Page 204 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

A chill ran down my spine. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing at all, Lord Blackrose.” They bowed slightly. “Merely an observation on the nature of power.”

I marched the Alchemist to the dungeons, fighting the urge to demand answers the whole way—but I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. The surges of anger had weakened my defenses once more. Just thinking about Arabella allowed—

I forced myself to breathe again. In. Out.

You’re weak. Pathetic. You could rule everything if you’d just accept me.

“I already rule everything I care about,” I muttered once I was back out under the open sky.

Liar. You don’t even rule yourself.

I clamped down on that insult and turned away, heading toward the Great Hall. I needed to find Arabella, to see if she’d succeeded with the nobles. To reassure myself that she was still safe, still mine.

The Shadow King’s laughter echoed behind the walls I determinedly built once more.

Instead of taking a lightning bridge, I ripped open a portal and stepped into it. They were as simple as breathing now.

If all went according to plan, in a few days I would finally silence the Shadow King for good.

If not… well. I’d always been good at contingency plans.

59 Practice Your Aim

(and Avoid Saying What You’re Really Feeling)

Arabella

I threw another knife, watching with satisfaction as it embedded itself into the center of the target with a solid thunk.

The Southeast Tower armory was nothing like the massive forge on the outer isle. That place was all fire and chaos, with the constant ringing of hammers and shouting of smiths. This space was intimate and precise, a carefully curated collection meant for the elite guards who protected the Inner Sanctum. Thorne’s domain.

Rows of gleaming weapons hung on the walls, organized by type and lethality. Blades of every length and shape, from delicate stilettos to two-handed broadswords. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed daggers emitting a faint glow of different colors. The room smelled of metal and leather and the faint tang of magic—the scent of power.

Kazimir had spent more than a decade scheming his way toward Solandris. The final push had come together in four breathless days of organized pandemonium—Griffin’s matrices exploding twice before stabilizing, nobles bickering over blood magic, and my husband reducing a quartermaster to tears over supply chain inefficiencies. But somehow, we were ready.

Tomorrow, we marched on Solandris.

I picked up another of the throwing knives Vex had given me for my birthday. The weight felt perfect in my hand, the blade balanced for someone of my size and strength. I’d been practicing for the past hour, and my aim was improving. The knives weren’t just beautiful; they were deadly efficient.

I felt a familiar shift in the air, like the atmosphere itself recognized his dominion.

“Not bad.”

I turned to see Kazimir leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with that intensity that still made my stomach flip. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it—a habit when he was troubled. Now that it was longer, it looked even more chaotic.

“But my stance could use work, right?” I asked, twirling the knife between my fingers and expecting a critique.

“Your stance is perfect. You must have studied under the best.” He stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over my battle leathers, which I’d laid out on a nearby table for inspection. “Planning for tomorrow?”

“Just making sure everything’s ready.” I threw the last knife—hitting dead center—and walked to retrieve the blades. Kaz leaned against the table behind me.

“I paid a visit to your father the other day.”

My hand stilled on one of the knives. “Oh?”

“He’s looking well-fed and miserable, as expected.” Kazimir’s tone was casual, but his eyes were watchful. “We should decide what to do with him before we leave.”