My muscles clench at the way he speaks of Sephania. If our connection was any less—his hold over me any weaker—I would charge him without a second thought. My bloodrage demands I defend my silverblood’s honor.
“Keep watching them. When I call upon you, tell me of their doings. Eventually, if their transgressions rise to an actual threat, perhaps I will present our case to the Five Ministries.” He mutters to himself, “The Damned knows they could raise a sword every once in a while.”
I bow low, from the hip. “Your will is mine, Master Barnabac.”
As I travel the winding stone staircase down to the bailey, I curse myself for all I’ve told him. I’ve made Skar’s position weaker, because now he can use any intelligence from me to reform a bond with Alacine Mortis, when we were so close to fracturing their alliance.
Alas, I have no control over what I say in his presence. It’s something that cannot change.Unless drinking Sephania’s Loreblood is something that could sever our bond, like it does to weaker dhampir and commonbloods.
The thought entices me, yet I shake my head at the foolish notion. I refuse to put Sephania in danger for the sake of my sanity and protection. It’s not who I am.
As I leave the bailey, I get it from all corners: the various Red Spawn training on the grounds, throwing insults at me,calling me “Master’s Whore” and “Cock Champion” and other degrading titles, trying to get a rise.
This time, I manage to keep my temper down without breaking any bones or drawing any blood.
I must admit, as I walk through the raised portcullis on my way out of Castle Galfeld—named after Master Barnabac’s father—I feel rather proud of myself at my non-reaction to the taunts and jibes.
Because seeking revenge is usuallyexactlywho I am.
I have a better idea to temper my frustrations than picking fights with my Red Spawn brethren.
I return to Manor Marquin without incident. Skartovius speaks with a group of court vampires in one of the downstairs studies, ordering them around for any upcoming conflict. I don’t know what they’re talking about and I don’t care—Skartovius rarely keeps me up to speed on the day-to-day operations of his coven.
As I pass the door, he calls me in. The three commonbloods in attendance look over their shoulders at me, eyes widening at the sight of my large stature.
“Where were you?” he asks from the front of the room.
“Checking on the North Mines,” I lie. It’s shameful that the lie comes so easily, but what else can I say? I don’t want to do battle with Skartovius Ashfen. Not right now.
“And?”
“As I suspected, no enemies have returned. Things have calmed down and Cordea is in command. Mining work has resumed.”
“And the interfolk workers? Are they traumatized?”
At losing friends and family?“The halfkeepers, you mean?”
“You heard me. They’re the same damned thing.”
My eyes narrow. “Aye. But one of them is the Olhav name, brother. The other is the Nuhav name. You choose the Nu—”
“Does it matter which name I fucking choose, Vallan?” he snaps.
Only because it speaks to your loyalties, brother.Clearly, Lord Ashfen is on edge after everything that’s happened recently. He’s holding onto his makeshift rebellion by a thread, and things are not going swimmingly.
I bow my head, opting out of furthering the conflict. “No, brother. It doesn’t matter.”
“Good. You’re the last man I’d think would care about fucking formalities.”
“Quite right, Skartovius. Is that all?”
He flaps a hand at me and I depart.
Further down the hall, I find Garroway in one of the work rooms. He has his daggers and swords splayed out on a table, dragging them across a whetstone to sharpen, one after the other. His eyes are fixated on his work and he doesn’t see me taking up the doorway to his side.
“Good thing you’re keeping them sharp, cub,” I say from the door.
Startled, he glances over and curses as he nicks the blade at the wrong angle on the whetstone and sends sparks fluttering around his hands. “Dammit, Vall! Why did you distract me?”
