Page 19 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

Around us, the battle raged. My forces cut through the confused defenders like a scythe through wheat. Some Solandrians tried to mount a defense, forming small pockets of resistance, but they were scattered and terrified.

We dismounted and sent our horses back through the gates.

I kept one eye on Arabella as we fought. A Solandrian soldier charged her, sword raised. I started forward, but she didn’t need me. She sidestepped, graceful as water, and drove her dagger up under his chin. The man dropped, and she was already moving to the next target.

Thorne shadowed her as ordered while her magic flared in controlled bursts. Light and shadow danced around her hands—the duality of her power more pronounced with each passing day.

Pride swelled in my chest. My wife, my Dark Lady, baptized in blood and thriving.

I turned back to my own killing, sword moving in practiced arcs. Each death fed the hunger in my runes, the carved magic pulsing with satisfaction. This was what I was made for—not council meetings or diplomatic dinners, but this. The honest simplicity of conquest.

A crossbow bolt whistled past my ear. I turned, annoyed at the interruption, and found a cluster of archers on the western wall. With a gesture, I sent phantom flames racing up the stone. The fire wasn’t real but their minds couldn’t tell the difference. They fled, screaming about being burned alive, leaving their positions undefended.

“Behind you!” Arabella’s voice cut through the din.

I spun, shadows already coiling around my fist, but she was there first. Her dagger took the attacking soldier in the kidney, dropping him with brutal efficiency. Our eyes met across his falling body, and the heat in her gaze had nothing to do with battle fury.

Well. Almost nothing.

“I had him,” I said.

“I know.” She smiled, fierce and beautiful. Blood was splattered across her face. “But I wanted him more.”

Fuck. We were definitely going to have to discuss this new bloodthirsty streak of hers. Preferably while naked.

More soldiers poured from the barracks, these ones more organized. Someone had managed to rally them—probably a veteran sergeant who’d seen enough battle to recognize illusion from reality. They formed a defensive line, shields locked, spears bristling.

Behind them, three robed mages emerged, hands crackling with defensive magic.

I grinned. Finally, some proper resistance.

“The Dark Lord!” one of them shouted, voice cracking with panic. “Focus the wards on him! Channel the kingdom’s—”

But nothing happened. I watched the confusion ripple across their faces as they realized their advantage had been stripped away.

“Looking for something?” I called across the courtyard.

The lead mage’s face went white. He tried again, pouring more power into the spell, but I could feel his magic sliding off me. No resistance. No weakening. Nothing.

I charged them head-on. At the last second, I opened a portal and reappeared behind their line. My sword opened throats before they could turn. Blood painted the courtyard stones, and still my runes sang for more.

The battle raged on. I fell into the rhythm of it—cast, kill, move, repeat—though not so much that I lost sight of Arabella. My magic painted nightmares across the outpost. Soldiers saw their dead mothers crawling from the ground. The walls seemed to breathe and pulse like writhing flesh. The very air whispered threats and promises of worse to come.

This was what I was made for. This moment, this power, this absolute dominion over lesser minds.

And this was just a drop of blood before the hemorrhage. Soon all of Solandris would know what it meant to stand against the Dark Lord Kazimir Blackrose.

6 Watch, Learn, and Set Something on Fire

(Preferably the Enemy)

Arabella

Blood ran hot down my arm as I yanked my shadow dagger from the soldier’s throat. The construct dissolved into wisps of darkness between my fingers, leaving nothing but the metallic tang of death on the air and a body at my feet. My chest heaved as I gulped for breath. The leather armor Kazimir had insisted I wear—clearly designed for someone with fewer curves and more height—pinched uncomfortably under my arms.

Dawn barely touched the sky, painting it a sickly gray pink above the chaos of battle. Screams and the clash of steel echoed across the outpost’s courtyard, punctuated by the occasional crack of magic. The air shimmered with sorcery thick enough to taste.

I’d never killed so many people in a single morning. Or so many people at all.