Passed down through the Midlands fae perhaps. He had sensed Alora’s magic in the cavern when she first pricked her finger, but the force behind it…perhaps had not belonged to her.
“Calla,” he murmured tightly.
She appeared in a puff of smoke, bowing her head. “Yes, sire?”
Rune’s mouth thinned at the sight of blood staining her face and armor. A sign his court had indeed fallen into frenzy when they scented his bride.
He handed her the spindle. “I need to know what this is made of and who created it.”
Calla took it in her palm, turning the needle over as she examined it. “Hmm. Another onerous task for Deimos. He will surely be pleased.”
Rune cut her a sharp look.
She bowed her head again. “As you command.”
The smoke swept her away.
Rune continued watching Alora sleep, but it did him no good. He envied her rest. Even if it was borrowed. Even if it would vanish the moment she opened her eyes and remembered where she was. She could still close her eyes and escape.
But Rune had not slept in centuries. Another thing the Heavens denied him.
The shadows stirred restlessly, sensing the fire in his blood. Blood leaked from the sharp spurs jutting out of his shoulder blades, the tip of his horns tearing at his brow. His fangs throbbed and his claws dug into his chair.
All of him ached, as if her return had surfaced a dormant hunger. The darkness inside of him pushed against his being, feral, and eager to hunt.
Rune dismantled the Veils’ Eye with a sharp swipe of his hand. Losing sight of her made him focus on Alora’s scent still drifting in the room, her warmth and soft flesh pressing in on him. The bond in his chest burned, surfacing, throbbing, demanding. Every facet of his being ached to seal it. He grew hard at the thought. Of having her beneath him.
Mate. He wanted his mate.
But if he went to her now when she hated him most, if she saw the truth…
Rune growled in frustration and rose to his feet. Only one thing would subdue it.
He teleported to the lower levels of his castle, to briefly check on the state of his court. The walk through the halls was silent. The torches dimmed as he passed, shadows bowing toward him like creatures in reverence.
The grand hall was now silent and blood-slick.
The Harbingers lounged in the chamber, among their kills. Hadeon sat on the steps, armor streaked with fresh gore. Hiseyes smoldered as he jerked his large hammer free from the back of a demon with a wet crack. Deimos crouched in a nearby alcove, wiping a bloodied Nightstone blade on his thigh. Calla sat on a table, a leg crossed over the other, using a severed head as an armrest.
They’d taken care of things without issue.
Rune continued on without a word. The Harbingers didn’t follow. They took one look at him and knew it was best to stay away. At his approach, a portion of the wall opened to a dark stairwell of stone.
He climbed up the mountain alone.
The stairs twisted endlessly upward into the pitch-black void, until Rune finally reached a wall faintly glowing with a spell sigil. He waved his hand over it and the stone gave away. Wind swept over him as he breathed in the crisp air. Gray light of the coming dawn revealed the hidden tower of the castle, rising at the peak of Karag Dûr.
A place Rune had carved himself. No magic clung to the stone here. No shadows danced. No walls whispered.
The chamber was small, dominated by a single towering window. Gothic arches crowned its peak, their spires reaching skyward like broken fingers clawing at the Heavens who had long since turned away. No glass, but bare stone, its frame spilling overgrown vines into the howling wind.
Rune shed his cloak with slow precision, unfastened his tunic, and let it fall from his shoulders. He braced his hands against the cold stone and closed his eyes.
Waiting.
The first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, their touch was warm and soft, almost tender.
Then pain bloomed.
