Page 154 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

I stood, and the fragment pressed again—curious, hungry. I could feel it trying to twist the feeling, use it as leverage.

This is why, I thought viciously, shoving it back. This is why I can’t afford to feel anything real.

Not when every genuine emotion gave the Shadow King another foothold in my mind. Not when vulnerability didn’t just risk my heart—it risked my entire fucking consciousness.

I approached the bar, my walls firmly back in place, the warmth buried under layers of control.

The hearth-spirit’s magic had shown me something I’d forgotten: that being seen didn’t always lead to destruction.

But it had also reminded the fragment that I was still in here. Still capable of feeling. Still vulnerable.

And that was far more dangerous than any comfort was worth.

Istvan was wiping down mugs, still humming along with Elowen’s songs. He looked up as I approached, his expression shifting from jovial tavern keeper to the hard look of an ex-soldier recognizing a threat.

“Lord Blackrose.” He set down the mug deliberately. “What can I get you?”

“A moment of your time.” I kept my voice low. “Somewhere private.”

“I don’t think so.” His hand moved under the bar—toward a weapon, probably. “I’m quite happy where I am.”

“You have heroic blood. King Auremar is collecting people like you for a ritual that will end in your death.” I sent shadows to curl behind the bar. “I’m here to prevent that.”

His jaw set. “Then I’ll handle it here. The Eagle needs me.”

But the sleep spell was already forming, shadows weaving through the air between us. Istvan fought it longer than most—his hearth-spirit heritage giving him resistance against my dominion—but eventually his eyes glazed and his shoulders slumped.

Thorne caught him before he fell, supporting him like a drunk friend.

As we moved Istvan from behind the bar, the building itself seemed to notice. The fire dimmed. The warmth pulled back. The cheerful atmosphere became subdued, like a house realizing its family had left. Glasses rattled on tables. A few drops of ale wept from the tap.

“The Eagle will be fine,” Istvan murmured, still fighting the spell even as it dragged him under. “Was here before me. Will be here when I return.”

But I could feel the magic already fading, the hearth-spirit presence dissipating without its anchor. Within weeks, this would just be another rough tavern. No more gift nights. No more unconscious respect for the rules. No more neutral ground that even killers honored.

For a moment, I hesitated. Places like the Black Eagle were rare pockets of strange magic that existed outside the usual power structures. I was destroying something unique. The kind of small, beautiful thing that made the world worth conquering.

But then I thought of Auremar’s mages, of what they’d do to Istvan, and my resolve hardened. Better the tavern lose its magic than Istvan lose his life.

Thorne supported him as we moved toward the door. To onlookers, we were just helping a drunk friend home. Elowen watched us leave, curiosity in her eyes but smart enough not to interfere. Keld raised his mug in a mock salute, understanding exactly what was happening but too practical to get involved.

As we stepped outside, the cold mountain air sucked the tavern’s warmth from my body. Kheldvar’s narrow streets were mostly empty at this hour, just a few late-night stragglers and the occasional patrol.

I was already opening a portal in the alley when I saw her.

A figure in gray robes with red stitching like veins of blood, walking down the dark street. Dark hair pulled severely back from sharp cheekbones. A presence that made my bones ache with recognition even before my mind caught up.

It’d been sixteen years since she’d abandoned me after I killed my father. Sixteen years of silence. I’d hoped she was dead, but when Arabella had told me about the sorceress who killed her mother, I realized it was a fantasy.

There was no mistaking the woman now. The way she moved, the tilt of her head, the particular quality of menace she radiated.

Amaryska.

My mother.

45 Avoid the Rooster

(Spoiler: You Cannot)