"Denied."
The noble's head snapped up. "But my lord, you haven't heard?—"
"I don't need to." Dante's shadows coiled tighter. Whatever the request, the answer would be the same. It always was. "Whatever you want, the answer is no. Dismissed."
"My lord, please, if I could just explain?—"
The temperature in the hall dropped ten degrees. Frost spread across the floor toward the pleading noble, who stumbled backward with a strangled sound.
"You're still here," Dante observed. "I was certain I'd dismissed you."
The noble fled.
Dante watched him go, his expression unchanged. His shadows flickered with irritation. The fool had been making petitions for seventy years, always wanting something, always believing persistence would be rewarded. It wouldn't. But he would return next month with some new plea, and the answer would be no then too.
Persistence wasn't a virtue. It was just another form of stupidity.
Three more petitions followed. Resources. Mercy for some old punishment. Expansion into the outer territories. He dismissed each with a gesture, no longer bothering to listen to the details. Nothing they wanted mattered. Nothing they offered changed the fundamental truth: they were dead, he was their lord, and the hierarchy would remain intact until the end of existence.
By the time Dante dismissed the court for the day, his courtiers couldn't get away fast enough. They bowed, scraped, and backed away with movements refined by countless years of service.
None of them ever turned their backs on him. That would require trust, and the Forsaken court had no use for trust.
As the great doors closed behind the last retreating soul, Nathaniel approached and stopped at the boundary. Dante's advisor had served the court longer than most could remember.
"My lord," Nathaniel said, his translucent form more solid than most bound souls, "urgent word from the mortal realm."
"Proceed."
"The tribute selection has been completed. The ceremony is scheduled for one month from now. Your presence is requested along with the other Death Lords."
The tribute ceremony. Another decade, another mortal sacrifice, another inevitable corpse.
"All five courts are expected to attend?"
"Yes, my lord. The formal summons arrived this morning."
Dante narrowed his eyes. He hadn't bothered attending the last two. The mortals died within weeks regardless of which court claimed them, and watching the other Death Lords fight over doomed humans had lost its entertainment value an eternity ago.
"You think I should go."
It wasn't a question. Nathaniel wouldn't have brought it up otherwise.
"I think, my lord, that the other courts have noted your absence from the last two ceremonies."
Politics. Even in the realm of death, appearances mattered to those who still cared about such things.
Dante didn't. But the other Death Lords did, and ignoring them completely would create complications he didn't need.
"The tribute will die within weeks. My presence or absence changes nothing."
"Yes, my lord. But the ceremony serves other purposes. Information is shared. Alliances are maintained. And given the recent disturbances in the ward-locks..."
Nathaniel let the sentence hang unfinished. His voice had softened on that last phrase. The careful suggestion of someone who'dlearned exactly how far he could push. The old advisor had perfected the art of planting thoughts without overstepping.
Dante's fingers drummed once against the armrest. It was the only reason Nathaniel had survived this long.
"Prepare for travel," Dante said finally. "I'll attend."
