“Then I may not have done enough,” he teased, the words brushing against her ear.
Rune pulled her closer, so she was lying on his chest, magic easing as the last of the ache settled. Her body melted, boneless in his hold, exhaustion pulling her under. As he watched her sleep, he at last accepted what he could no longer deny.
Alora’s bloodline gave her a legitimate claim to the Netherworld.
A thought settled heavy and undeniable: the Dominions were right. Once the court learned of her lineage, they would rally to her whether he commanded it or not.
If the court must see her, then they would see her as his equal. They needed to feel her power. To see it sanctioned and crowned. Then they would understand what it meant to challenge her.
Kneel or burn. There would be no third choice.
He had wanted to keep her untouched by his world. Untainted by its violence. But Vorak was coming, and the age of secrecy had ended. Power alone would not shield her from what was to come.
But perhaps sovereignty could.
“Rest, songbird,” Rune said softly. “You will need your strength for tonight’s revel.”
“A revel?” Alora slurred with a sleepy sigh. “On what occasion?”
“For the Court of Sin and Ruin will gather to acknowledge their queen.”
The hall thundered with a clamor of roars, hundreds of red eyes alight as demons bent the knee before the dais.
And from his throne, Rune watched with pride.
Alora stood crowned in an obsidian circlet as sharp as blades, dark rubies burning like fresh-spilled blood against her brow, her power no longer restrained, no longer hidden. A flowing gown of black silk clung to her form, glittering like crushed starlight. Moonlight spilled through the open ceiling, casting her in an otherworldly glow. Above, the screeches of the Drakon rang out as they circled the throne room.
Grace wove through every moment as she took her seat upon the jagged throne beside his and rested her hand on the Vareth at her side, black claws glinting like her ring. Shadows kissed her skin as though it had always belonged there.
She was terrible and glorious. Unmistakably his queen.
And the Netherworld knew it.
It sang for her.
Karag Dûr hummed as the Gate quaked within its depths, and the court took up the call in a thunderous chant.
“Vaelith Nocthra va’thal!”
The Shadow Queen has arrived.
The words reverberated through Rune’s bones. It was a moment of triumph, yet a cold understanding settled deep in his chest.
Loving her openly was a declaration—and a weakness.
Every gaze that lingered too long on his imprint was another enemy learning where to strike. In the high gallery oppositethem, the six Dominions watched in silence. Measuring. Calculating.
Rune vowed then that he would sooner destroy himself than allow any harm to come to her again.
Then Alora’s glowing eyes turned to him.
The bond thrummed, hot and fierce, her emotions crashing into his with a protectiveness that mirrored his own. Not fear. Not hesitation. Promise. She would raze down the world to fire and ash for him as readily as he would for her. His mouth curved, and the beginning of a smile that belonged to gods and the damned alike touched Alora’s lips.
He leaned back in his throne, tail curling lazily around her ankle, stroking her pulse.
Let them watch. Let them learn.
Together, they were inevitable.
