Kaan
The rideback from the borderlands should taste like victory.
We crushed three Light Court battalions in six hours—a massacre so thorough that Lord Taren's precious soldiers fled screaming about the Shadow Lord who commands darkness itself. My shadows still hum with bloodlust, satisfied after days of violence that reminded everyone exactly why I took this throne by force fifteen years ago.
The victory hardly matters when I'm returning to a wife who despises me and a cousin whose timing is more suspicious than a demon offering free wishes.
"Did you see Captain Varian's face?" Zoran rides beside me, his light magic still flickering around his fingers—a Light Court noble who just helped slaughter his own people for the Shadow realm. The irony isn't lost on either of us. "When you turned his entire squadron's shadows against them? I thought his eyes might actually pop out of his skull."
"Theatrical," I admit, letting dark satisfaction creep into my voice. "But effective. Though not as impressive as you convincing those Light Court deserters to switch sides mid-battle. What did you promise them? Eternal happiness and free puppies?"
"Better wages and the promise I wouldn't let you eat their souls." Zoran's grin is sharp. "Apparently your reputation precedes you."
"Good. Fear is more reliable than loyalty." I glance back at the thousands of shadow warriors following us, their dark armor still splattered with Light Court blood. They sing war songs that echo through the valley—ancient melodies about conquest and glory that make the trees themselves shudder. "Speaking of unreliable loyalty, where the fuck is my dear cousin?"
Zoran's expression shifts, light magic dimming. "Good question. He said he'd join us after 'securing supply lines.'"
"Very suspicious." I scan the horizon, searching for any sign of shadow-fire magic. Nothing. "He shows up right when war breaks out, offers tactical brilliance, then conveniently misses the actual fighting?"
"Maybe he's just a coward," Zoran suggests hopefully. "Lots of strategy, no stomach for blood."
"Yasar's many things, but he's not a coward." The admission tastes bitter. "When we were young, he once fought seven demon spawn bare-handed just to prove a philosophical point about the nature of violence. Nearly died, but made his point."
"What was the point?"
"That violence without purpose is just chaos wearing a crown." I snort. "Pretentious bastard. Always had to make everything into some grand statement."
The palace comes into view—je-black spires piercing the afternoon sky like accusations. My shadows involuntarily reachtoward it, toward her, always pulled by that damned bond that refuses to break no matter how much she hates me.
Through that connection, I feel Nesilhan's emotions spike—relief mixed with something else. Fear? Confusion? The feelings are tangled, chaotic, nothing like her usual cold control.
"Something's wrong," I mutter, urging my shadow-mount faster.
"Define wrong," Zoran says, matching my pace. "Wrong like 'dinner will be cold' or wrong like 'your psychotic father has decided to visit'?"
"Wrong like—" I pause as a familiar figure appears on the road ahead, riding toward us with casual elegance. "Like my cousin is approaching with perfect timing and not a single speck of battle-dust on his stupidly expensive clothes."
Yasar looks immaculate. His black riding leathers are pristine, his shadow-fire magic coiled around him in lazy spirals that speak of power carefully leashed. His violet eyes—so different from the Karanlikoglu silver—gleam with what might be amusement.
"Cousin!" He calls out cheerfully, as if he hasn't just missed a major battle. "Victorious already? I must say I am impressed."
"Where were you?" The question comes out as a growl. My shadows writhe with suspicion.
"Securing supply lines, as discussed." His smile doesn't waver. "The eastern routes were more complicated than anticipated. Demon raiders have been testing our borders—probably hoping to capitalize on the Light Court distraction."
"Demon raiders." I study his unmarked face, his clean clothes, the suspicious lack of evidence that he's been fighting anything. "How convenient that they appeared just as the battle commenced."
"Isn't it?" Yasar's tone remains light, but something flickers in his eyes. "Almost like someone orchestrated multiple threatsto divide our attention. But surely that's too paranoid, even for you, cousin."
Before I can respond with the violence his smugness deserves, Zoran interjects. "No battle wounds, Lord Yasar? Demon raiders are notoriously... aggressive."
"They were handled with appropriate efficiency." Yasar's gaze slides past me toward the palace, and I catch something in his expression—satisfaction? Guilt? "Though I'm more interested in hearing about your victory. The Light Court battalions were formidable, or so intelligence suggested."
"They were." I don't elaborate. Every instinct screams that something is wrong with this encounter, with his timing, with the way he's not quite meeting my eyes. "We'll discuss the battle details at the council. Move aside—we need to return to the palace."
"Of course." He wheels his mount aside with practiced grace, but doesn't turn back toward the eastern territories. Instead, he falls into formation beside us, clearly intending to accompany us to the palace.
The rest of the ride passes in tense silence, broken only by Zoran's occasional attempts at conversation that die against Yasar's polite deflections and my own brooding suspicion.
