I need a scream loud enough to drown out the god in my head.
A sharp knock echoes on the heavy iron-bound door.
The sound hits me like a hammer to the head. I wince, the noise in my head flaring in response to the intrusion.
"Enter," I command, my voice tight.
The heavy hinges groan, and the rhythmic clinking of armor announces Asema. My Guard Captain stops three paces behind me. I don’t need to look at her to know she is bowing—stiffly, resentfully, but bowing nonetheless. She is Miou caste, bred for war, and she wears her loyalty like a heavy chain.
"My Lord," she says, voice rough like grinding stones. "The carriage is prepared for the inspection of the docks."
The thought of the docks—the shouting sailors, the creaking wood, the chaotic din of commerce—makes my stomach turn. I cannot handle the noise today. I will murder someone in broad daylight just to make them stop talking.
"Cancel it," I say.
"My Lord?"
I turn slowly. Asema stands rigid, her hand resting instinctively on the hilt of her sword. She is a towering woman, even for our kind, scarred and brutally efficient. She looks at me, or rather, she looks at the space just past my shoulder, avoiding direct eye contact as is proper.
"I have no interest in counting crates of spice today, Captain," I say, smoothing the platinum strands of hair backfrom my temple. "The Serpent requires a different sort of commerce."
Asema shifts her weight. "The slave markets, then?"
"The Lowtown markets are filled with refuse," I say, disdain curling my lip. "Disease-ridden and broken before they even reach the block. No. We go to the private auction at the Dark Market's satellite house."
A flicker of unease crosses Asema’s face. She hates the flesh trade. She finds it dishonorable, which is why she will always remain a soldier and never a ruler. "As you command. Shall I gather the full guard?"
"No. Just you. I do not require an audience for my shopping."
I walk past her, the heavy velvet of my robes whispering over the stone floor. As I pass, I see her nose twitch, repelled by the smell of the incense clinging to me. Good. Let it sicken her. Let her remember that I walk paths she dares not tread. I do not dismiss her with words; I simply cease to acknowledge her presence, stepping out into the corridor and leaving her to scramble in my wake.
The estate is cold. It is always cold in Lliandor. The grey stone walls weep condensation, and the narrow windows let in only the gloom of a sky that has forgotten the sun. I stride through the halls, my boots striking the floor with precise, predatory cadence. Servants—humans and lesser elves alike—scatter before me, pressing themselves into alcoves, averting their eyes. They are wise.
Today, my patience is as thin as the skin of a bubble.
I step out into the courtyard. The rain is falling, as it always does here—a relentless, freezing drizzle that turns the world into a blur of slate and charcoal. The carriage waits, black lacquered wood glistening wetly, the batlaz beasts harnessed to the front snapping their jaws at the groomsmen.
I climb inside, settling onto the plush leather. Asema mounts her horse alongside the carriage. The driver snaps the reins, and we lurch forward, the wheels grinding against the cobblestones.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, listening to the rain drum against the roof. The hunger in the obsidian ring flares, a sudden spike of heat that feels like a needle driven into the bone of my finger. I hiss, gripping my hand.
Soon,The Serpent whispers.Soon. Soon. Soon.
The repetition is maddening. It burrows into my thoughts, disrupting my focus. I cannot plan. I cannot think. I am merely a vessel for this endless, starving noise.
Find it. Break it. Feed me.
I open my eyes. My reflection stares back at me from the darkened window pane—violet irises glowing with a feral, desperate light in a face of sharp angles and aristocratic boredom. I look like a prince of darkness, a master of this city. But beneath the silk and the Zanthenite clasps, I am a starving man. I am a slave to the cacophony.
The carriage turns a corner, heading toward the darker districts where the law turns a blind eye and human lives are sold for copper.
A sudden pressure builds behind my temples. It is not pain, but anticipation—the static charge in the air before lightning strikes. The hairs on my arms rise. My magic, so dormant moments ago, stirs in the deep well of my soul, agitated and alert. It is sensing something. A beacon in the gray wash of the city.
I sit up straighter, steepling my fingers, pressing the tips together until the knuckles turn white.
The Serpent is guiding me. I can feel the pull, a magnetic hook lodged in my chest, dragging me toward a specific point in the city. There is something there. Not just a slave. Not just meat.
A challenge.
