Shite.
Invoking one of the Wolflords’ most precious customs in that mocking fashion was careless in the extreme, and well beneath Lyriat as a Realm Ruler.
Pet flashed over his brother’s features in a silent snarl. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and chalk this up to grief, despite the fact that you’ve just come perilously close to an unforgivable offense by saying such a thing to me,” Mag bit out. “Even so, aye. Gladly. If for no other reason than to put you back in your place and remind you that Bal is as much my friend as the rest of you—which, by the way, is the only reason I haven’t bitten your fucking hand off for touching me thus. Let go of me, Lyriat, before I force you to do so.”
Brand drew in a deep breath while they stared each other down. Pointless to get between them. They’d have to figure out their own shite for the moment.
“Where are those messengers, Faldir?”
Brand’s Third didn’t bother to look at him when he held up three fingers, two, one… The doors burst open, five Demons marching through in the wake of their clanging sound.
“Uncanny bastard.” Brand shook his head, swiping the coded scrolls he’d written from between abandoned plates of breakfast. “Brethren, to me.”
The male and female warriors gathered in a flawless line, bodies at full attention and eyes on him.
“I don’t care how long it takes my father and brothers, or my uncle, to get themselves in order,” he said, handing each a roll of sealed parchment, “you do not leave without a response to this letter. Better yet, you convince them to come here so I may speak with them face to face.”
Digging through the pouch slung on his trousers, he retrieved the requisite tolls.
Portals were scattered everywhere throughout the realms, and all they required for travel was a small piece of wherever you wished to go. The public ones were surrounded by stalls, merchants competing with one another and always claiming to have the best price. Of course, they were raking in profits no matter what they charged, taking full advantage of anyone who’d lost or forgotten their own.
The private ones, in palaces and halls across the realms, required tolls that were a tad more specific—and they were not bestowed at random to just anyone.
Brand turned to the first messenger with an ivory chip from the Palace of Argoph’s pillars. “You are bound for my father, Emperor Alwyn, in the Weeping City.”
So it went, one by one, as Brand handed out the rest.
From one of Nakarat’s own scales, an iridescent, burnt ochre shard—to reach his oldest brother, Amun, in the Solyrealm of Arrajnekkat.
From Falwarren’s perpetual vines, a budding leaf—to reach his second brother, Vann, in the Tempusrealm of Kohamaia.
From the Chieftains themselves, tufts of black and tawny fur tied with wheat—to reach his uncle, Caius, in the Westrealm of Thodelebor.
From the exalted Elder Halls, a round-cut moonstone—to reach his youngest brother, Araxis, in the Evesong Realm of Nachthelliae.
And lastly, from the carvings of Lyriat’s snowy horns, every messenger was given a shaved curl of bone—to return directly back to the great hall, as quickly as possible.
“A written answer, or an Imperial on your arm—those are your only options for coming home. Do you understand your orders?”
“Yes, Highness,” they answered Brand in unison.
“Go.”
Without another word, they spun and filed through the portal on the far side of the hall.
One task taken care of. As for the rest of it, enough was enough.
“Take a moment tothink, Lyriat,” Brand hissed, pushing his way between the still-seething king and his indignant brother. “Political or no, we all know Magnus didn’t do it.Heis not your enemy.”
“Not yet, at least,” Mag growled. “It’s becoming more unsure by the minute.”
“That really isn’t helping.”
“Aye, alright. Damn it.” His brother’s cheeks puffed out, lids sliding closed. “I swear on my dearest mam’s own life that I had fuck all to do with this.”
Brand pressed a hand to Lyriat’s chest. “See? There isn’t a creature in all of Bordoroth who adores his mother as much as Magnus does ours. Calm. Come back.”
Being the Demon King meant that—when truly fucking pissed—Lyriat entered a far deeper berserker state than most others ever did. Brand had lost count of the number of times he’d had to do exactly this. Shite, it probably counted among his official duties as High Ambassador at this point.
