The courtyard beyond was carved directly from the mesa's interior. A circular space hollowed from rock, open to the burning sky above. Bloodstone paved the ground, its surface polished to a brightness that gleamed like fresh wounds.
Carved doorways punctured the walls at ground level, passages leading deeper into the fortress. Walkways and balconies spiraled up the interior, each level connected by staircases carved from the cliff. Warriors lined every level, watching.
Weapons covered every available surface. Not stored but displayed. Swords mounted on walls within arm's reach. Spear racks positioned at intervals. Axes, maces, and morning stars arranged like artwork but clearly functional. Every decoration doubled as an armory.
The design was efficient in a way that made her skin prickle. The courtyard walls funneled desert winds, creating ventilation despite the enclosed space. The circular design eliminated corners whereattackers could take cover. The multiple levels provided firing positions at every height.
Warriors moved along the upper walkways. Men and women who carried themselves with the confidence of those who'd never known defeat. Every single one had died in battle and chosen to continue fighting in death.
Every single one had their eyes on Brynn, and none of them were being subtle about it.
She kept her spine straight. Let them look.
"The Reaper." One guard called down from a second-level balcony, voice carrying across stone. "And his...companion."
The pause before the word was surgical. Designed to diminish.
Dante's shadows darkened visibly. The temperature plummeted even through the blazing heat, and the guard's smile faltered for just a moment before he recovered it.
Brynn filed that reaction away. The Reaper's shadows responded to insults aimed at her the same way they responded to direct threats. Interesting. Dangerous. Something she absolutely should not find as satisfying as she did.
"Lady Seraphina awaits in the throne room." The guard's composure had returned, but his eyes kept flicking to the shadows pooling at Dante's feet. "She's looking forward to seeing your mortal."
Yourmortal. Like she was a pet. A possession.
Brynn held the guard's gaze until he looked away first. Small victory. The only kind available when you were walking into a fortress designed to break armies and all you had was a sharp tongue and borrowed leather armor.
Dante moved toward the carved doorway. His shadows followed, pulling away from her. Desert sun hit her full force for three brutal seconds before the darkness lurched back, wrapping around her without his permission.
He didn't turn around. But his shoulders went rigid.
She followed him into the fortress without a word.
XXXIV.
BRYNN
The walls were lined with weapons mounted in glass cases. Swords with nicked blades, war hammers dark with stains, spears still bearing fragments of the armor they'd pierced. Tattered banners hung from iron brackets, their fabric torn and bloodstained, displaying heraldry of dead armies.
Every single display was a trophy. A kill. A conquest.
The Death Lords really committed to their aesthetics. She'd give them that.
Brynn took it all in. The spacing of the displays, the positioning of certain weapons for quick access even behind the glass, the corridor designed to intimidate while remaining functional.
The heat wasn't helping. Sweat still clung to her skin beneath the leathers, making her aware of how exposed she felt here. How mortal. Seraphina wasn't just showing off. Every visitor would understand exactly what kind of power they faced before reaching the throne room.
Dante walked beside her, close enough that his shadows brushed the edge of her boots. She didn't know if that was intentional or if his darkness was doing that thing again—reaching for her when he wasn't paying attention.
She told herself she wasn't paying attention either.
But she'd noticed his hands. Gloved fingers flexing once when they'd crossed into Seraphina's territory, then going deliberately still. Like he was reminding himself to stay controlled.
She wondered what it cost him. All that restraint, all the time.
The throne room opened before them like a cavern carved from red stone. Columns of marble supported the vaulted ceiling, but between them, two-handed swords had been driven point-first into the floor, their crossguards forming archways. Shields hung on the walls like coins, some split clean in half, others bearing the dents and gouges of last stands.
The air tasted of metal and old blood.
