Page 110 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“If it can, I imagine it’s thoroughly bored by now.” The massive cranium hung inverted from the ceiling of the chamber, its eye sockets large enough to sail a ship through. Teeth the size of pillars formed a jagged crown around the top of the room. Whatever this entity had been in life, death had not diminished its grandeur. More importantly, it was the closest we could get to the metaphysical ley line nexus without actually swimming through solid rock. “Centuries of villain monologues and dark rituals. We’re probably just background noise at this point.”

Arabella didn’t laugh, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.

She hadn’t told me where she’d disappeared to after breakfast, and I hadn’t asked. Now, I sensed a strange calm in her—not the brittle peace of suppressed anger, but something more settled. Whatever she’d needed—air, space, or just time away from my spectacular failure at emotional intelligence—it seemed to have helped.

I caught her glancing at me from the corner of her eye, her gaze lingering on my jaw. I’d forgotten to shave and hadn’t remembered until we were halfway here. I never forgot. My appearance was as much a weapon as my magic, carefully cultivated to project power and control. The Dark Lord didn’t have stubble unless he chose to have stubble.

But after a night wrestling with those damned whispers in my head, with the memory of trying to compel my own wife, personal grooming had been the last thing on my mind.

When Arabella’s eyes traced the line of my stubble again, I allowed myself an arrogant smirk. At least she’d never minded the rougher look. If anything, the way her pupils dilated slightly suggested she more than didn’t mind it.

Small victories.

“I didn’t ask,” I said quietly. “Are you up for this?”

She arched one perfect eyebrow. “Are you?”

Classic Arabella. Never backing down, never admitting weakness. Whatever else lay broken between us, her competitive nature remained intact. She’d focus on the task at hand because failing wasn’t in her vocabulary any more than it was in mine.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I murmured.

“The Alchemist is late,” Arabella observed, examining the runes we’d prepared yesterday. Her fingers traced the edges of a particularly complex sigil.

“Dramatic timing,” I said. “Can’t have the mysterious advisor arriving early like some eager apprentice.”

The temperature dropped suddenly, and the Alchemist materialized from the shadows as if they’d been there all along.

“Shall we begin?” they asked without preamble. “The corruption spreads even as we speak.”

I bit back a sarcastic response about their tardiness. We needed this to work, to buy time to gather the other heroic bloodlines. As much as it galled me to follow someone else’s plan, the alternative was watching the Shadow King’s essence poison all magic in the realm.

And I didn’t need any competition for world domination.

The ritual itself was straightforward enough, though not something I’d ever attempted before. It was an ancient ritual that the Alchemist insisted the Weavers had guarded for centuries. Because of its simplicity and elegance, I had hope that Arabella and I could master it even with our problems with the Heirloom.

We’d spent yesterday preparing the runes and enchanting the chamber. Today was about execution. I gestured to the runic circle we’d carved into the bone floor. “I still say we could have used more conventional binding symbols in the third quadrant.”

“Conventional thinking is what allowed this problem to fester,” the Alchemist replied smoothly. “Sometimes one must think like a god to fix what gods have broken.”

Arabella moved to her position across from me, the circle between us.

“Remember,” the Alchemist said, taking their place at the edge of the circle, “you’re not trying to destroy or redirect the ley lines permanently. Simply convince them to take a detour. The nexus beneath us connects to all major confluences in the realm. If you can shift the connection between here and Solandris, the corruption will be isolated.”

“Convince them,” I repeated drily. “Because ley lines are known for being reasonable.”

“Would you prefer I said ‘wrestle them into submission through sheer magical dominance’?” the Alchemist asked. “I thought that went without saying, given present company.”

Arabella snorted.

I shot her a look, but there was amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the Alchemist prompted. If they wondered how we were going to perform this ritual without the Heirloom present, they didn’t ask. Arabella had been correct—they already knew it was fused to her in some way. Perhaps, if all went well later, they would have ideas about removing it.

I placed my hands on the carved symbols, feeling the familiar burn of my runes responding to the magical current. Across the circle, Arabella mirrored my position. The Heirloom pulsed once, twice, syncing with our heartbeats.

The incantation was older than most kingdoms, pulled from texts that predated even the First Hero. The Alchemist had told us that the Weavers had been schooled in ancient magic from the time they could walk. As the words spilled from our lips in unison, the air in the chamber thickened. Reality grew soft around the edges, malleable.

I closed my eyes and reached.