The black-paneled walls are painted with vertical rows of deep crimson roses. On the opposite side of the room sits a bronze throne, ornately carved with sharp armrests made of swords.
And seated upon the throne is my father—Lord of Shadows, ferrier of souls to the depths of the Vale, and bringer of darkness. He’s clothed in black robes that sweep to the ground. A gold chest plate crisscrosses over his heart, connecting to sharp, matching shoulder plates that spike upwards off his body.
But what scares me most—what causes my heart to freeze in my chest—is the mask he bears: a wyvern skull fitted perfectly, with long horns that curl slightly together at the top, a hood pulled up just behind them.
It’s much smaller than any wyvern I’ve seen, which only causes the pit in my stomach to grow. Nausea roils through my body as the wyvern-scaled armor he gave me weighs heavily on my shoulders.
He sits relaxed in his throne, one hand dangerously positioned over the blade armrests, while the other rests beneath his chin.
I can’t see his eyes, can’t look for a flicker of emotion that I likely won’t find. All I can do is walk forward, the crowd parting for me as hushed whispers swirl in the air. They close in tighterwhen I’m halfway to Daimon’s throne, their eyes hungry and beady and venomous.
If they want to see me scared, they’ll have to try harder than that. I’ve spent my life being looked down on by those who thought they were better than me—half of them simply because I’m a woman.
But I’ll be damned if that happens here.
I push my shoulders back, letting them look. If it’s a spectacle they want, then I’ll give them exactly that. With a steadying breath, I meet their gazes as I pass. Some shove each other out of the way, claws slicing scaled flesh as fights begin to break out.
The path they made for me slims as they close in—far too close for comfort.
A dark creature with swirling shadows enveloping its form steps toward me, its slightly transparent hand reaching for me.
I bare my teeth and snarl, my ears pulling back slightly.
The shadowy being pauses and cocks its head to the side, assessing me. Everything slows to a halt, the other attendees pausing to watch the exchange.
Well, fuck.
Just when I’m beginning to wonder how much control Daimon has over hisguests, pearly white teeth gleam on the creature’s face. It’s smiling. A gurgling sound burbles forth—something akin to a laugh.
The path between Daimon and me widens, leaving more room for me to walk through. When I start toward the throne again, I notice all of the creatures grinning at me, looks of glee mirrored across their faces.
My pulse quickens as I get a clear view of the throne and what’s below.Who’sbelow.
Graylen and Opal.
She has her arm threaded through his, and his gaze is set ahead—eyes blank and uncaring. Opal is watching me with curiosity, her gown blush-pink and puffy. It causes her to stickout oddly, the gown more fitting for a ball in Crea than the Shadow Realm.
I reach the bottom of Daimon’s dais, pausing before six steps that raise him on a platform above the crowd.
Graylen doesn’t even look my way as I stop.
“Welcome to the heart of the Shadow Lands, Lunaria,” Daimon greets, his voice deep and commanding. It quiets the crowd immediately, an eerie silence abruptly falling over the room. “Please, come and stand with me.” He sweeps his arm out to the side. “An heir should stand beside her future throne.”
I consider ignoring him and staying put, but there are things I need to know. With my eyes fixed on his skull mask, I walk up the steps.
When I’m positioned beside him, he waves his hand lazily at the crowd, and the party continues.
My gaze finds Graylen and Opal again, where she’s now whispering into his ear. His snake slithers around their feet, winding in and out of their legs. I beg for him to turn around, to feel me behind him with an awareness he used to have.
But he doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge me.
Someone walks up the stairs to us—they could almost pass as human if it weren’t for the curled horns protruding from their head.
The creature gives Daimon a silver chalice rimmed with rubies at the top. Daimon pushes the wyvern skull back, his eyes visible but revealing nothing, and takes a sip from the cup. From where I’m standing, I can see the thick crimson liquid sloshing around in it.
My body pales when the metallic scent hits me.
Daimon is drinkingblood.
