Page 10 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

Arabella’s head snapped up, her smile vanishing. She strode toward me, her brow furrowed. “Leaving? Kazimir, we just got here. The army—”

“Will follow,” I cut in. “The situation has changed.” I finally met her eyes, letting her see the granite resolve there. “The dead bodies will stink by morning.”

She narrowed her eyes, no doubt her truth-sense telling her that I was hiding something.

I knew, intellectually, that this change of plans was absurd. Arabella was no fragile flower. She had faced down the Hero’s Guild, unleashed devastating magic, and stared into the abyss of her own past without flinching. She could handle herself better than most of my generals.

But parts of her mind had been cut away like unwanted weeds, and that would rattle anybody. Even a Dark Lady.

I wanted to return to Skyspire now, if only to peel the skin from Atticus Evenfall and mail it to his king. But we had a war to start first.

I turned back to Thorne, making the decision final. “We’ll advance as far as we can go tonight. Then I’ll scout the vantage point myself.”

“Kaz?” Arabella asked quietly.

“I don’t want any more surprises.” I gestured vaguely toward our new guest, who was now being enthusiastically questioned by Griffin about his heroic lineage. “Griffin, you’re riding with us. You too, Scone Lord.”

Sebastian flinched at the nickname but wisely kept his mouth shut. Griffin, on the other hand, looked like he’d just been handed a basket of enchanted kittens.

I sighed. This was going to be a long campaign.

3 Ignore the Ominous Portents

(They’re Probably Nothing)

Arabella

Our new campsite was a disaster.

I picked my way through the maze of half-erected tents, dodging ropes and stakes. The entire army had been forced to make camp in near-total darkness to maintain secrecy. The evening air carried the mingled scents of damp earth, sweat, and dinner. Occasional curses punctuated the night as someone stubbed a toe or knocked over equipment. No one truly complained, however. Every single soldier followed Kazimir of their own volition, and every one knew of his wrath. The companies were well-oiled machines of terror.

For the remainder of the journey, I’d coached Griffin on riding to spare him further humiliation with the mule. Results were mixed.

Now, the enchanter was hovering near Lord Sebastian’s tent, wringing his hands and occasionally smoothing down his disastrous hair. The man was a magical genius and a social catastrophe, and tonight, he was a spectacle.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He jumped, spinning around so fast he nearly lost his balance. “Lady Blackrose! I was just… going to find Lord Blackrose… I’m making progress on the, uh…”

My truth-sense tingled behind my eyes. The man was such an abysmal liar.

“I’m sure,” I said drily. “Go to bed, Griffin. You can talk to Lord Sebastian tomorrow.”

He flushed a blotchy red that was visible even in the darkness. “Right. Of course. Bed. Excellent idea.” He scurried away, tripping over a tent stake and nearly face-planting in the dirt before righting himself and disappearing into the darkness.

I suppressed a smirk. Sebastian was a relic of a life I’d thankfully escaped—a kind, hopelessly earnest boy who had grown into a kind, hopelessly earnest man. A perfect, harmless piece of bait to dangle in front of Kazimir, if only to watch my Dark Lord’s jaw tighten in that particularly delicious way.

Just as I turned to leave, a snore ripped from Sebastian’s tent, loud enough to stir a nearby horse. It sounded less like a man sleeping and more like a bear choking on a badger.

Ah, yes. That I remembered. He’d produced the exact same noise once, face down on his dessert at a dreadfully dull banquet when we were children.

I walked on, silently thanking all the gods that ever lived that Kaz didn’t snore. The Dark Lord had many terrifying qualities, but at least I could sleep without feeling like I was bedding down next to a drowning bear.

A low, gurgling groan echoed from the shadows nearby, followed by a pathetic-sounding burp. Nyx was sprawled dramatically across a patch of flattened grass, looking less like a terror of the skies and more like a child who’d eaten too much cake at a birthday party.

A very, very bloody birthday party.

“Serves you right,” I murmured, stroking her snout. She leaned into my touch with a soft whine, her stomach making another unhappy noise. “I don’t feel sorry for the soldiers, but perhaps you’ll remember this lesson next time. Metal doesn’t digest well.”