Page 57 of Demon Touched

“Fledglings, soldiers, and friends,” says Seraph Wyvier, her voice rising above the hubbub of chatting guests, silencing them. “Now that most of you are here, we would like to introduce a special visitor to Aradis.”

At first glance, she looks calm and content, but there’s a subtle downward tilt of her mouth and a stiffness in her shoulders. Orelle keeps readjusting his wings, stretching them out and settling them back again, exposing his second set of eyes like it soothes him.

“Lord Syrus of Malice arrived this morning,” Wyvier continues. “He invoked the Sola Morator and will be acting as Infernum’s diplomatic representative here in Aradis for the foreseeable future.”

I throw Rowan a questioning glance as the crowd ripples with intrigue and fear and anger.

“Sola Morator is an ancient truce clause,” Rowan explains quietly. “It grants an ambassador safety in enemy territory as long as they are advocating for peace.”

“But there’s never been peace between the winger—” I stop myself, remembering I’m one of those wingers now. “Between the supernatural realms,” I amend. “Has there?”

“There’s been times when the fighting hasn’t been so bad,” Rowan supplies. “Mostly thanks to the Sola Morator.”

I glance up, feeling his gaze on me again. It’s a quick expression—gone in a flash—but Syrus looks between Rowan and me like peace is the last thing on his mind.

“Thank you for your words of welcome, Seraph Wyvier,” Syrus says, though it didn’t sound to me like there was much actual welcome contained in her speech. His tone is steady and commanding—a king’s voice, and very unlike the soft murmurs he purrs into my ears.

“I’m looking forward to the progress we’ll make together here in Aradis. To forging alliances, and perhaps healing some old wounds.” His eyes dart over me again, and I concentrate on keeping my face blank.

“You may know that just over a month ago, one of our number, Lord Kaliban of Rancor, was executed under unfortunate circumstances,” he continues.

“Yeah, because you circumstantially removed his head from his body,” Filippa has appeared on my other side, muttering under her breath so only I can hear. I hold back a smile.

“It is a new era in Infernum,” Syrus says. “With Rancor under Kaliban’s successor, Lord Midane, our realm is ready to focus less on war and more on building a period of stability. We’re proposing a scaling back of offensives on both sides. Each of our realms has challenges to face right now, and our current state of war is to no one’s benefit.”

Another ripple of reaction from the crowd. I suspect people are wondering how much to read into Syrus’s words. Is he making generalizations, or is he aware of the exact nature of the challenges Aradis is facing? Of course, I can see his speech has done precisely what he intended it to—it’s ambiguous enough that no one will be able to agree about what Infernum knows and how much of a threat might lurk beneath his innocuous claims.

The reactions in the crowd soon swell into full-blown conversations. As the seraphim and their entourage close in around Syrus, Viz, and Aster again, I turn away. It’s too hard, watching them while I have to pretend I don’t know them. I want nothing more than to snark with Viz, or share a glass of wine with Aster, or—well—who knows what I’d do with Syrus if I could get close to him again.

As I turn, I almost walk right into my grandfather, who is studying my wings with a faint line between his brows.

“Good to see you’ve finally given yourself a fighting chance,” he says, as if I had any control over my wings turning up. “Shame about the color, but then I suppose we can’t expect everything from a nephilim.”

I straighten up, unable to resist replying, “Probably best not to expect anything at all, sir.”

That earns me a hard stare. “Humility is an overrated trait, Leah.” His eyes flick briefly to Filippa—the extent of his acknowledgment of her. “If you don’t want to set a high bar for your own sake, set it for the family’s.”

“Yes, sir,” I say neutrally. I can’t let Syrus’s sudden appearance destroy my strategy of not pissing the general off.

He nods, seeming satisfied. “Now come, I have some people I want you to meet.”

Garion starts moving back through the crowd. I grab Filippa’s elbow and follow after him.

“Come on,” I say when she resists.

“What are you doing?” she asks. “He asked you, not me. I don’t want to go over there.”

“He meant both of us,” I say, though now I think about it, I’m not sure it’s actually true. Too late, however; we’re walking up to a group of ephilium who spread out to make room for Garion as he approaches.

“Filippa,” says a middle-aged woman to his right, giving her a tight smile.

My cousin ducks her head. “Hi, Mom.”

I stare at my aunt—my mother’s half sister—searching for Cerys Polaris in her face but finding very little. As near as I can tell, she looks more like Garion’s first wife than him, with brown eyes and a warm complexion like Filippa’s. Maybe that’s for the best. Garion having my mom’s green eyes is one thing, but meeting a woman who shared her features would be unsettling.

“May I introduce you all to my granddaughter, Fledgling Leah Illidore,” Garion says to the group. When he makes no mention of Filippa, I hope that’s because all these people already know her and don’t require introductions. Unfortunately, the strained look on my aunt’s face suggests otherwise.

“We’ve heard a lot about you, Leah,” she says, sounding about as warm as a blizzard. “I’m Ghola, the general’s firstborn.” She says the last word with slight emphasis—a subtle reminder that I’m an illegitimate afterthought in this family.