Kael’s already arranged for legions of his men—Merguards, or whatever he calls them—to fan out along the coast.
To keep watch.
To make sure no one else is touched by the darkness.
Because apparently, Idris isn’t just a power-hungry maniac.
He’s a monster for real.
It isn’t enough that he rallies SoulTakers—those things still haunt my dreams—to fight for his cursed cause, which as far as I can tell boils down to “give me the crown so I can destroy or control literally all the dreams in the multiverse.”
No. He takes it further.
He casts spells on regular people, innocent citizens, and twists them into his pawns.
My heart breaks for the countless lives stolen like that. For the families who’ll never get them back.
And it makes me wonder, just how long until the realm chooses its Prime?
Yeah, I know about that now.
I know Nightfall has always had a Prime, the one the Fates themselves crown, and that the last one fell months ago.
I know the crown sits, waiting, untouchable until it decides who’s worthy. No one can take it by force—there are magical fail safes for that.
Which sounds good in theory, except in practice it means everyone’s just waiting for destiny to make up its mind while the world burns.
And I know about Alaric’s plan.
The great and terrible scheme to use gullible human women—women like me—to trick fate, to fake azarethbond so the Lords could get their magical boon.
Yeah. That one.
Only—plot twist.
He found his real viyella in Jules, just as Kael did with me.
Sometimes I think I should be angry. Used. A pawn in some cosmic chess game I didn’t know I was playing.
But most times?
I’m just grateful.
Grateful Kael came to the aquarium that day, all storm and salt and inevitability, and decided I was his.
That he took me.
Not that I’ll tell him that.
Not yet.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Demon Lords, it’s that they don’t need any more reasons to be smug.
I’m still grinning to myself, thinking about the way Amber hums like a mother hen when she’s content, when a crash booms from the outer hall.
The sound is sharp enough to rattle the glass jars on the table.
“Oh dear, I hope Corin hasn’t made a mess,” Amber mutters, her brow furrowing.
