Page 235 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

I didn’t let him finish. Didn’t explain, didn’t leave instructions, didn’t do any of the things a responsible leader should do. I just gathered Arabella in my arms, called on every scrap of power left in my bones, and tore open a portal.

The last thing I heard before stepping through was Thorne shouting my name and the whoosh of Nyx’s wings as she took flight.

Then I was in Skyspire’s dungeons, standing before a cell.

The Alchemist looked up from their meditation, those shifting eyes taking in everything—my haggard appearance, Arabella unconscious in my arms, the dark power radiating from the Heirloom.

“Well,” they said, their shifting eyes softening with sympathy. “This is unfortunate.”

69 Make the Worst Deal Ever

(But She’s Worth It)

Kazimir

I kicked open the training room door. The sound echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap, but I didn’t care about subtlety. Not with Arabella unconscious in my arms and the Shadow King wearing her like a second skin.

“Fascinating,” the Alchemist murmured, following me inside. Their eyes swept across the space with obvious interest. “So this is where the great Dark Lord hones his craft. I’d always wondered.”

“Save the tourism for later,” I snapped, carrying Arabella to the center of the room. The protective circles etched into the stone floor glowed faintly at our approach, recognizing my magical signature.

The Alchemist circled the perimeter, running their fingers along the walls. “These wards are exquisite. Old Dominion design, if I’m not mistaken. Modified, of course, but the foundation work…” They paused, tilting their head. “You didn’t create these. You found them.”

“Does it matter?” I laid Arabella gently within the largest circle. Even unconscious, her face was wrong—too still, too empty of the spark that made her her.

“Everything matters when dealing with entities like the Shadow King.” The Alchemist crouched beside us, studying the Heirloom that still blazed on Arabella’s brow. “The question is whether they’ll hold what’s inside her now.”

When I’d first found Skyspire, I’d assumed the original foundation and wards were built by some forgotten warlord. Now I knew better. The Shadow King’s architecture, bone-deep and familiar in a way that made my skin crawl. But I shoved the thought aside.

I wanted to grab the Alchemist by their shifting robes and shake answers out of them. Instead, I forced myself to breathe. To think. Violence wouldn’t save Arabella any more than panic would.

“Can you extract him?”

The Alchemist’s laugh was slightly maniacal. “Extract the Shadow King? One does not simply pluck out an entity that predates the ley lines themselves. He’s not some parasite to be removed with a clever potion.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Wake her.”

I stared at them. “Are you insane? The Shadow King—”

“Is already in control whether she’s conscious or not,” the Alchemist interrupted. “At least awake, we might learn something useful. Unless you prefer to sit here and watch her sleep while he consolidates his hold on her mind?”

They had a point. I hated it, but they had a point.

I placed my hand on Arabella’s forehead, feeling the unnatural cold radiating from her skin. My dominion magic was depleted, but I had enough left for this. I found the layers of sleep I’d wrapped around her consciousness and carefully began peeling them away.

Her eyes snapped open.

“Well, well.” The voice was Arabella’s, but the inflection was ancient, amused. “The would-be tyrant and his pet Weaver. How delightful.”

I kept my hand on her forehead, ready to force her back under if necessary. “Let her go.”

The Shadow King sat up. Arabella’s body moved in a stilted fashion, as if the entity inside her wasn’t quite sure how everything worked. There was a tremor in her left hand, and her right shoulder hitched half a second too late. But I didn’t think the Shadow King wasn’t an accomplished puppet master.

No. Arabella was fighting.

“But we’re having such fun together,” he said. “Her mind is fascinating—all those delicious memories of you. The things you’ve done to this body…” He ran Arabella’s hands down her sides in a gesture that made my stomach turn. “She’s quite fond of your particular brand of brutality.”