who would oppose the gods' will."
Through their bond, Casteel felt Nero's alarm spike. The older man had caught the implication immediately—a purge was coming, dressed in religious rhetoric.
"The people seemed receptive," Nero said carefully, probing for more information. "Surely opposition will be minimal."
"One would hope," Doran replied, his tone suggesting otherwise. "But there are always those who cling to the old ways, who resist change even when it comes from the gods themselves. They must be...educated."
Captain Aldric stepped forward. "High Priest, there are matters requiring your attention. Reports from the eastern provinces—"
"Later," Doran cut him off sharply. "First, our new rulers must rest and prepare for tonight's feast. The noble houses will be presenting themselves, and first impressions are crucial."
As they were escorted back through the palace corridors, Casteel caught Nero's thoughts.Danger.
The message was clear enough, but Casteel had already sensed his mate's unease through their bond. Something about whomever he had seen in the crowd had shaken Nero's composure in a way that even Doran's manipulations hadn't managed.
Once they were alone in their chambers—no longer the bonding room, but a proper royal suite with sitting areas and separate bathing facilities—Nero immediately began checking for listening devices or hidden passages.
"Tell me about that man," Casteel said quietly, helping to examine the ornate tapestries that could conceal spy holes, or secret passages.
"Dock supervisor's nephew. Cruel, ambitious, and he hates me specifically." Nero's voice was grim as he tested a suspicious-looking section of wall. "I cost him opportunities to abuse his position, and men like him don't forget slights." He hesitated.“Up to today I would have labeled him a pathetic, greedy fool, but jealousy can take over a person until it consumes them.”
"You think he's here to cause trouble?"
"I definitely think he's here to cause trouble. I’m just not sure what." Nero moved to the windows, checking sight lines and escape routes with professional thoroughness. "The question is if he’s here independently or someone is paying him, and if then what they want him to do."
Casteel settled onto a velvet-cushioned chair, suddenly exhausted. The day's events—the ceremony, the transformation, the weight of thousands of expectant faces—had drained him more than he'd realized. "Could he be working for Doran?"
"Possible, but unlikely. Doran prefers subtlety and religious authority. Gareth is more...direct in his methods." Nero's expression darkened. "But he wouldn't dare a challenge without protection. He would more add poison in a wine cup."
The implications sent a chill through Casteel. "He wants to kill us?"
“Not us,” Nero growled, snapping his examination of the windows shut as he turned to Casteel. His dark eyes blazed with possessive fire. “Me. Gareth’s grudge is against me—you're just unfortunate collateral.” He stepped closer, his tone dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “And if anything happens to me, the bond—”
“Don’t.” Casteel’s warning came sharp, and he felt the panic flood through his system. Convinced that Nero would decide he was too much trouble and leave was bad enough, but the thought of Nero's death made him want to be sick.
“We need to be realistic,” Nero continued, though the edge in his voice softened slightly for Casteel alone. “I could be seeing demons where there are none, but I dare not leave it to chance.”
Casteel’s gaze dropped to the flickering hearth. “Rebellion leaders spurred on by Aidan’s vision…”
“Or nobles who prosper in chaos and wish to return to the old ways. I didn't think we had enough noble houses left to attend a feast, but it seems they are capable of crawling out of the woodwork,” Nero added. “And somewhere in that we seem to have a caste of priests who think they should be in charge.”
A tentative knock at the door sent Nero’s hand to where his weapons should have been. He scowled at his lack of even a belt and bared his teeth.
The door swung open to reveal Makim, bearing a tray piled with bread, cheese, and a leather pouch of water, alongside a small kit of poultices and salves.
Nero’s gaze tightened. “Food?” he asked, voice laced with suspicion.
The healer inclined his head, eyes calm. “Plain provisions, drawn and prepared by me—no poisons, no sedatives. Only sustenance and salves.” He set the tray on a nearby table, then reached for Casteel’s wrist to check his pulse.
In an instant, Nero was between them. His arm shot out, trapping Casteel’s elbow against his side. His lips curled in a snarl.
Makim’s hands froze midair. “I only meant—”
“He’s fine,” Nero seemed to force his tone to an even one, tightening his hold on Casteel as if daring anyone to challenge him. His eyes flicked to the silver scar at Casteel’s throat. He brushed a thumb lightly over the mark, possessiveness radiating in every movement.
Casteel’s breath hitched. Nero’s closeness calmed the tremor in his chest. The bond pulsed between them, strong and real, fueled by Nero’s fierce claim.
