“Say what you will,” Brand said with a sigh, “but the rank shite works wonders.”
“Aye.” Mag grinned. “And now that my head’s cleared, I wonder…” He gave Lyriat a narrow-eyed look, leaning in close to the monarch. “Where wereyouafter the ritual last night, Your Illustrious Horned Majesty?”
Brand huffed at the sarcastic jab, the awkwardness of their system lost on none of them.
He’d gotten lucky to be Blessed of Straelon, to have grown up with its king by his side in the trenches of adolescence. Lyriat was his friend first and foremost. Still, it was odd to try and define their official places.
Brand was higher in rank as an Imperial Son, but lower in rank as High Ambassador. Meanwhile, his father, EmperorAlwyn, outranked literally everyone in Bordoroth. Which meant creatures tended to bow and scrape before Brand and his brothers, even when it was technically inappropriate to do so.
Magnus liked to lean into those strange nuances, bringing the tension to its breaking point and forcing it over the edge with humor. As the only one of the current five Sons to still be in the position of Ambassador Apparent, he got away with more ridiculous behavior because he didn’t officially represent Thodelebor yet.
That honor still lay with their Uncle Caius—Thad’s father, and a male who’d taken seriousness to a level unheard of since the death of his mate.
Lyriat sniffed and looked away, his demeanor suddenly aloof. “I was here and there, of course. We must have missed one another throughout the celebrations.”
Magnus barked out a laugh. “Now there’s a damned lie if I ever heard one!”
Lyriat’s cheeks slowly turned a comical shade of crimson that Brand wasn’t sure he’d ever seen there before.
“Sweet Sisters,” Brand said, gaping. “Mag is right! What?—”
Shouts sounded on the opposite end of the hall, bringing every conversation to a screeching halt. Benches and tables turned over, clattering to the tune of shattered pottery. Weapons sang as they were drawn, flashes of light signaling various Demons giving in to their transformation.
He, Magnus, and Lyriat scrambled to their feet as Thad’s voice reached above he chaos. “Get back! Don’t touch him!”
The crowd parted before them as they rushed towards the portal. Lyriat called the rage and went through his change seamlessly, the mighty Demon King glowing with sunlight and towering above his subjects. Whatever he saw made his steps falter, his leathery wings jerking out to keep his balance.
“Out, all of you!” Lyriat bellowed, his voice deep and echoing. “Now!”
As if by magic, the room emptied and left Brand with a view that sent shockwaves tearing through him. He broke into a sprint, sliding on his knees as he reached the scene.
A ravaged body lay prone on the flagstones, Thad kneeling on the other side.
“We need to turn him over,” his cousin said. “Somehow.”
Brand’s breath sawed as he nodded, his hands hovering uselessly above the creature. Skin had been peeled away in long strips from head to toe, the savage wounds oozing blood in such a constant stream that it was impossible to tell if any flesh was still intact.
“There’s nothing for it,” Mag said, crouching beside him. “We’ll just have to do it, lads.”
“Right. Hold his neck steady, Magnus,” Brand commanded. “Lyriat, get his legs while Thad and I work his shoulders over.” He met his cousin’s gaze. “Pull him towards yourself, I’ll do the rest. Everyone on my signal… Go!”
He waited until the male was half over before sliding his hands beneath and pulling the torso as gently as he was able.
For a moment, Brand felt a spark of relief when he heard a quiet, wheezing groan. Then his eyes focused and time slowed, the world stretching around him and snapping back as recognition came and disbelief stole his voice.
Baldrir.
Brutalized. Tortured. Maimed.
The room shook as Lyriat unleashed an ear-shattering roar, giving voice to the fury boiling within Brand.
His friend was nearly unrecognizable, especially without his horns. Their once-proud lengths had been violently hacked away, reduced to jagged stumps. Even more skin was missing from his front half than the back, his entire chest and stomachan oozing mess of exposed muscle and more. Worst of all, Baldrir’s jaw was slack—blood pooling in his open mouth and pouring from the corner of his lips—and his tongue was gone.
“Sisters save us,” Magnus whispered.
Brand shook himself, refusing the roiling emotions and forcing his mind to work logically. “Thaddeus, is there anything you can do for him?” Brand asked.
Thad’s mother had been Nachthellian—making his cousin half Wolflord, half Sorcerit—but he was young, not yet possessing his full powers though he looked fairly grown. Still, there was a chance?—
