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Rook inhaled through his nose, his jaw feathering violently. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Theron clapped him on the shoulder, grimacing as his hand landed in the serpent blood with a wet slap. “Then why don’t you go and get all cleaned up. You can both start tomorrow.” He waved for a servant, who came rushing forward to wipe the green sludge from Theron’s hand with a white cloth.
“As you wish, Sire.” I replied. “Only, I do wonder where my weapon is?”
“Ah, of course, Arankos. Took some work to bring that back from Grixos, let me tell you.” He shook his head. “That weapon really does only answer to you.”
“You have heard the stories then, Sire.” I suppressed a smirk. “I do hope none of your guards were stupid enough to touch it.”
Theron sucked on his teeth, throwing his hands up. “Oh, Highness, let me say we learned a lesson or two in how to deal with that monstrosity.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “Is he still alive?”
Rook grunted next to me, shifting on his feet, and I cast him a brief sideways glance.
“The guard who dared touch the famed Malakh steel did, unfortunately, succumb.” Theron’s cat eyes flashed with irritation, even as his lips twisted into another unsettling grin.
“Well, now at least you know the fables to be true, Sire. Only the Peyrusian heir may wield that weapon.” I smiled sweetly.
“Is that why your fucking father sent his only child out onto the battlefield?” Theron asked me, his eyebrows raised. “Was his hope that this cursed blade would defeat the Seraphim forces?”
I clenched my teeth together. They still didn’t know. “My father believed in my skill.”
“Your father is a fool.” All eyes turned to Rook as the words fell from his mouth.
“Don’t you dare talk about my father,” I snapped.
“Or what?” Rook’s gaze was murderous.
“You want to ask the Velesians what I did to their men on that battlefield?” We were almost chest to chest now. “I’d be happy to offer you a demonstration.”
Rook lowered his head. “Your father is a fuckingfool.”
“Alright!” Theron clapped loudly, and Rook straightened, his gaze staying on me. “As much as I would love to watch this verbal sparring match continue, we do have other business to attend to.”
I turned back to Theron. “I ask you again, Sire, where is my weapon?”
“You will train with a regular sword, Your Highness.” Theron turned his back, waving his hand dismissively. “We will discuss your personal weapon another day.”
Rook gave a brief bow to Theron’s back and stalked out of the throne room. I watched him leave, his hulking figure moving through the dark crush of courtiers.
“Regan, take her back to her chambers,” Theron ordered, sinking back into the ebony throne, stretching his golden wings. “We will speak tomorrow after your training, Highness.”
I had more I wanted to know, more I wanted to ask, but Theron had made it clear no further questions would be welcomed. I bowed my head and followed Regan from the throne room. My head was throbbing.
No one knew. They mustn’t have captured my parents yet. If they were still asking why my parents had sent me onto the battlefield, they’d not yet spoken to them, nor met with confusion when they posed them the same question.
My heart swelled a little, knowing they were safe. And cracked at the same time as I wondered when, if ever, I would see them again.
* * *
Drusilla and I ate supper in front of the open window with the warm summer breeze washing in over us. She was chattering away about something to do with the other maids, some terribly dramatic moment involving a silk dress and an overheated press.
I wasn’t paying attention. My mind kept wandering back to the Night Demon, Rook. I’d only seen them once before when I was a child and only from afar. Besides that I’d only heard the stories, the terrible stories. The warnings to not stray too far from light after sundown, to keep your windows locked at night. Lest a Night Demon fly into your room and…
“Drusilla,” I said, interrupting her mid-sentence. “Why does Theron have a Night Demon here at court?”
“Oh, you mean Rook?” She said lightly, spreading more butter onto the thick piece of dark bread on her plate. “He’s a slave.”
