“Let’s see,” Overlord Aramastun drawls. “Military attacks on my prison towers. Military attacks on the Faith Ward’s structures. Damning wounds across the bodies of the dead. Attacks and missing silver in the mines you oversee. Missing silver turning up in the form of a weapon in your chamber. The desire for this mysterious Loreblood Alacine spoke so clandestinely about, to strengthen your arms. A wall of human heads to incite the Nuhavians. And a dead Spymistress killed by a silver. Fucking. Sword.” Aramastun strokes his chin. His lips curl in that almost-smile. “If I was a betting man, Craxon, which you know I am, I’d wager Alacine Mortis didnotmisstep in her web. I’d wager you’ve been planning small coups against every other ward of the Five Ministries for years now, and this was simply the next elevated stage of your scheme.”
The room falls silent, with the Night Judge’s words landing like a rendered judgment.
I watch as Barnabac’s shoulders slump in front of me.
“I see,” he says simply.
Then, in one fluid motion, he turns andkicksme in the stomach so hard I fly across the stage.
The world goes weightless as the domed ceiling becomes the ground and I skid onto my back. The entire room erupts in shouting and rasping steel as weapons are drawn from guards.
As I look up from my prone position, I see vampires emerge from the edges of the auditorium, beneath the stairs, and stab into the backs of the Red Spawn drawing their weapons to defend their master’s honor.
I watch as my brethren Kamlirn raises his voice, raises a sword, and receives six dagger blades in and around his chest. Systematically, each of the Red Spawn falls at the sudden onslaught of Aramastun Wyvfox’s cruel judgemen. They aredressed in broad-brimmed hats, red cloaks, and are surgical with their sneaking ambush.
Barnabac charges at me with his axe drawn, lost in the frothing fury of his bloodrage. His eyes become completely red, engulfed in fire, as his yellow fangs drip with spittle. “Insolent fucking boar!” he shouts to the heavens.
I roll to the side to avoid the monstrous arc of his axehead. It collides with the marble floor and splinters a jagged crease ten feet long, ripping through the stage.
Valenthia Yurlyth, the closest Minister to me, quietly exits the stage, limping down the stairs.
I jump to my feet, weaponless but ready to defend myself against my master’s bloodrage, raising my fists—
“Cease!” he shouts.
And my body freezes as I lose control of my own extremities. I growl in anger and fear over this monster having such control over me, watching helplessly as the cruel blade of his axe swings toward me—
Clang!
A sharp blade angles the axe just high, skimming over my scalp and cutting off a section of my beard as it misses me.
Liolen Sesk, the halfkeeper overliege and leader of all the halfkeeper workers at the North Mines, stands between us with a guardless blade that looks little more than an oversized needle.
Reaching back, the Gilded Liege aims for Barnabac’s heart.
But my master is well-trained, and he slaps the pin-dagger harmlessly aside, reeling for a backhand across Liolen’s face that I know will send them flying—
Until a new figure takes space directly behind my master. Tall, regal, with gray-black hair fluttering in a halo over their heads as they move blindingly fast.
Aramastun Wyvox’s bare hand falls on the scalp of my master from behind—
And Barnabac freezes, stunned still. His mouth falls open, eyes rolling back to show only whites underneath all that pure red malice. His massive axe clatters to the ground as the Night Judge somehow manages to grab control of his damned mind with only a simple touch to his skull. Master’s posture goes rigid, upright, and drool trickles from the mindless overlord’s lips.
A sickeningcrackof bone and ripping of flesh follows, a split second before Aramastun’s sword juts from Barnabac’s chest cavity in a spray of blood and gore across my front. The strike is so forceful it brings Barnabac instantly to his knees—
Or it would have, if the Night Judge had not been holding him upright by the head. He only lets Barnabac drop once the Blood Baron’s body sags in his grip and he utters his last cursed breath.
When my master falls to his knees, dead, his head slumps forward. Aramastun is already walking away, swishing the blood off his blade as he sheathes it somewhere on his person. Liolen, too, snorts in disgust and glides off toward their chair.
An ageless daze lifts inside me, so violently I gasp. I go to my knees before my master, croaking a sound the Ministers will surely mistake for the sobbing of a bloodthrall who has just lost a decades-long connection to his master.
Then I lean in, lowering my voice to a whisper, and speak to my dead liege in a biting, seething tone. “I may not have been able to kill you myself, Master Barnabac, but no one ever said I had to do it alone.”
Back on his chair, Overlord Aramastun Wyvox calls out to me and glances at the field of pooling blood caused by all the dead Red Spawn I arrived with. “How many more bloodthralls did your master have in his legion, Vallan Stellos?”
“At least thirty, my lord.” I rise on wobbly legs, bowing.
Aramastun hums. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, turning that almost-smile on me. “I appreciate your ambition.”
