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‘Financial growth would be good for our kingdom,’ Eborthorn pondered. Chin resting on his hand, he stroked his freshly groomed beard. Percival recognised the green serpent coiling around Eborthorn’s mind, whispering into his ear. Let the greedy snake cloud his judgment; the fork-tongued male was as dull as Percival had hoped.

Murmurs travelled through the room. Many seemed to agree.

The conversation went back and forth as the lords exchanged rumours, and Percival watched as Areanel’s plan slowly unfolded. The lords, unknowingly, made false claims. They discussed a treaty renewal, finding the chieftain, and investigating rumours of rebellion sightings within an illicit establishment based in Cal Cathlar’s capital, Alabasus.

And all of this—the name, the dates, the places—had been created and doctored by Ryyen and their spies to manipulate the council into making a decision that would benefit the twins.

He had always thought of Areanel as intelligent, but this was brilliant. If anything were to go wrong, who else could be blamed but the people who came up with the plan?

Percival could not wait for Vasilio to hear about this! His long-time friend would cackle when he told him the way Eborthorn was boasting about the so-called evidence he had “found.”

Forcing his features into a calm, indifferent look, Percival wore his dispassionate mask as his eyes scanned the room—that was, until Lord Faren spoke.

‘Tell me, my lady.’ The elder male addressed Areanel. ‘Was it not because of these very mortal beasts that you wear the mantle of General?’

Cold, icy terror snaked its way through Percival’s veins, shocking his system and freezing his mind as he anticipated where the discussion was going.

‘That is true,’ Eborthorn added. Both males seemed to share a knowing glance. They were the eldest in the hall, joining the council when Percival’s father first reigned. They had been his loyal subjects for centuries, and it seemed that time had made them complacent. Too arrogant. ‘It was the former General Titus—’

The very name sent a bitter, repulsive smell through Percival’s nose. Shockwaves of revulsion coursed through him until bile raised in his throat and waves of nausea crashed into him.

His blue gaze lowered to glare daggers at the table. He rested his hands on either leg, and red bloomed below his fingernails. When had he closed his hands into fists? It must have been a subconscious reaction, but he couldn’t seem to convince them to ease—like they were welded to his palms and refused to open. Grime seemed to stick to his skin. Percival had washed himself countless times—submerged himself into water for hours—but it always felt like dirt coated him.

A rigid shiver ran through his spine. Something burned into the side of his head. Forcing his head to his left, Percival’s eyes clashed with emerald gems.

Rymedur.

Raising a brow in question, Rymedur motioned to Percival’s hands and the half-crescent marks he had inflicted on himself.

Dammit. Percival shoved his hands beneath his armpits, crossing them as he shifted away from his curious brother-in-law.

Don’t ask! Please, don’t ask! Percival chanted to himself. The last thing he needed was Rymedur asking if he was okay. Of course, he wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been for a long time. But he did not need to know that—no one did.

Disgust clawed its filthy talons along his skin. Percival wished he could leave. He needed air. Needed to get away.

‘And before him, it was the beloved Prince Ivan who wore those medals,’ Lord Faren said. He pointed a long, withering finger towards Areanel and the medals that decorated both her shoulders. A testament to her achievements—but Percival did not use that word lightly. The things Areanel had needed to do to get those medals made even his skin crawl. ‘Eborthorn was right. Had it not been for your wicked ways, our kingdom would be lost and the great Tar-Angulócë alive—’

‘FAREN!’ Elmrynn bellowed.

It wasn’t often that Percival’s brother raised his voice, or even spoke before the lords, but when Lord Faren said Ivan’s title with such scorn, it seemed to trigger a fury that surprised Percival.

Elmrynn’s shout shocked the council into utter silence. Lowering their heads in unison, they trembled. The heavyset prince was not to be messed with. Built for combat, Elmrynn preferred to use his fists. Not a single male in the hall could take him down—well, besides Rymedur, that was. The male had taken Elmrynn down with swift, powerful movements unlike anything Percival had ever seen. His shadows were an unusually strange gift Percival could not understand, no matter how much he researched (and Percival hated researching!).

Wrath—painful and searing—burnt within Elmrynn’s piercing gaze. Percival could practically hear the lords’ hearts pounding. Percival shared the sentiment. These fools did not deserve to even mention Ivan’s name, let alone ridicule it.

‘My prince, I meant no disrespect.’ Lord Faren’s hands raised placatingly. Wrong decision. If Percival knew Elmrynn, he hated two things: being condescended to and being pacified.

He was no fun! Percival couldn’t remember the last time he saw his brother smile.

‘Lord Faren speaks true,’ Eborthorn butted in.

Of course! Percival’s eyes rattled as he rolled them, and beside him, Rymedur let out a muffled snort, nudging his arm with his elbow.

Percival shot him an annoyed look. Could he hear his thoughts or something?

‘Our time living in peace with the mortals has severely clouded their judgement,’ Eborthorn continued, and Rymedur snarled at the male.

Percival raised a questioning brow.