“King Tyran is requesting your presence at once,” he says, chin held high and undeterred.
I give a dramatic wave of my arm. “Then by all means, lead the way. Can’t keep Tyran waiting.”
Loric quickly hurries from the training yard, carefully weaving around the sparring bodies as if afraid one might touch him. I almost hope someone knocks into him—or at least kicks some dirt his way—just to see him squirm as his pristine outfit gets soiled.
Keeping pace is effortless. He can’t be taller than five feet, I imagine, while my six-two frame eats up the space between us with ease.
We make our way through the stone palace halls lined with gilded chandeliers and ornate paintings depicting long-dead kings and their victories. Servants pause to bow in respect as we pass. Guards offer simple nods of acknowledgement. The courtesans and ladies of the court, however, are much more entertaining. Their thoughts did not need to be read. The way their eyes seemed to devour me says enough. Everyone knows I don’t commit, but my bed was by no means empty.
At 206 years old, my lifespan feels endless. Mage blood keeps me looking no more than thirty, and I’m well aware that my features are considered attractive. When you’re nearly immortal, attachments lose their meaning; the world is plentiful. The world is mine to take, and I hunger for more. I refuse to limit myself.
Finally, we reach the massive golden doors, a garish testament to King Tyran’s excessive tastes. They swing open revealing the king himself, perched on his throne like a dragon atop his horde. He’s dripping in gold—robes, jewelry, even the hefty crown atop his head of cascading golden curls that flow down to his shoulders. His bright blue eyes lock on me, lighting up like a child’s.
“Cage!” His grin stretches wide, rounding his cheeks as he clasps his hands and leans back into his throne. “Thank you for coming.”
I smirk, raising a brow. “I had an option not to?” My tone is playful as I step deeper into the room.
Loric bows and slips away, a signal that this isn’t just another of Tyran’s casual summons.
“No, of course not. I am being polite.” Tyran replies, his grin never wavers.
“Ah yes. What a shining example of royal decorum, Your Highness,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I cross the room to the empty throne beside him, the one that’s been vacant for years.
He’s only twenty-eight, thrust into power when his father died, and the weight of the crown hasn’t done a damn thing to curb his appetite. An heir was needed soon, but the man can’t seem to settle—or keep his dick in his pants long enough to make it happen.
Tyran doesn’t even try to hide the dramatic eye roll my retort earns him. Not that he could. Felix did everything with a flair for theatrics.Diva.
“Now, Black, we have business to discuss,” he says, rubbing his hands like a scheming rat. It’s exactly the kind of gesture he makes when he is up to something.
“You mean you’re scheming?” I lean back in the chair, propping my elbow up on the armrest and resting chin on my fist as I cross my ankle over my knee.
“Why are my plans called schemes but yours and the commander’s aren’t?” he asks, looking genuinely affronted, like he’s about to pout.
“Because we actually plan. There are steps, clearly defined, and we have a goal,” I say, staring him down. “We don’t drink so much wine that we grab a quill and come up with a master plan to take over the continent while calculating how many bastard sons we can produce in a week by impregnating every woman we meet.”
Tyran huffs in protest, “I get drunk one time and have a master plan, and now it’s thrown into my face! Gods above! Live a little!” He sinks into his chair, sulking like a petulant child before mumbling, “I could impregnate so many it is not...illogical…just give me rest breaks.”
Suppressing a laugh, I wave a hand to redirect the conversation, “So, what’s this business?”
Tyran perks up immediately, turning to face me with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me brace for whatever absurdity he’s about to unleash. “We’re at war with the North. They’re annoying. I’ve been thinking about power, how we get more of it. So far, more mages have been a huge help.”
He pauses, dragging it out far too long for my liking. I know better than to interrupt. He’ll start over from the beginning. I truly do not have the patience for both training guards and Felix’s theatrics today.
“Witches,” he whispers, as if the word itself is forbidden. “For centuries, we’ve hunted and burned them, but they’re strong. What if we could bridge the gap, find something they want and use it to get them to comply? Think about it, Cage. They’re half fucking demon!” His eyes light up filled with exuberance.
My chest tightens, burning from the fury that is spreading like wildfire inside of me. I tense. My hand flexes against the cool golden armrest.
“Iris has made herself at home here just fine,” Tyran continues, oblivious to my growing anger. “Her skill set has been incredibly useful, especially in our current situation.”
“No,” I say, my voice sharp and final. The word leaves no room for argument.
Tyran’s grin falters, but only for a moment before he recovers, “Well, I’m the king, so…yes. I will want you to train and keep an eye on them.”
Like hell I will.“No.” My interruption is sharp, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You sit here reading texts and hearing stories about what they used to be. I lived with them—for a time. They’re insanely powerful, lethal, and they do not care for human life.”
Memories flash behind my eyes: the fucking white-haired bitch tying me to a stone altar, her knife running over my flesh, unzipping my skin until my blood flowed freely. I was weak.
Tyran raises his hands in surrender, his palms up like white flags. “Look, I know you were with them for a time, but—”
