The names listed for the morning watch along the corridors of the main suite do not belong to the elite Miou guard. Kaelen and Voss have been rotated out. The names stamped onto the vellum belong to low-born mercenaries drafted from the outer borders—guards whose loyalty is easily purchased by the massive sum of coin Seredryl just stole from my vaults.
Untrusted, heavily armed dark elves are currently stationed directly outside the doors where Megan sleeps.
A sharp, muffled crash echoes from the upper levels of the estate.
It is followed instantly by the metallic screech of a halberd striking stone.
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
Dropping the parchment onto the cobblestones, I sprint back toward the grand entrance of the stronghold. Tearing across the courtyard, the sheer speed of my Khuzuth physiology carries me up the sweeping central staircase in a blur of black leather and violence.
My enemies have infiltrated.
They are inside my walls.
And they are hunting Megan.
15
MEGAN
The overwhelming scent of ash and spiced wine drags me from sleep.
For a disorienting moment, the architecture of the room escapes me. The mattress beneath me is impossibly massive, the indigo silks pooling like a dark ocean around my waist. The dull, persistent ache pulsing between my thighs serves as a vivid, undeniable reminder of the night.
Dragging a hand through my tangled curls, the memories strike. The ruined study. The ancient, damning ledgers. The staggering desperation of the High Sovereign burying himself inside me, claiming me against the obsidian wall.
A flush of chaotic heat burns across my cheeks as the cavernous, temperature-controlled sanctuary of his master wing comes into focus.
Zhetrin is gone.
The thick, dark linen sleep-shirt swallowing my frame belongs to him. The hem falls past my knees, the collar slipping easily off my shoulder. The fierce dark elf who executed a trafficker without a blink had carried me through his estate, bathed me, and tucked me into his own bed while I slept.
Terrifying vulnerability grips my chest. I allowed the boundaries to shatter. I let the warlord in. We are tied together in the war against the Patriarch, but I am still a human occupying the epicenter of a Khuzuth stronghold. I cannot face the day—or his elite guards—wearing nothing but his oversized sleep-shirt.
Sliding off the mattress, the cold stone floor bites into my bare feet. I require my own clothes and the familiar walls of my suite in the eastern corridor.
Pushing the massive oak doors open, I breach the threshold.
The corridor outside is completely devoid of life. The suffocating presence of the elite guard from yesterday has vanished. Even the Zagfer servants carrying morning linens are entirely absent. The flickering alchemy lamps cast long, jagged shadows against the marble.
Pulling the thick linen tighter around my body, I step into the hall.
The temperature drops halfway down the grand corridor. The hair on my nape stands on end, triggering the primal instinct forged in the Lowtown gutters—the dense, static warning that the alley is not empty.
Three dark elf guards detach from the carved pillars.
They wear the silver and crimson armor of House Thosti, but their faces are entirely foreign. They lack the lethal, rigid discipline of the elite Miou warriors. Their armor is severely scratched, their postures loose and predatory. The unvarnished hostility radiating from their forms confirms the threat.
Mercenaries.
"The Warlord’s pet is wandering the halls." The largest of the three rests a gauntleted hand casually upon the pommel of his longblade. He tracks the empty corridor, a wicked smirk twisting his scarred face as he confirms our isolation. "Lady Seredryl saidwe would have to breach the eastern suite to drag her out. It seems the mud-dweller is eager for the slaughter."
My blood turns to ice.
By leaving the master wing, I walked directly into the blind spot of the compromised interior rotation.
Fuck it.
