Alexei’s smirk widened into a crazed smile, his fangs popping.
“Your father is here.”
* * *
One glanceat those storm-cloud gray wings spread across an arched window, the pink undertones illuminated by the sunrise over red sand dunes, and Cael didn’t even feel one-tenth of his one-hundred-and-ninety-two years.
He was a youngling again, desperate to win the approval and affection of the ancient Fae male before him. Beams of morning light glinted off the male’s braided copper hair as his dark gray eyes bolted towards his son with the force of a crossbow.
Those eyes—Cael’s eyes—betrayed no flicker of emotion as they swept across Cael’s lone wing. Not a single question or word of comfort parted Arran Zephryus’s lips as he tucked his own wings and stalked towards the long stone table. He pulled out a chair and took a seat across from Maksym, who was flanked by six Deathstalkers with popped fangs. An aggressive display, though Cael’s father showed no hint of fear.
And he’d come alone.
Message sent.
Cael didn’t dare display the return of his power. Not until he figured out what the fuck his father was doing here and why he hadn’t already slaughtered Maksym and his tiny band of cronies.
“I told you,” Maksym began, “that he was alive. And unharmed.”
“Unharmed?” Arran asked, his bass-deep voice rattling Cael’s bones. “He’s missing awing.”
Maksym shrugged. “An unavoidable consequence.”
Arran sniffed, stroking his long copper beard and blooming a shower of red dust onto the stone table as he grated his stormy gaze over Cael.
He flicked his eyes back to Maksym. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you now for what you’ve done to him.”
Maksym raised his hand, green light sparking at his fingertips. “If there wasn’t something else you wanted, you would have done so already. Wouldn’t have agreed to this parlay when my scouts met your party out in the desert.”
Arran crossed his arms over his broad chest and flared his wings. Sent a gust of wind across the table that extinguished Maksym’s sparks. “Save your party tricks for someone else, Rosopa. One windwhisper from me and the Brachian warriors on-call less than a mile away will swoop in and tear this fortress, and you, to pieces. Your lightning magic will do nothing against our weapons.”
Cael knew his father wasn’t lying. All of Ethyrios’s most powerful weapons were produced in Brachos. The peak represented on their sigil was Typhon Mountain, the origin of the very steel that had stolen Cael’s wing. Not to mention many other killing devices—stun pistols, magic-seeking missiles, and a very deadly, portable bomb the size of a plum, crafted from wind magic and Deathstalker venom.
Cael often wondered why his father had invested so heavily in weapons manufacturingafterthe war. There had been little demand during these past five centuries of peace. The stun pistols and Typhon steel were occasionally purchased by law enforcement, both on the continent and in the colonies, but magic-seeking missiles? Tiny bombs that could level a building? What was the point of those?
Maksym placed his hands in his lap, patiently waiting for Arran to continue.
“The continent has been a powder keg since Eamon Erabis took the throne,” Arran said. “You think you’re the only player who’s trying to hasten his downfall? He’s a lazy leader, nothing like his father Leonin. Keeps himself holed up in that palace in Delos and has done nothing to set the tone for his reign. The ruling families in Cernodas and Akti have been begging him to help quash the rebel activity in their territories, to no avail. There is a power vacuum, and the vultures are swirling. Should your plan succeed, it might just be the very thing to set the entire continent alight.”
“Should my plan succeed?” Maksym leaned forward. “Why, High Councilor Zephyrus, I thought you had come here to stop me?”
“I let the Emperor believe what he wants to believe. War would be a boon for my territory. Our weapons make us powerful. But a wartime marketplace? That will make usrich. We’ve been stockpiling for centuries, waiting for a moment like this. And I fully plan to cash out.” He rose from his chair. “So lucky for you, I’ve only come here to collect my son. I’ll leave you to your plans. If you succeed, come see me when you need the weapons to carry them out. But be warned, I’ll be selling them toyourenemies as well.”
Maksym laughed, a swallowed, clicking sound, and shook his head. “You think yourEmperorwill allow that?”
A wicked smile curved Arran’s lips. “My guess is he’ll be too distracted to care.”
“Very well,” Maksym clapped his hands together. “I’ve no use for your son anyways, other than as leverage to keep his little human doing my bidding.”
Arran’s gaze snapped to Cael, a low snarl bubbling from his throat. “Human?”
Cael squared his shoulders and held his father’s stare as the lie unspooled effortlessly. “She means nothing to me.”
This exchange had not gone how Cael had expected, though he’d admit to being well removed from the goings-on on the continent for the past century and a half.
Before Cael had arrived in the colonies, Leonin Erabis had ruled the land not only with strength, but with the kind of respect that earned loyalty. And though Cael had never met Tristan’s brother, he was aware of Eamon’s treachery, of the betrayal that had led to Tristan’s exile. Seems the male hadn’t changed, losing more allies than he’d made during the two years of his rule.
Arran proffered a dusty hand, which Maksym stood and shook. “Best of luck in yourendeavors, Rosopa.”
