Page 79 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

23 Choose Your Battles Wisely

(She’ll Win with the Tower Argument Every Time)

Kazimir

The sheer ostentation of the God Spire never failed to impress me, even after all these years. Where Skyspire was built on practicality—a fortress designed to intimidate and protect in equal measure—the Spire was pure theater. Every corridor curved like a spine. Every doorway resembled a gaping maw. Even the floor tiles pulsed with that purple-green light, as if we were walking on the nerves of something still alive.

I led our little party toward the central channel of the Spire, what would have been the spinal cord in a living creature. Arabella walked beside me, her eyes wide as she took in the grotesque magnificence of the place. She’d adapted to the Spire’s horror with remarkable speed, treating the breathing corpse of a god like a tourist attraction rather than an abomination. It was one of the many things I lo—appreciated about her. Sebastian looked like he might be sick again, and Griffin kept stopping to examine architectural details that would probably inspire some new disaster back at Skyspire.

He paused to study a pulsing vein of light in the wall.

“The last person who tried to take a sample ended up with their fingers fused together,” I said.

Griffin snatched his hand back.

We passed a series of shops and establishments built into the smaller chambers of the vertebrae. The Syndicate had turned the god’s corpse into a bustling hub of commerce, though what they sold here would make most kingdoms declare war on sight. Soul fragments glistened in jars. Cursed artifacts hummed behind glass. One shop advertised “Custom Nightmares—Delivered While Your Enemy Sleeps!”

“This place is something,” Arabella murmured, leaning closer to me.

“ ‘Something’ is certainly one word for it,” I agreed, placing a hand at the small of her back. The gesture was possessive, but also protective. The Spire attracted the worst of the worst, and while I had no doubt Arabella could handle herself, I didn’t want to test it unnecessarily.

We reached the central lift—a platform suspended by chains running down the length of the spine. A hulking figure stood guard, its body wider than its height, skin like cracked stone. A golem of sorts, not a person, though I’d never been able to determine exactly what magic animated it. The Syndicate kept some secrets even from their own.

“Lord Blackrose,” it rumbled in a voice like stones grinding together. “Your quarters are prepared.”

The lift carried us upward through the hollow core of the Spire. Sebastian pressed himself against the back railing, clearly uncomfortable with the height. Griffin, in contrast, leaned precariously over the edge, watching the floors rush by with childlike fascination.

“If you fall,” I said without looking at him, “I’m not saving you.”

Griffin straightened immediately.

As we rose, a strange whisper brushed against my thoughts—not words exactly, but a sensation of recognition. As if the dead god’s bones were greeting an old friend.

I inhaled slowly. The lack of sleep was taking its toll on me.

The lift slowed as we reached the upper levels of the Spire. Here, the chambers were larger and more luxurious. A single large vertebra housed a different Chair of the Syndicate or their most valued associates. My apartment occupied the third from the top.

The doors opened onto a short hallway ending in a massive door, which like the rest of the floor was protected with wards that would make most mages weep. I pressed my palm against the center, letting the magic recognize me.

“Welcome back, Lord Blackrose,” the door said in a deep voice. “Shall I incinerate the unauthorized visitors?”

“They’re guests,” I said before Sebastian could bolt. “Full access for the duration of our stay.”

“Acknowledged. Please note: The kitchen poltergeist has been acting up again.”

“Of course it has.” I pushed the door open. “Welcome to our home away from home.”

I’d forgotten how impressive the apartment was, honestly. When you own a floating fortress made of lightning bridges and shadow magic, your standards for intimidating architecture tend to skew a bit high. But even I had to admit that my quarters in the God Spire had a certain macabre elegance.

The central atrium soared upward through the entire vertebra, revealing multiple levels connected by a spiraling staircase carved from a single massive bone. Dark wood furniture created a warm environment against the black bone walls, and everything was draped in rich fabrics of midnight blue and silver. Witchlights drifted lazily through the space, casting a soft glow over the polished floors. Archways led off to various chambers—dining room, library, guest quarters, and my private suite.

“This is incredible,” Arabella breathed, immediately drawn to the tall windows. The view was admittedly spectacular, if you enjoyed looking at a wasteland dotted with the occasional explosion or monster attack.

“You keep this place fully staffed?” she asked, noting the fresh flowers, the polished surfaces, the distinct lack of dust.

As if to answer her question, a line of staff appeared from a side door.

“I make regular trips to the Spire for Syndicate business. It’s more practical to maintain a permanent residence than to arrange accommodations each time.”