“We struck a bargain.”
And her eyes immediately narrowed with sharp disapproval.
A spiral of smoke played around Rune’s fingers. “It was a formal agreement. Her soul is still hers.”
Though she believed otherwise.
Calla’s disapproval slid to Deimos next. “You should have sensed the mountain warning. What good are your Shades if they do not inform us when you fail to do your job.”
Deimos hissed at her.
Karag Dûr had no reason to alert them to Alora’s presence. It already recognized his mate.
“You chose not to keep her here, sire?” Hadeon’s deep voice rumbled in the room.
Rune worked his jaw. “In time.”
It had been difficult to pretend not to know her, and to find no recognition in her eyes.
Alora no longer knew him.
That alone sent a sting through his chest, but it gave him the opportunity to go about things differently this time.
Approaching the table, Rune laid a clawed hand flat upon its surface. Shadows rippled outward from his palm, swirling across the surface as it reshaped itself into the terrain of the land. Before them appeared the Kingdom of Argyle, the sea and Calveron’s ships on its shores.
He settled in his seat, shadows coiling over the chair of jagged stone and bone. A chair of command, not comfort.
Claws clicked against stone as Rune’s wargs padded to his side and settled on their haunches.
He stroked the thick fur along their necks. “I assume you did not sit idle in my absence.”
“Of course, not sire,” Calla gave a feline smile as they took their seats at the crescent table again.
She handed him a small black box, opening it to reveal his signet ring. A crimson Bloodstone glinted at its heart. He slipped it on his pinky and its magic settle over his skin. Now indirect light would not be so harsh.
“The court remains docile,” Calla continued. “The Dominions glut themselves on wine and flesh, while I let them believe their counsel bears weight.”
Hadeon grunted, arms folding across his broad chest. “The legions hold. Losses from the war were great. Now recruits are in training to refill your ranks. Though boredom takes a life or two on occasion.”
Rune smirked, recalling the exhibition on his way here.
From the far end of the crescent table, Deimos admired his long, sharp claws armored in Nightstone, his voice a silken murmur. “Two demons from the lower court thought themselves clever enough to plot taking over the Pride Court while your seat sat empty. Their lives had since been snuffed out.” His thin smile sharpened. “Their ashes were left on display so others may think twice.”
Hardly of note.
Rune didn’t care about politics. “Tell me of Argyle. I want to know about the curse.”
The air shifted.
Calla’s spinning dagger stilled. Hadeon’s jaw tightened. Even Deimos blinked, as though uncertain he’d heard correctly.
Alora had asked him to break the curse once before. But back then, Rune had not been bound by a god’s promise as he was tonight. He had entertained her pleas, feigning to help her search for answers. In truth, he merely waited for the spell to run its course, so he might claim her without a kingdom to tether her.
But then the Blood Moon came, and Alora had died.
That same night, the curse reached its completion.
It swallowed Argyle within a veil of unbroken magic. Its citizens fell into an eternal sleep. Trade routes withered. Letters went unanswered. Those who sought its borders lost the pathand forgot why they had come at all. Though it remained on maps, Argyle simply… slipped from the memory of Urn.
