“A conversation better meant for all ears,” the necromancer sighs. In a swift pitch, he bows, extending a flourished arm to his side. “I am Cenviri Shadowspire, Patriarch of House Cenviri, the dominating House of Cerwiden,” he says in crystal clear common tongue as he rises.
He focuses upon Ryc expectantly.
Bastard.
“Alaryc Witherhorn, Sovereign King of Erus,” Ryc rises to the occasion with grace.
Cenviri’s silver brows raise, but he keeps his thoughts to himself and instead swings his stare to Cyran.
“Cyran Stargarden, Captain of the Royal Guard of Erus,” Cyran answers in a tone more glacial than the ice he wields.
Last, Cenviri turns to Eve once again. “Your name I know. Eve Willowgrace, correct?”
Eve, confused, takes a small step away from the gate, brushing against Cyran.
“Druka likes to talk about you,” Cenviri says with a small grin. “Attests you have the prettiest eyes she’s ever seen. As per usual demon nature, I thought she was embellishing. It seems she wasn’t.”
“Druka?” Her name leaves my lips in a surprised and breathy sound. “You know Druka?”
Cenviri’s smile grows. “She’s been an immense help as a pointof contact in the hells. She’s helped me better understand demons. Not all of you are as duplicitous as Netharis or Vaelyn.”
What?
“Do we trust this necromancer?”Ryc’s deep voice unfurls in my mind.
“Had you asked me five minutes ago, I would have said no,”I quickly reply.“Now I’m not so sure. Last I knew, he and Vaelyn were close. He’s made that questionable.”
“Are you thinking of soliciting his help?”
“We may not have a choice. Mending my soul requires a necromancer,”I send the thought along with a healthy dose of apprehension through our bond.“Cenviri has stood as the dominating House for centuries. There isn’t another who comes close to matching his abilities.”
Holding Cerwiden for longer than a century verges on a godlike achievement in itself.
“We always have a choice, little love.”Ryc’s warmth seeps around my heart.
“You stray awfully close to blasphemy, necromancer,” I say. “Is it wise for the dominating House of Cerwiden to walk that line?”
“Il-akiv,” he says, smiling, and my jaw tightens with the title.
God-killer.
It was whispered throughout the halls of the Tower in the weeks following Netharis’ death. When Layer Lords and demons expected me to rise as the goddess of death.
It’s a title I refute.
A title I ignore.
A title that should be left in the hells.
Not used here.
“That line was crossed the moment you ended Netharis,” Cenviri finishes, flashing a smile broad enough to show his fangs. “For the first time since its inception, House Cenviri has no patron god.”
I stare at the fae, stunned silent while my mind screams with thoughts.
“None carry his mark,” the violet-eyed General behind him says. “Those who did no longer breathe.”
“They serve their House in other ways,” another, one with darkhair and dark eyes, says.
