Page 245 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

The words came out flat, but underneath was something more complicated—a twisted understanding I didn’t want to acknowledge. She’d been violated, broken, remade into something monstrous. And in response, she’d made me into a weapon. We were both products of violence, both shaped by men who took what they wanted without asking. The difference was, I’d chosen to build something with my rage. She’d chosen to burn everything down.

She set the journal aside. “And now you’re here, which means something has gone wrong with your little wife. Let me guess—the Shadow King found a new vessel?”

I didn’t answer, but she read it in my face.

A cold light shined in her eyes. “The First Hero’s descendant, possessed by the very evil her bloodline was meant to contain. The irony is delicious.”

“Tell me how to free him.” The words tasted like ash. “What will it take to release the Shadow King from his prison?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Well, this is an unexpected development. I assumed you’d come here to kill me in some misguided attempt to save your bride.”

“Can you do it or not?”

Asking her for anything made me want to vomit. Every instinct screamed to wrap shadows around her throat and squeeze until she stopped breathing. But Arabella was running out of time, and my pride—my rage, my need for revenge—none of it mattered compared to saving her. So I swallowed the bile and waited for her answer.

Amaryska studied me for a long moment, then smiled. It was the same smile she’d worn when she’d heated the carving tools all those years ago. “Of course I can. The prison is already crumbling—Auremar’s ham-fisted attempts saw to that. One more sacrifice should do it. One more drop of heroic blood, willingly given, and the seals will shatter completely.”

“One more—willingly given?”

“Oh yes. That’s the trick, isn’t it? The First Hero built his prison on sacrifice and will. It can only be unmade the same way. But you and I both know certain types of sacrifices are more potent with willing victims. Auremar never asked any of his sacrifices, and it took a great deal more of them than it should have since we didn’t have your wife. What I could have done with a few misguided but willing nobles or their brats—well.” She sniffed and moved close enough that I could smell the bitter herbs and old blood that clung to her robes. “Lucky for you, I know exactly where to find a willing sacrifice.”

“Where?”

She looked past me, toward the door. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

I turned to find Sebastian standing in the doorway, his face pale. He’d heard everything. Of course he’d disobeyed a direct order. He was infected with a sense of righteousness that I’d forgotten the last few days, with all the plans and emergencies.

“Sebastian,” I growled.

“I’ll do it,” he said simply.

72 Doom the World

(in the Name of True Love, Obviously)

Kazimir

The Chamber of Petals stank of death and failed magic.

Golden masks littered the floor like discarded party favors. Piles of ash dotted the floor around the dais. The chamber walls, partially covered in murals depicting the First Hero’s triumph, were cracked and bleeding some kind of black ichor. I hadn’t had a chance to ask Arabella or Sebastian what had happened down here. I only knew they had completed their mission and rescued the captives.

Sebastian had followed us down, his face showing little emotion, for once, but flowers sprouted from cracks in the stone steps, then immediately withered and died. I wasn’t going to stop him if it would save Arabella. Even if she hated me for it later.

But then I’d have to… owe him? Fucking heroes.

I stepped over a battle mage’s corpse, his face frozen in an expression of shock. Six of them scattered across the floor, throats slit or hearts pierced by shadow blades. Arabella’s work, judging by the precision. My wife didn’t do things by halves. The regular guards had fared no better—at least a dozen bodies cooling in their own blood, but some of them were killed with vines and thorns rather than blades.

Sebastian had taken my advice to heart, apparently.

“The door is directly beneath us.” Amaryska moved to the center of the chamber, where a raised dais still showed scorch marks from whatever Auremar had attempted. “Not a physical door, you understand. The prison exists in its own realm, a pocket of reality the First Hero carved out specifically to contain the Shadow King. This chamber is simply the closest point of contact.”

I felt it the moment I stepped onto the dais—a thrumming in my bones that had nothing to do with my carved runes. Something vast and ancient pressed against the boundaries of reality, testing for weaknesses. The part of me that had once entertained the Shadow King stirred, recognizing its missing piece.

No. I slammed mental walls around that recognition. I’d beaten him back once. I wouldn’t let him in again.

“How much blood?” I asked, voice flat.

Amaryska produced a silver bowl from her robes. “Not much. A few drops should suffice, given how weakened the seals already are. The important part is that it’s freely given.”