Page 60 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“And,” Griffin continued, gaining momentum now, “if you’ll recall, on the way to the northern outpost, we needed to conduct experiments in the field. Real-time adjustments based on your combined magical output. The God Spire trip could take weeks. If something happens while you’re there, and I’m here—”

“You’d be unable to provide support,” I finished.

“Precisely!” He brightened, then immediately looked nervous again.

Sebastian, who’d been watching this exchange with obvious curiosity, opened his mouth as if to ask a question. No one bothered to enlighten him.

“So you’re telling me,” I said, each word dripping with irritation, “that you have to come with us to the God Spire.”

Griffin’s face lit up. “Oh, can I? That would be wonderful! I’ve never been across the Shattered Sea before. Well, there was that time with the exploding portal, but that doesn’t really count since we ended up in that cave with the sentient mushrooms—”

“Griffin.”

“Yes, my lord?”

The urge to strangle him was so strong I had to clench my fists. Griffin, my disaster-prone enchanter, at the Syndicate’s headquarters, where a single misplaced spell could start a war. “Pack light. If you bring anything that explodes, combusts, or develops sentience during the journey, I’m throwing you overboard.”

“Oh, but—”

“Overboard, Griffin.”

He gulped. “Got it. And don’t worry, my lord, I’ve already delegated the ward carving to my third assistant. He’s terribly slow, but very meticulous. It will only set us back a few more weeks.”

“You’re finishing those ward anchors when we get back. All of them.”

His face fell slightly, but the excitement of the trip clearly outweighed his disappointment. “Yes, my lord. I’ll just… go pack my travel-sized alchemical kit!” He backed toward the door, tripped over his own feet, caught himself on the doorframe, and disappeared down the corridor.

I was beginning to feel less like a Dark Lord and more like a beleaguered chaperone on a field trip from hell. “He’s a disaster waiting to happen.” I turned to Thorne, who’d been standing silently in the corner. “You’re coming, obviously.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” His gravelly voice held dark amusement. “Someone needs to keep you from murdering the entire Syndicate.”

“That’s what Arabella’s for.”

“I’m more likely to help,” she said cheerfully.

I rubbed my temples. The headache from reconstructing the dungeon wards hadn’t fully faded. The final and most crucial preparation was ensuring I could maintain control of Skyspire from afar. Auremar was quiet, but that only made him more dangerous. Vex would remain in charge, the only one I trusted to execute my will without question. “We need communication with Skyspire while we’re gone. If Auremar makes a move—”

“Already handled.” Vex entered the war room carrying a small ebony box. “I found the shadow-linked scrying crystals.”

She opened the box, revealing two crystals that absorbed the light and pulsed with a darkness that made my runes ache pleasantly.

Arabella peered into the box. “How do they work?”

“Messages travel through the shadow realm,” I said. “Undetectable, unblockable.”

Vex nodded and handed me one of the paired crystals. “If there’s a crisis, you’ll know about it within a few seconds.”

“Define ‘crisis,’ ” Arabella said.

“Full-scale invasion, magical catastrophe level seven or higher, or an unfortunate or untimely death.”

I nodded and tucked the crystal into an inside pocket of my jacket. “I’m leaving three constructs of myself, in the off chance we’ve picked up another spy or assassins try to get in. Two will be doing my usual brooding routine in my study or walking the battlements here, and the third will go to the army at the outpost. Auremar won’t know I’m gone unless he’s bold enough to attack directly—and if he is, we’ll know about it in under an hour.”

Vex’s expression was perfectly neutral. “Yes, my lord.” She paused. “Lord Sebastian provided some surprisingly useful defensive formations. Purely protective, but nearly impregnable for short-term sieges.”

I looked at Sebastian with new suspicion. “You gave my steward military advice?”

“Defensive only,” he said quickly. “I don’t do offensive strategy. But I’m very good at not dying.”