A low growl rumbles behind me, and against my back Ryc’s chest vibrates. His hand settles on my hip, a clear territorial display. Cenviri’s eyes narrow once again. It’s a noticed declaration.
“You are much changed, daughter of death,” Cenviri finally says, opting to use the language of the hells. His head tilts slightly with the observation. “And not just in appearance. A demon who givesher word so freely.”
I fight my grimace from showing on my face.
Months away from the hells and I’ve already dropped too much of my guard.
“It is not you we seek,” I reply and I resist the urge to reach for Ryc’s hand, to draw his warmth. “My word was given in earnest.”
Ryc’s importance to me is better hidden.
I cannot arm Cenviri.
“I don’t want your word,” Cenviri replies with a small smile. “Fate has granted us the divine opportunity to speak. Who am I to deny her timing?”
He turns, setting into a slow pace along the width of the Ferry Gate, folding his hands behind him. He stops before Eve, staring square at her.
But speaks to me.
“Aside from her, do others in your company speak our language?” he asks.
How can he tell?
Eve’s not said a word, nor is her demon mark visible beneath her armor.
I open my mouth to answer, but Eve is a fraction faster.
“Address me directly, dark fae,” Eve retorts in Malbolge with a curling lip.
“Eve,” I warn in a low, firm urge.
Cenviri’s laughter is far warmer than I’d ever expect.
“That’s the kind of ferocity I like to see,” Cenviri replies. His eyes dart to me. “If you do not make her a General, I will.”
“I do not have a House, Cenviri. It is not the Eldoterran way,” I say, holding his stare with a fierce one of my own. “Even without one, her loyalty will not waiver.”
“And the male behind you, who is he?” He levels a brief, cool glance at Ryc.
Ryc’s fingers tighten on my hip.
I heave an annoyed sigh. “You ask unnecessary questions, necromancer,” I retort, bristling. “If you seek entertainment, seek it elsewhere. I do not tolerate my time being squandered.”
Cenviri, unbothered by my sharpened tone, returns the fewpaces to stand before me. “The last I spoke to Vaelyn, he attested you traded power and the whole of the hells for a mundane, mortal life and a flock of chickens.”
A dry, amused scoff escapes me.
The statement is far too accurate and yet wildly wrong at the same time.
“You could have had the hells,” he adds and my annoyance swiftly returns.
I had this conversation plenty enough when I returned to the hells.
I don’t want to have it here.
“Why didn’t you take it?” he asks. “All of this could have been avoided if you had.”
My face pinches with confusion. “All of what?”
