General Ezra is a fucking problem.
His shadows know it, too. They tighten around him. Not in fear, but in deference. A soldier’s response to a commander. A quiet vow of obedience.
One of them even flicks toward me, brushing my wrist, as if it’s whispering,Yeah, we know.
I hate how attractive that is.
It’s easy to forget how long he’s walked this earth. How he’s spent most of his life waging wars that weren’t his.
But this one?
This one is his.
This one is mine.
Running? Fuck that. I’m not going anywhere.
Iain runs his hands down his face and groans.
“Gods and gallows, you’re in deep, aren’t ya? I’ll do your wards. And if it comes to it, you’ll have my sparr axe. I won’t let the bloodline die on my watch.”
“That old, rusted butter knife is still around? Christ, Iain. That thing was falling apart seven hundred years ago. It must be in shambles,” Ezra smirks.
Seven hundred years? Wait, just how far back does Ezra and Iain’s tense friendship go?
Iain reaches into thin air and pulls out an axe straight from a nightmare.
Louie perks up so fast she nearly launches herself out of the chair.
I swear I can see her nonexistent tail wagging wildly, leaving chaos in its wake.
“Eh? You like this wee hound? Come over later, and I’ll give you a proper demonstration,” Iain purrs.
Louie crosses her arms and sits back in her chair with a huff. But her eyes, wide and bright with curiosity, stay fixed on the shining black blade.
Ezra waves a hand, completely unimpressed.
“Yes, yes. Congratulations on your massive pointy stick. Now put it away so we can actually accomplish something.”
“Say it, Ezra,” Iain growls, a menacing smile spreading across his face.
“Fuck off, wrakh. I will not say that.” Ezra’s body tenses, his jaw popping from the pressure.
“That’s fine, Ez. Then no magic, no wards, no help. The little blackbird can figure all of this out on her own, I’m sure.”
Iain runs his finger along the blade of his axe, then winks at Louie.
Louie immediately grabs the nearest object—a tiny taxidermy mouse standing upright in a hand-stitched waistcoat and top hat, mid–Puttin’ on the Ritz—and hurls it directly at the wrakh’s face.
“Motherfucker. Fine.You’re the better lover.”
“What was that, Ez? Didn’t quite hear you.”
Ezra glares at Iain with so much hatred, it makes my stomach cramp.
His shadows, clearly insulted on his behalf, twitch violently. One of them even slaps the table with enough force to rattle the teacups, then sulks into the floor.
Ezra clears his throat then says loudly, “I said, you’re the better lover, you smug piece of shit.”
