"I will always come." The promise seals itself into the silence between us like a blood-oath. Wrapping my arms around her fragile body, I bury my face in her tangled curls, inhaling the lavender scent of her skin directly through the foul reek of the warehouse.
As the sounds of the slaughter around us slowly cease, Tharion approaches. His armored boots splash through the gore, halting a respectful distance away with his weapon resting against his shoulder. He absorbs the ruin of Kryven’s right-hand lieutenant lying at my feet.
"The place is secure, High Sovereign." Tharion's rigid tone vibrates with the adrenaline of the kill. "The remaining flesh-brokers have been executed. The captives in the cages are unharmed".
Refusing to release my hold on Megan, I keep her entirely caged within the protective mass of my frame and pivot my attention to the guard captain.
"Release the captives. Give them safe passage to the upper rings. And find the scribe who managed the transit ledgers for this warehouse. I want his hands unbroken so he can write the message to his lord".
Tharion nods sharply. "And the warehouse, my lord? Shall we burn it to cover our tracks?"
"No".
My eyes sweep the cavernous, blood-soaked room. Dozens of Kryven’s elite mercenaries and flesh-brokers lie mutilated across the stone floor, the absolute dominance of House Thosti painted in crimson across the walls.
"Leave the doors wide open." The cruelty of my caste bleeds into the air, completely unapologetic. "Leave the corpses exactly where they fell. Let the hounds of the Dark Market feast. I want the entire Undercity to see the result of Kryven’s arrogance".
Shifting my attention back down to the fragile mortal in my arms, I lift her effortlessly off the wet stone floor. Securing her against my chest to ensure her bare feet do not touch the blood of her enemies, I carry her out of the shadows.
"We return to the estate. The Patriarch’s war has officially begun".
19
MEGAN
The hot water in the copper basin turns a rusted, muddy crimson.
Scrubbing the coarse bristle brush over my knuckles, the dried blood of the flesh-handler flakes away and sinks to the bottom. The fresh bruise across my cheek throbs with a dull, persistent ache. Drying my arms with a clean linen towel, I toss the fabric onto the vanity of the master washroom.
Zhetrin brought me directly back to his chambers. Guarded by Tharion and six elite Miou warriors, the suite is sealed tighter than a sovereign vault, yet the safety of these walls remains a fragile illusion. Seredryl proved that. As long as Varynth sits on the Patriarch’s throne and Kryven holds the neutral houses hostage, the Thosti stronghold serves only as an opulent cage.
Pulling a fresh, dark linen tunic over my head, I knot the thick sash tightly around my waist.
Refusing to wait for the Warlord to summon me, I breach the master suite. The elite guards part silently, yielding the corridor as I march straight to the war room.
The double doors stand open. Zhetrin occupies the room at the massive map table. Shedding his torn leather coat, he wearsonly a dark, fitted undershirt, entirely exposing the corded, lethal muscle of his chest and arms. His rigid gaze focuses upon a dense, sealed velvet pouch and a thick stack of pale vellum stamped with the sovereign seal of the lower ports.
Tracking my movement across the threshold, the feral, violet-ringed chaos of his irises recedes, yielding to a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
"The healers are waiting in the antechamber." The low, vibrating rumble of his voice fills the quiet. "They need to examine your ribs. That bruise on your face requires an alchemy poultice before the swelling seals your eye."
"I am intact." Bypassing his concern completely, I step up to the map table. My attention drops to the velvet pouch and the sealed vellum. The sudden presentation of isolated wealth triggers a cold, sharp spike of dread beneath my ribs. "What is this?"
Zhetrin places his large hand flat over the documents, shielding the ink.
"Safe passage." The statement lacks any trace of emotion. He adopts the clinical cadence of a Khuzuth lord reciting a trade tally, ruthlessly masking the reality of his offer. "The port seals guarantee your transit out of Vhoig. The gold is enough to purchase an estate in the outer human settlements on Kaynvu. The sister cities do not answer to the Patriarch. You will be entirely beyond the reach of my bloodline."
The oxygen vanishes from my lungs.
He is exiling me. After the ruined study. After the breathless, desperate surrender upon his desk. After the blood-soaked rescue in the Dark Market. He brought me back to his stronghold only to sever the tie.
A fierce, blinding fury ignites in my chest.
"No." Slamming my palm against the ironwood table, I lock my joints. "I am not leaving."
Leaning his staggering weight against the table, his towering mass entirely eclipses the map. "Seredryl bypassed my wards. She bought the guards stationed outside my own chambers. Varynth has declared open warfare against me. The estate is compromised. I cannot guarantee your survival within these walls while I tear the Patriarch down."
"I did not ask for a guarantee!" Reaching directly across the vellum, I snatch the dense velvet pouch of gold and hurl it violently across the room.
