He ignored them. “I have come again for what was promised.”
“And what do you believe that is?” Maelor's voice slithered through the air like oil. “A throne? Power? Obedience?”
Kaen’s mouth curved. “All of it. I’ve lived in my father’s shadow long enough and watched my brother play at honor while I’ve studied how to command fear. I don’t want their approval. I want their silence so I can rule.”
Vaelgor’s shifting face smiled with a dozen mouths. “Ambition. It always starts beautifully.”
Maelor circled him slowly, skeletal rings clinking against his staff. “You think darkness is a crown you can wear.”
“I think darkness is a weapon,” Kaen said evenly. “And every kingdom falls to the one who wields it first.”
Kors rose, bones creaking like old wood. “Weapons draw blood, boy. Blood feeds us.”
Kaen met his gaze without flinching. “Then feed well. I have plenty to spill.”
The necromancers chuckled, a sound like the grinding of tombstones.
Maelor’s tone softened, like a serpent coiling before it strikes. “You would be king.”
“I will soon,” Kaen corrected. “My father is aging, the council is weak, and Thorne—” He hesitated, lips curling in disdain. “He’s too noble to survive the world that’s coming. He still believes in mercy. I believe in victory.”
Maelor's shadow drifted closer. “And what of the girl? The Aether-born?”
Kaen’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed smooth. “Thaelyn Marren is the key to everything. Her power calls to mine, whether she admits it or not. When I have her, when her Aether bends beneath my will, Sydarean itself will kneel.”
The air trembled. The Rift groaned, approving.
Vaelgor’s laughter rippled through illusion after illusion. “You think you can master what even Gods feared to touch?”
Kaen turned toward the voice, eyes bright and fevered. “The Gods are not needed because they hesitated. I won’t.”
For a heartbeat, the chamber was utterly still. Even the shadows seemed to listen.
Then Maelor reached into the darkness and drew forth a blade forged of shadowglass, its edge humming with Aether rot. He held it out.
“Then let the pact be sealed. You have helped our earlier efforts by providing us with information so we can infiltrate the wards. Now that we have established this, we need you to join us fully. Cut your palm. Bleed into the Rift. Claim what the Dareth line never dared.”
Kaen hesitated only long enough to savor the moment.This is what power feels like.
He drew the blade across his hand. Blood spilled crimson and black, hissing as it hit the ground. The runes flared. The cavern shuddered. Energy surged upward, coiling through him like a living thing. His vision went white, then violet, then nothing at all.
When it cleared, he was standing tall, breathing fast but grinning. The mark of the Rift, dark, spiraled, thrumming with hunger, burned across his wrist.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
The Royal Flight Path had been cleared by dawn. Pale light stretched across the cobblestones, painting the stones in hues of silver and ash. Mist clung low to the ground, stirring like breath around the boots of cadets and dragons alike. Thorne stood near Vornokh, silent as he adjusted the twin sheaths strapped to his back, the hilts of both swords glinting dully in the muted light. Thorne’s face was unreadable, but there was something in his posture that was too rigid and too still.
Whatever the Queen had said to him and Commander Dareth before their departure, it lingered like smoke in his mind.
The air was too quiet. No laughter, no chatter among the group. Even Brynnek, usually too loud for morning hours, was silent as he checked the stirrups fastened to Tieren’s flank. Sorren stood apart with Mirra, his blue-scaled dragon rippling with tension, her wings tucked tight and her eyes flicking to the sky as if waiting for something to strike. Garric muttered a few quiet commands to Tarken, his water-bonded dragon standing perfectly still in the shadows.
Darian stood beside Kaeroth, staring at the ground. The red dragon was alert but subdued, head lowered as if mirroring his rider’s mood. Darian was not bothered by the conversation he and Thaelyn had earlier, in which they agreed to just be friends. It was best for everyone. Unrelated to their conversation, Darian seemeddifferent. The healers had done their work. The dark magic wound that had torn through Darian’s side was sealed. The damage ran deeper, Thaelyn could feel it. Something shifted in him. The light in his eyes was dimmed, replaced by something quieter and colder.
“Ready yourselves,” Commander Dareth’s voice rang low and clipped as he crossed the courtyard, his black cloak snapping behind him. “We fly for the Asgar Training Academy within the hour. Flight pattern as discussed. Cadets in formation. Stay alert. I want eyes on the horizon and no drifting off.”
A few nods and murmurs of"yes, sir"passed between the cadets.
