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The councilors did not reply for several breaths. The longer the silence dragged on, the more Lucan ached to kill every last one of these fools and spend the remainder of his days drowning himself in Elarian’s intoxicating pull.

“Approximately three hundred dead over the past season,” Lady Drevain said with disdain.

Three hundred. Lucan hissed. Anileta would have considered that acceptable losses; yet, one did not maintain an empire by allowing valuable property to destroy itself through negligence.

His gaze drifted downward almost involuntarily.

Elarian had moved little during the council’s discussion. To anyone else, she appeared almost bored by the proceedings: eyes lowered respectfully, one hand resting lightly against the skirts pooled beneath her knees.

Lucan knew better. Stillness hid Elarian’s exquisite thirst for violence.

Her breathing never changed unless something truly unsettled her. Her jaw tightened before her hands ever did. When she wished to kill, her gaze became impossibly calm, as though every heartbeat simply ceased to matter. She had worn that same expression the first night she nearly buried silver beneath his ribs, and every time since.

Every time except last night.

Shaking his head as if that would remove the memories, he studied her reaction to the council meeting.

Her eyes never lingered on whoever spoke. Instead, they drifted across exits and windows, measured distances between chairs, the placement of guards, and the reach of every drawn curtain. She was mapping the room. Counting throats. Judging how many would die before someone reached the door.

She was a most beautiful killer.

The longer Lucan watched her, the more he noticed how the muscles along her jaw had tightened, and her fingertips resting against the silk had curled inward until her nails disappeared beneath pale skin. He wondered which part had offended her most. The enslavement? Or the breeding? Perhaps both. Did she realize that the empire she had dedicated her life to dismantling had already started to devour itself from within?

Or maybe she simply ached to see every last throat slit in this room. She gave nothing else away; Lucan couldn’t help but admire her discipline.

“Might I offer a suggestion, my prince?” Lord Raviron said, waiting only a breath before continuing. “We know who they flock to. The rebellions will die with them.”

“No,” Lady Drevain said sharply. “We already lack enough bodies to feed this court!”

Lucan narrowed his eyes, already exhausted of this conversation. He cared little where their food came from—even relished the thought of hunting for a meal like he used to as a fledgling. Lazily waving his hand to silence their chatter, Lucan settled deeper into his chair. Without thought, he let the chain nearly slip from his fingers before tightening his grip.

“Breed more. Capture them. Starve for all I care. But figure this out now, then never bore me with such tedium again. Ravenholm will get a new mistress if that’s what it takes.”

The table erupted, arguments flaring as quickly as summer wildfires. Lucan listened with half an ear, attention slipping to the elf observing all with unnerving stillness at his side. Talk of soldiers and whips, fears of starvation, and countless numbers passed through his ears with little thought. All of it circled the same inevitable truth no one dared speak aloud: at long last, the empire was beginning to crack.

Eventually, the turmoil settled. Lady Drevain appointed herself as the overseer of the breeding program in Anileta’s absence. None dared speak against the woman who had earned her seat by slaying her own mother.

Lady Volyrin opened another, smaller ledger in front of her as she cleared her throat.

“There is another matter we might discuss, Your Highness.”

Lucan stifled a sigh. “Naturally.”

“This…Ashen Blade…”

The room went deathly quiet. Elarian stilled beside him, heart hammering against her chest until he was certain the entire castle would hear her.

“Three border patrols have disappeared in the past four months,” Lady Volyrin continued. “A patrol captain even claims he saw her at the edge of the Evermist not even a week ago.”

The corner of Elarian’s mouth threatened to betray her. She lowered her eyes before anyone noticed.

Do you enjoy hearing your own legend? Lucan flexed his fingers, pulling enough on the chain to make Elarian lose her balance. She glanced at him, eyes pinched with fury.

“Every frightened fledgling and guard left alone for too long sees the Ashen Blade in their midst.”

“Nevertheless,” Raviron interjected, “the rumors are spreading. A maiden in black and silver, her eyes as pale as sun-faded blood. Some even whisper she is a shapeshifter, sharing her body with She Who Is Death. Long curls billowing like shadows, or a head shorn, more weapon than elf.”

Another lady, half-hidden behind Lady Volyrin’s extravagant headpiece, laughed. “Superstitious nonsense! She is a mortal bitch, only good for breeding.”