“They’ve found a maid in the Keep at Fanghold, in his chamber. They think Bal’s the one who murdered her.”
“Ten gold piecessays Caius wears that hideously embroidered purple robe he’s been favoring lately,” Lyriat murmured.
Brand was struggling to ignore the power prickling over his limbs. That his uncle would dare make accusations, whentheywere the ones who’d been wronged?—
Lyriat’s hand landed on his forearm, squeezing. “Five more says he tugs each sleeve before stepping off the portal dais.”
Ah. Jokes, then, to hold the rage at bay.
He glanced back at Baldrir, where he was standing silently between Magnus and Thad, Mag’s hand wrapped loosely around his upper arm—more for show than anything, but Caius would expect his demand to be met.
Even if it meant Bal collapsing right there next to the bloody thrones, in front of everyone.
“Fine.” Brand shook himself. “I say he doesn’t wear the purple, does tug the sleeves, and throws alookat everyone before stomping on his toll like he has an infinite supply of them somewhere.”
After which, he would hopefully have a damned convincing argument for how the Wolflords were not at all responsible themselves.
Magnus leaned down and whispered, “Thirty pieces says you’re both wrong and he’s just as confused as everyone else because—as I’ve already said, repeatedly—we had nothing to do with this. Now shut it before I drop your naked arse somewhere else.”
Brand ground his teeth together and avoided looking at Lunara amongst the crowd of gathered Demons, Nyri at her side. Veiled references at dinner were one thing, but Mag’s hissed threat was too loud and direct for comfort.
Even if she was probably too far away to hear it.
“You’re really going to bring that up again?” Brand bit out. “May I remind you?—”
A soft patter cut off his words, and he looked at the portal just as his uncle came through.
“Caius aht Bordoroth, Blessed of Thodelebor, High Ambassador and Seventh Imperial Son of Stennyx and Gildat!” a herald called, as if everyone wasn’t well aware of his identity.
Caius’s boots drilled into the floor as he approached the throne, a pair of Wolflords trailing him. Lyriat rose to his impressive height as his uncle fell to one knee at the foot of the steps, his heavy breathing the only sound when he stood again.
Looked like Mag was getting thirty gold pieces.
Instead of his usual court finery, Caius wore a simple linen robe—the battle garb of the Wolflords. It was filthy, black streaks littering the fabric alongside splatters that could only be blood. None of his usual adornments were anywhere to be seen. Nojewelry, no weapon. Only a small leather bag was attached to the belt at his waist, which he was slipping his recovered realm toll into.
His blond hair was lank, the normally shorn sides long enough to brush at his ears and hide the tattoos there, and dark smudges cradled haunted, golden eyes.
Shite.
Caius didn’t waste a second. “You know why I’m here, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, Your Highness, though I would hear it from your lips.”
No one in the hall so much as twitched, the whole room holding a collective breath.
His uncle spared a fleeting look behind, lips pursed. “Certain you want to do this here, Lyriat?”
Lyriat huffed, arrogance personified. “When have I ever beat around the bush, Caius?”
“Aye, there is that. The whole thing, then?”
Brand noted the slight twinkle in Caius’s gaze, his fondness for the Demon King—who’d become like another one of his nephews over the long years—apparent.
“May as well, old friend. Loud and clear,” Lyriat answered, waving a hand to the room at large.
Unlike his uncle, Brand hadn’t missed the unfamiliar note of mistrust in Lyriat’s voice as he’d saidold friend.They were going through the motions as usual, but the game he’d always hated was being played beneath the surface.
And Brand was caught in the middle.
