Eira struggled to contain the fury simmering under her skin as she awaited Theo's return with that foolish human—Caesar.
His ridiculous confidence had cost her, despite how precisely she had planned the whole thing.
The sweet fragrance in the tavern and the music drifting into her room had the opposite effect on her. Every note of the melody felt like mockery.
She wanted to kill Caesar herself, to satiate her anger.
Her ears picked up strained footsteps before the door burst open.
Finally, Theo entered, holding a decently beaten Caesar.
He looked as though he had put up a fight even though Theo was not human.
Caesar groaned as Theo tossed him to the floor before Eira.
"Leave us," Eira said.
"I don't trust this snake, mistress," Theo hissed, still staring daggers at Caesar, who struggled weakly against the pain that held him down.
"Do I look like I require protection from a human?" Eira asked, giving Theo a lethal stare.
"My apologies mistress," Theo lowered his head, subtly hiding the tightness in his jaw before he left.
Eira understood. After all, it was his supernatural ego that had burned when Caesar outsmarted him.
Eira stretched her fangs, preparing to feed as she slowly rose from the Chaise lounge.
She approached Caesar's tired, beaten form, standing above his pathetic human fragility.
"I hate to be disappointed," she said, positioning herself so her feet were directly in front of his face. "Especially after all my wasted faith in a human like you."
"P-please…" Caesar groaned, raising his head to meet her face as she bent beside him.
The scent of human blood already made her stomach churn with anticipation of his taste.
"You couldn't even sacrifice control to earn your reward, and now it has consumed you." Eira lifted his face closer to hers, her fingers gripping his chin.
She examined him—one swollen eye, a broken nose, a torn lower lip.
His determination to live still glinted in his pupils, but it was useless to her.
Even now he was a risk.
Azael had definitely seen him, which meant her plans were in danger of being exposed.
Fen would have to wait too.
Her eyes drifted to his neck. The rush of blood through his veins raced in her ears.
His courage would have added an excellent flavor.
"I can be more…" he croaked, still attempting to lift his injured body to bargain.
Eira grabbed him by the neck.
The confidence in his eyes melted, replaced with dread as he struggled in her grip.
"There is nothing more you could be than dead meat," she said evenly. "If I don't do you the favor of taking your life, Azael or the twins will."
She drew him closer. The smell of sweat and fear filled her nostrils as she found his neck.
He struggled harder, both hands clawing at her grip, but it was useless against her strength.
The music in the tavern's main room swelled, louder than before
"Even if you'll never see it that way," Eira whispered against his neck, "this is mercy compared to what they would do to you."
Her fingers tightened around his throat as she sank her fangs into the side of his neck.
His sounds muffled against her hand as she drank, not stopping until his struggles faded and his skin turned pale.
She dropped his dying body to the floor and stood, frustration tightening her chest at her stagnant plan.
Elana was now closer to Azael, making it far more difficult to reach her.
Fen would strive harder to dominate the situation, especially after her failure to deliver Elana to him.
But she was not giving up.
Eira settled back onto her chair, Caesar's body now lay still, dead before her.
She needed a distraction to infiltrate Fen's lair.
A more direct source of Azael's weakness—poison that could help her tame him—was there, and she would do all she could to reach it.
**
"Please, have mercy," Syrus pleaded as a werewolf dragged him by the leg down across the earthy forest floor toward the intimidating height of the mountain ahead.
Fear shook him to his bones. If he resisted, it would injure him—or worse, bite him.
He could not let his purpose be reduced to becoming just another werewolf.
But it was taking him somewhere. What would his fate be?
His magic was exhausted, mostly because of his injuries.
His books were gone—the incantations he had retrieved from the Ancient's castle. All gone.
He had lost them while trying to escape and failed.
Regret bubbled in Syrus' chest as they entered the mountain.
The smell of rot grew stronger.
A dried-up volcano housed hundreds of werewolves inside, snarling and growling.
He was thrown forward, scraping his nose on the base of a raised platform.
"Where are the rest?" A strong male voice thundered from ahead.
"They died before we could retrieve them, Alpha," The wolf behind him responded.
Syrus lifted his face to meet the eyes of the man seated above him on a throne carved from molten rock.
Long blonde hair.
Blue eyes fixed on him. Ivory skin, mostly bare except for a kilt around his waist like an ancient warrior.
"What is your identity, human?" The man asked, impatience sharpening his tone and forcing Syrus to lower his gaze.
"I am Syrus. A mere traveler. I wasn't aware of the—"
"Pathetic lying human," The man cut him off. "You plead for your life and still dare to attempt to deceive me."
Syrus froze. He glanced around, his mind recalculating.
Then memory flashed—the battle he'd witnessed between the Ancient and these wolves.
The larger white wolf that had attacked directly was nowhere in sight.
Realization struck as he slowly turned back to the blonde man, swallowing nervously as he recognized who he might be.
"I will not ask again," the man said, his voice rising. "What is your identity?"
Syrus did not hesitate this time.
"I am Syrus, mage of the fallen king of Lumere. The vampire that is your enemy seeks to kill me and Lumere has betrayed me.
That is why I was fleeing.
Please…have mercy."
Silence followed.
Then slow, building laughter echoed through the mountain's hollow depths, surprising Syrus.
"Indeed," the man said at last, his voice laced with dark amusement. "Fate is on my side for your doom, Azael."
**
King Victor groaned weakly as two soldiers supported him upstairs to his chambers.
The palace was mostly empty now, save for nobles who had yet to reclaim their rights after the war.
Victor was still stunned that the Ancient had agreed to let him go—because of Cara, and most importantly, the blind girl.
Syrus had lied to him. Definitely to push him into a war that would lead to his ruin.
Victor hoped the soldiers he had stationed near Syrus' home had caught him.
Else he better not be around the confines of the kingdom for his own sake.
Victor felt the comfort of his bed receive his injured body.
The soldiers left to stand guard outside his room before the medic arrived.
He reflected.
He had not expected to survive.
While Aiden searched for a way out of the forest that only seemed to grow thicker, Victor knew they were likely trapped by the Ancient's magic.
He had already given up.
When he saw Cara, he thought she was not real—that she'd come to welcome him into the afterlife.
But she had held him close to her bosom, her scent and softness familiar. He had nearly cried, but his strength had failed him even for that.
He turned his gaze toward the tall windows stretching across the room, revealing the approaching light of dawn.
The terror was over. The kingdom still stood.
The blind girl—once a slave—was now a priority to the kingdom.
So much so that the best medic in the kingdom was tending to her health before his, even as he remained King of Lumere.
Victor exhaled slowly
Power was not a crown.
It was influence. It was leverage. It was fear. It was mercy.
And he had finally learned the difference.