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Eivor plops down next to Risna, draping an arm around her shoulders, and says, “A bloodhunt.”

“Eivor,” Risna groans, shoving him away from her. “The entire point of formal requests is to ask for something new, you oaf.”

He exchanges a grin with Carver. “We like hunting, do we not?”

“Spoken like a true Östman.” She pats his cheek and nestles into him, fixating on her book once more.

“Then it’s decided,” says Carver as he secures the canvas over the window. “We’ll rescue Rory right after Quill’s chat with Mihal.”

Carver’s attic is much like a royal’s tomb—cramped, dark, and filled with senseless baubles.

I maneuver around several pieces of furniture covered in white sheets and dust and rip the fabric away from a scrying mirror. Periwinkle light illuminates around the edges of the glass as it ripples and shrieks in hunger, demanding a pearl of blood.

My kindred gather, quiet and uneasy, to my right. Nothing I say will ease their worries, but I try anyway.

“Everything will be fine,” I murmur, fidgeting with the itchy high-necked sweater Carver lent me to hide the wounds around my throat.

Their faces make it clear they don’t believe me.

I swipe a finger across the unhealing wound on my wrist and smear burgundy across the rippling surface.

Mihal’s pale, stern face appears within the glass. “Status update.”

As usual, no formalities.

Revulsion coats my tongue as I dip my head in obeisance. “I have failed you, my liege.”

A long stretch of silence, then— “And that of your kindred?”

“I take sole responsibility for this failure,” I say, lifting my chin to hold his gaze. “My ego went unchecked, and I did not even relay the assignment to them. They know nothing of what you’ve asked of me. They are blameless.”

My kindred stand preternaturally still as they listen. Risna motions to object, but Carver grips her shoulder in a lethal vise as Eivor loops an arm around her waist.

Mihal’s eyes flatten to a merciless black as he says, “You disobeyed me.”

He speaks the words coldly, unequivocally, as only a supreme could, and my chest burns as he reprimands me.

For years, I’ve been too ashamed to admit it—to admit I made a terrible mistake when I walked away from the throne—but here, standing before this cold husk of a man while my mate—my mate—is tied to an altar and bled dry for the sake of her kingdom, the truth slithers out from the gloom. Disloyal, yes, but impossible to ignore as it blazes bright.

I want to be vampire supreme.

And I want my mate beside me while I Challenge Mihal for my sire’s throne.

“Disobedience is punishable by death, Quill,” Mihal says. “The Mors Soluta may be the Wyldelands’s greatest assassins, but every vampire on this continent bends to me. You will be punished.”

Rory’s death will be punishment enough, but I dare not speak, dare not challenge him.

Not yet.

“Desiccation, perhaps?” He folds his hands behind his back. “No, no. I will not make you a martyr with your code of ethics and your fasts.” His deathly eyes gleam as bright as his fangs. “We will diverge back to my original covenant: you will pick one of your kindred to perish instead.”

Risna barrels into the room as Carver’s hand weeps crimson. She bit him.

“Supreme Mihal.” She bows. “If I may suggest an alternative, more beneficial option than one of our deaths?”

“Ah, Risna,” Mihal says with delight. “Where Quill goes, his kindred follows. Tell me, did you know of the assignment to eliminate Adelphi’s Sacrifice?”

She gasps, evidence of her former life as a theater actress bleeding through, as I nearly believe her reaction myself. “That’s what you sent Quill here to do?”