Page 25 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“And what will you be doing while I’m managing your empire?” Vex asked as she made for the door.

“Fixing this temporary setback.”

She nodded, accepting the vague answer with the ease of someone accustomed to filling in the blanks herself. “Understood.”

It was only after she’d left that I remembered. “Shit. Sebastian.”

Arabella raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”

“Forgot to tell Vex we have a stray hero holed up in our war camp.” I ran a hand through my hair, which was sticky with sweat and blood. “He’ll be fine. Thorne can handle one pompous, golden-haired refugee.”

Arabella snorted.

“Come on.” I led her out of the workroom, through the cold stone corridors of the lower levels, and up the winding stairs to our private tower. The guards we passed snapped to attention, their faces impassive.

As we climbed, I felt her magic wash over me—a healing current, subtle but persistent. The ache in my bones eased slightly, and the worst of the dizziness receded.

I glanced back at her. “Thanks.”

She smiled, a small, tired quirk of her lips. “Can’t have the Dark Lord falling down the stairs. Bad for the brand.”

“Indeed.”

Our chambers were at the apex of the citadel, a sprawling suite with panoramic views of the distant jagged peaks and the endless sky. But I bypassed the sitting area, the bed, and the bathing chamber. My destination was a small, unassuming door tucked away in an alcove near the fireplace, hidden behind a tapestry.

I pressed my palm against the wood. The dozen or so wards I’d layered over it flared to life, shimmering in waves of color before recognizing me and dissolving. Finally, a small, sharp protrusion lifted out of the door. A quick sting, a drop of blood absorbed into the wood, and the door swung open silently to reveal a small curved room. The walls were bare stone, and the space was sparsely furnished with a couple of armchairs and a single pedestal of polished black obsidian.

And upon that pedestal, nestled on a cushion of velvet, sat the Heirloom of Dominion.

It looked deceptively simple—a circlet of gold, delicate yet sturdy, etched with intricate patterns that resembled the flow of ley lines across the land. Inside the band, a faint rose motif of thorns chasing thorns twined around, barely visible unless you held it up to the light. The air in the warded chamber was heavy with contained power, as usual, but the Heirloom gave off a low, discordant hum like an instrument horribly out of tune.

I stared at the circlet, my jaw tight. Ten years of searching, scheming, and slaughtering for this one, stupidly elegant piece of gold. Ten years of believing it was the key to absolute, unquestionable power. And now?

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Arabella stood beside me, her arms crossed over her chest. “You thought you’d put on the magic hat and the whole world would just kneel?” Her words were playful, but the delivery held weight. She was invested in this too.

“That was the general premise, yes.”

I took the Heirloom from its pedestal. It was cool to the touch, but the moment my fingers closed around it, that discordant hum intensified, vibrating up my arm, through the runes in my bones.

Before Arabella could protest, I lifted the circlet and placed it on my head.

The world didn’t go black this time. I didn’t collapse. But the effect was no less unsettling.

The power was there, a surge of raw, untamed energy flooding my senses. A promise of the dominion I’d craved for so long. But it was muddy. Beneath the surge of power was a cold, alien undercurrent that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

And there was something else.

A flicker of movement at the edge of my vision. A sliver of shadow deeper than the ambient darkness of the room, coalescing and then vanishing when I tried to focus on it. A whisper, formless and subvocal, slid into the back of my mind, a sibilant hiss that wasn’t a word but felt like a command.

… mine…

I felt as if something hungry were watching me, looking out at the world through a crack in the wall of my own mind. Cold dread lanced through me. I ripped the Heirloom off my head and tossed it back onto the pedestal.

“Fuck.”

“What is it?” Arabella asked. “It felt ugly and twisted.”