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It’s nearly impossible to prevent my jaw from dropping. “Pardon?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

“You wish for the Mors Soluta to kill Adelphi’s Sacrifice?” I ask in disbelief.

“I am one of the Seven, Quill.” His pink-stained mouth curls into a sadistic grin. “I do not wish for anything. I command, and it is so.”

We punish the nefarious. Not those groomed from birth and destined for death simply to increase the mortal kings’ power.

I choose my words carefully. “My kindred and I do not spill innocent blood. Respectfully, I believe other assassins would be better suited for this request. Perhaps Blade or Viatrix?”

“The Mors Soluta is the best of the best.” His words hold a mocking edge, and my every instinct urges me to rebel against him. We are the best of the best. Because we follow our godsdamned code. “You will do as I command or so help me⁠—”

“It is against our vow, Mihal.”

“You dare interrupt me?” He’s a blur of movement. Seated on a stolen throne one moment, standing before me the next. One hand wraps around my throat. The scent of innocent blood wafts from his lips. “You dare question me? Things may have been different when your sire ruled this court, but it is mine now, and as vampire supreme, you will bend to my every whim. You are far too stubborn and defiant for your own good, Quill. It makes you weak.”

As if to punctuate this declaration, he hurls me across the room into a table riddled with candles. It topples over, wax splattering against the polished marble floors and coating me in its thick, cedar scent. It masks the intoxicating allure of blood as I breathe it in, grounding myself.

How dare he assault me, knowing any retribution I give against him is an immediate death sentence in whatever way the Seven sees fit. It’s always painful and never a noble way to go. His cowardice and irreverence ignite a barely checked rage that simmers beneath my skin. My fangs spring free of their own volition as the urge to defend myself, my honor, rushes forth. I reach for the silver-tipped blade tucked into my boots without thinking and pause as Godrick’s words from long ago echo throughout my mind.

The answer to violence is not violence.

I leave the blade where it is. Slowly, I rise, desperate to de-escalate this before I do something that costs me my life. Or worse, the life of someone I love.

“Why are you asking this of us, Mihal?” I ask exasperatedly. “It’s been centuries since Catalin⁠—”

“Do not speak her name,” he growls, enunciating every word with a sharp snap of his razor-edged teeth. “You do not know the loss of a mate, and you will never understand what it does to your soul.”

“Godrick hadn’t meant⁠—”

“She shouldn’t have been with you in the first place.”

Guilt ebbs through me. “We never⁠—”

“Besides, it does not matter what Godrick meant to do during his rage, Quill. She is gone.” He remains where he is across the room, lips tilting up into a menacing grin. “And so is he by my own hands, and unless you intend to Challenge me for my seat on the Council of Seven, you will do as I command.” He pauses, eyes boring into me. “Kneel.”

I am Quill Godrickson, son of Godrick the First, and I kneel for no one.

Rage blazes through me. “No.”

“You will,” he says lethally. “Because I am benevolent, I will give you a choice. Either you kneel now, and the Mors Soluta infiltrates Adelphi to kill the sacrifice tonight, or the four of you will meet your true deaths by dawnbreak. Which will you choose, I wonder?”

Fucking bastard.

Chapter 3

RORY

I tug my cloak tighter around my shoulders and stride into Gild the Lily.

The small boutique is tucked into a quaint pocket of the East Quarter, where only the wealthy can afford to spend their coin on the luxury clothes, jewelry, and desserts that are offered here. Whereas, if I venture several blocks to the West Quarter, I’ll find myself in a seedy area where the air is thick with the scent of copper and, on most nights, the streets run red with blood.

Warm air greets my wind-chapped cheeks, and a shiver of dread pimples my skin. I muster up a smile as Cress rushes toward me.

“There you are!” She envelops me in a firm hug, dark skin glowing beneath the witchlights. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“And miss out on a dress tailored specifically for my death?” I tease, unfastening my cloak and tossing it over the wired mannequin that’s as empty inside as I am most days. The bag of coins weighing heavily in my pocket rattles against the metal. “You can blame my father for my tardiness. He decided the guard he trusts most today is Brutus”—I grimace and gesture outside at the formidable bear of a man currently blocking the entrance—“who is ridiculously slow.”