And we would find him.
No matter what it cost us.
We would find Thorne.
Chapter 23
Thorne
The armada was ready. At least fifty black ships lined the docks, their red and blue sails snapping in the wind like war banners.
I stood at the edge, directing Sentinels as they loaded supplies. My uniform was crisp, immaculate—silver thread stitched across the black like a brand.
Everything in place.
Everything controlled.
Each crate, each command, a distraction. A ritual. Something to keep my hands busy.
Ashton lingered behind me on horseback, draped in silk and silver, every inch the king he pretended to be. Around him, Vasquez’s elites formed a wall of steel and shadow.
Then we saw them. The procession.
A black carriage at the centre, flanked by monks in bone-white robes, each hooded, each armed. Their spears glinted in the morning sun. These weren’t priests—they were executioners.
Vael rode just behind them on a pale warhorse. His face was painted in the blue sigils of the old gods, the kind forbidden in civil temples. Beneath the cowl, his red eyes gleamed—inhuman, impossible to miss.
This meeting had been a long time coming. A convergence of kingdoms. Of devils.
I stood motionless. My king needed me. I must be ready.
Order before mercy.
Truth before feeling.
Duty before desire.
The mantra pulsed through my skull. It grounded me. Anchored me.
I rested my hand on the hilt of my sword as Vael dismounted, his movements too smooth—like a serpent sliding through silk.
Ashton followed suit, swinging down from his saddle in practiced elegance.
They met between us.
Two kings. Two monsters.
Brothers in blood, enemies in everything else.
“Hello, brother,” Ashton said.
“Ashton.”
“So,” Ashton went on, voice light, “are you prepared to honour your side of the bargain?”
Vael’s eyes slid to me. Cold. Curious.
“I see you’ve broken in your dog.”
