Page 131 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“Academia can be brutal,” he replied, though his hand had moved to one of his many weapons.

“Poor Griffin.” The voice at my elbow made me jump. Sebastian had materialized beside us, and I noticed writhing vines kept sprouting from the floor at his feet. He tamped them down with frustration. “I’ve been keeping to the shadows. Some of the students were giving me… interested looks.”

I could imagine. Sebastian, even in his subdued colors, stood out like a beacon of wholesomeness in this den of villainy.

“He doesn’t deserve this,” he continued, and there was an edge to his voice I rarely heard. “Griffin’s brilliant. These idiots just can’t appreciate genuine innovation when they see it.”

The anger in his tone—the protective fury on behalf of someone he cared about—triggered something in my mind. A memory, rising like a bubble through dark water.

A garden at night. Sunspire Palace, years ago. I’m arguing with my father, my chin raised in defiance as he grabs my arm. His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise.

“Your behavior is unacceptable,” he snarls. “No daughter of mine will—”

“Let her go!” A younger Sebastian, thirteen, wearing a ridiculous golden tunic that makes him look like a canary. He steps between us, violet eyes blazing with righteous fury.

My father’s hand cracks across Sebastian’s face. The sound echoes through the garden.

I gasped. Sebastian had tried to defend me. Had taken a blow meant for me. And I’d forgotten. How could I have forgotten?

But there was more. The memory kept unfolding, reaching further back to earlier that same night.

The garden again. Pixies flutter through the topiaries, playing and teasing each other. Sebastian and I sit beneath a flowering tree, and he’s wearing that same golden tunic.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, with all the earnest awkwardness of a boy experiencing his first real crush.

I laugh, but it’s gentle. “You’re ridiculous in that tunic.”

“My mother picked it out.” He’s blushing now, visible even in the moonlight. “She said it brings out my eyes.”

“It does.” And then, because I’m thirteen and brave and a little bit in love with my best friend, I lean in and kiss him.

It’s sweet and clumsy and perfect, tasting of the honey cakes we’d stolen from the kitchen. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, gentle as butterfly wings.

When we pull apart, we’re both breathless and grinning like fools.

The memory slammed into me with the force of a lightning strike. That’s why Father had been so angry. He’d caught his daughter kissing the son of a minor lord, and his plans for my advantageous marriage had been threatened even though I was so, so young.

Shame and fury warred in my chest. I’d kissed Sebastian. We’d been… something. And they’d stolen it from me. Erased it like it never mattered.

Another book flew at Griffin’s head, and I snapped.

The shadows responded before I’d fully formed the thought. Dark tendrils erupted from every corner of the room, but this time they were laced with golden light—my heroic bloodline and my chosen darkness working in perfect harmony.

The hecklers found themselves yanked from their seats by constructs of pure shadow wrapped in aureate fire. Their surprised shouts turned to screams as I hurled them through the high windows of the lecture hall. Glass shattered with the sweet sound of destruction.

The room erupted in panic. Students dove under desks. The Ashen Wastes diplomats looked ready to faint. And every eye in the room found me standing in the doorway, shadows and light still swirling around me. A living, breathing storm in their midst. Nyx loomed behind me, wings spread.

So much for not revealing the extent of my power. I wasn’t any better than my husband. But I found I didn’t care. They’d hurt my friend. They’d disrespected someone under my protection.

I was Lady Blackrose, and I was done playing nice.

Griffin stood frozen at the podium, his amber eyes wide behind his glasses. Then a slow smile spread across his face. He raised one impossibly long arm, gave the audience a gesture that was decidedly not academic, and announced, “Class dismissed.”

The lecture hall emptied in record time. Students trampled one another in their rush to escape, leaving behind scattered notes and overturned chairs. Only the Ashen Wastes delegates remained, approaching us with the careful steps of people who were calculating their odds of survival.

“Lady Blackrose!” The lead delegate, a woman whose skin looked like cooled lava, bowed so low her ornate headdress nearly touched the floor. “I’m Emissary Pyrrha. We are mortified by this display! Such disrespect toward your companion—well, the students were protesting the mandatory attendance requirement, but that is no excuse for such behavior!” She wrung her hands, and sparks flew from her fingers. “We deeply apologize for any offense—”

“Perhaps next time,” I said coolly, “you’ll ensure your audience has proper manners before subjecting my friends to their company.”