Is our father among them yet?
I refocus on my brothers, just in time to catch Knight’s jaw tick as he leans forward, expression unreadable but eyes narrowed. Always calculating. Always quiet.
Sinner’s sharp laugh cuts the air, shattering the tension. He drowns the last gulp from a gnarled black bottle, then slams it onto the stone with such force that the surface cracks beneath it.
“Where the hell did you go?” Creed fires first, voice cold and sharp as forged iron.
Knight’s head cocks, like a predator sniffing out a lie. “Why are you late?”
“Did you just”—Sinner grins, teeth flashing like a blade—“fuck or something?”
I chuckle low, dragging the scent of ash and adrenaline with me as I cross the obsidian-slick floor. There’s a seat waiting at the table—massive, claw-footed, carved from the remains of some long-dead Leviathan no one’s seen in over a thousand years. Its surface ripples faintly as I approach, reacting to the magic bleeding off me.
Good. It remembers who I am.
I drop into the chair and kick my boots up onto the tabletop. The moment the soles hit, the Leviathan bone snarls. It pulses a muted red beneath the translucent surface, ancient veins still humming with magic that doesn’t quite know if it wants to kill or obey.
“Relax,” I mutter to the thing. “We’ve both bled enough today.”
Creed exhales sharply through his nose. “Legend. You disappeared for days with no explanation. No word.”
I arch a brow. “Just had to go get something of mine,” I say smoothly, folding my hands behind my head. “I’m here now. Talk.”
Creed shifts his attention to the center of the table. There, the runic map of the realm softly glows. Its lines of light and shadow tracing alliances, magical disturbances, and blood-signed treaties that flare when violated.
“The Argents are frantic,” he finally says, his voice all steel and diplomacy, honed like a blade meant for council chambers, not battlefields. “The ascension of us four to the throne has left them feeling…imbalanced.”
“As they fucking should.” Sinner snaps before he can finish, swinging his leg over the arm of his throne and lounging like he’s at a gods-damned tavern instead of one of the four most powerful seats in the known realm. “We don’t need them. I say we kill them all. Or just wait for whoever is going around killing our people to do it for us.”
Killings? That’s news to me.
Creed ignores him, but I see the way his jaw tightens when my head swings his way in question. His attempt at maintaining his patience makes me want to poke harder. Sinner’s wrong though: the Argents are as important for the ecosystem of Rathe as we are. You know…we gotta eat.
“We can’t have the alleys of Rathe painted in blood being the first thing documented in the Archives of Aether,” he goes on, voice clipped.
The Archives of Aether. I tried to read them once by breaking into the sacred lair with the help of a witch. But the moment I touched the scrolls that magically record every aspect of a king’s reign, I was flung through the wall. I landed on my ass on the floor of my father’s torture chambers, hellhound leashes whipping me from every direction.
My father laughed and watched. Then he poured me a drink and asked if I’d ever do it again.
I miss the king.
Creed continues. “If the scribes start recording this reign as a massacre of magic blood, we may never gain the alliances we need to solidify our rule.”
I snort. “So don’t start a massacre. Easy.”
Sinner laughs again.
Creed doesn’t blink. “Four bodies have been found as of two moons ago. All Stygian born. All savagely murdered in their own homes. Homes here in Rathe.”
I sit forward, a frown pulling at my brows. “You would know this,” he continues, “if you didn’t run off and block us out the minute you crossed back into Rathe with that outsider.” He eyes me curiously as his powers brush against my temple, attempting to enter my mind. I block him out, oddly fatigued by the effort to do so. “You are a King now; you can’t disappear only to come back and hide away while waiting for your newest toy to wake the fuck up.”
Sinner smirks. “Next time just don’t dose her up so high.”
“There won’t be a next time. She is here now, as am I, so tell me what we know.”
Creed frowns in my direction but gets us back on track. “Nothing. That’s the problem. So far, they seem random, but we have Vicente looking deeper and checking their ancestry line for clues or connections.”
“It’s the Argents.” I shrug. “You said it yourself: they feel threatened. They want to force doubt into the minds of our people. Make them question if we can handle taking over after Father’s death.”
