“It clings to you like a shroud.”
Leth clenches his shaking hands against his thighs, hating himself for showing weakness before his god. But he has no hope of hiding his trembling, just like he has no hope of hiding the traces he never thought would be a problem. He’s never used demonic magic—but there’s a demon-bound mage in the Locksmiths.
Leth’s stomach drops. After everything he’s been through, everything he’s done, if he loses his chance for Valor because of the insufferable Evain Marha—
“But it matters not.” Darkness gathers around Ka Dravos. “Too long have I been a sword locked in its scabbard, and I am weary of all bindings. I will wander now, and while I wander, I will not contract with you. Nor will I contract with any other mortal.”
His words are cold and final, and ring so loud Leth can’t understand them at first. Then he does: Ka Dravos isn’t just rejecting him.
Ka Dravos is rejectingeveryone.
Leth opens his mouth, but the air slams down on him, cutting off his heart’s plea before it reaches his lips. Pressure blackens his vision and rings in his ears. Seizes his lungs.
Then vanishes. Ka Dravos is gone.
Leth falls forward, palms on the cold marble. His heart feels cold as marble too, as the full truth hits him: he betrayed his family for nothing.
Numb, Leth rises to his feet. He leaves the Dravansword on the altar and walks out of the chapel.
***
Evain lounges on the rooftop balcony of the third-finest brothel in Ostaris, and inhales. The night sky is rich with power. Answered prayers, contracts formed and broken. Smoke and sky, magic and starlight, crisp as sparkling wine down his throat.
None of it is the sort of power that feeds his own. Evain’s needs are far more base than moonlight and prayer; he thrives on human lust. The stronger a person’s desire for him, the more powerful he becomes. But the esoteric, divine flavors are interesting, and the ramifications even more so. Far away to the north, he feels a barrier wavering.
For nearly two hundred years, the Northern Barrier has protected Charain from the wild magic and demons that plague neighboring Lyrisenia. But no enchantment made by human hands can last forever.
Evain’s unbound black hair scatters over his shoulders, rippling occasionally in the wind. He twists a long strand of it between his fingers. His fingernails are blunt and perfectly manicured, carefully transformed to hide his natural claws. A similar spell conceals his crimson eyes. Though he’s alone on the rooftop, he can’t be too careful. It wouldn’t do for someone to realize Evain isn’t actually a human mage sworn to a desire demon. He hasn’t killed a demon to keep its powers or locked it safely away in an array.
He’s the desire demon himself. His true name, Aevendaris, has never been spoken by human lips.
Evain smiles in anticipation. The Charaini orders will need some time to recover from the shock of the Unbinding. Evain will give them at least a month before making his move.
After two hundred years of traveling the world, it’s almost time to return to Lyrisenia. He has some cleaning up to do.
?
CHAPTER ONE
LETH
The winter wind rattles the spell beads in Leth’s hair, giving him something to think about besides the way everyone stares at him. Clad in plain black from gloves to boots, he stands out like a blot of ink among the gray and green uniforms outside Fort Tarhaeg. Soldiers hasten to load a caravan of supply carts—enough to support a troop of thirty soldiers.
There are thirty soldiers in Anton’s elite guard.
Leth isn’t sure what he’s doing here. He doesn’t know what he wants to say to Anton. But this could be his last chance to clear the air for a long time.
Six weeks after the Unbinding, Fort Tarhaeg looks the same as ever. An imposing compound on the outskirts of Ostaris, half military complex and half ancestral noble home. The great bronze and stone gate is open, and soldiers with green cloaks and bronze wolf’s head belt buckles stand guard, their postures stiff with well-trained arrogance.
Perhaps Leth only imagines the dark circles around some soldiers’ eyes. Adjusting to the sudden severance of their divine contracts can’t be easy.
Their rehearsed postures waver to gawk at Leth. Everyone recognizes him, and Leth imagines their thoughts all echo with the same word: traitor. A few spit on the ground as he passes, but nobody stops him. Leth is almost disappointed to cross the courtyard unimpeded. Maybe his tightly-wound nerves would ease with a good fight.
Past the barracks and stables sits the keep itself, and it’s there that Leth is finally stopped.
“Never thought I’d see Leth ka Tariel crawling back home.” A lean man crosses his arms in the doorway. A rough blond beard covers his weak chin, and the green and bronze trim on his uniform marks him as an adjutant. “Sorry, have they stripped the name from you yet?”
Revulsion twists Leth’s stomach. Javius Orst is Anton’s closest friend and most loyal lackey—and the man directly responsible for keeping Leth out of the army six years ago. Now he stands in the doorway of Leth’s childhood home, barring him at the threshold.
