His movements were soft, tentative, unthreatening. His gentle, lilting voice a reminder of how harmless he was.
How mortal and weak and trustworthy.
All lies, of course.
His mother’s silence filled the tempestuous air. Stolas had seen more powerful males than this crumble beneath her stare, but the Demon Prince simply stared back into those twin pools of darkness.
His mother ran a delicate finger over her chin. “Your request puts my kingdom at great risk.”
Raziel hesitated before responding, “I was told the Wolf of the Skies feared no one.”
Insolent bastard.
Violence poured from his mother’s very being as she leaned forward in her throne, her head ticking to the side. “Princeling, the endless magick of this land surges through my veins. Only Odin and Freya possess more power. But the Demon Lords’ fury would spill over to my people, and I very much doubt your offer could compensate for their bloodshed.”
“And if it could?” the Prince of Ash purred with that melodic voice and those warm, alluring eyes.
Stolas caught the faint feathering in his mother’s sharp jaw.
“Look around you, Demon Prince.” The empress’s hand glided over the air to indicate the vast sweep of land around them; a mist-shrouded territory of jagged, snowy peaks as black as the sea. The famed Castle Starpiercer protruded from the ocean of clouds and mist like a dark spear. “What can you possibly have that we do not already possess in abundance?”
For a heartbeat, the glamour around the Prince of Ash faltered. Long enough for Stolas to make out the strangely otherworldly face; ethereal and haunting features that would undoubtedly appeal to any female in this realm—if not for the inhuman yellow eyes, bluish-silver skin, and slender pointed ears.
“They claim your teeth are as jagged as these peaks,” Raziel purred. “Your appetite for blood and carnage as eternal as the waves below. And yet . . . I see what you desire above all else.”
The empress’s eyes glittered with violent delight as she arched a graceful silver-white brow. “And what is that, Princeling?”
If Raziel guessed wrong, it would be an insult. And his mother would end him and be done with this foolish game.
Stolas’s incisors glided into position, his throat tight with need.
He’d never tasted a Demon Lord’s magick before.
The Prince of Ash must have felt the danger swirling around him. And yet . . . the bastard grinned as he answered, “Peace. The Wolf of the Skies longs for peace.”
Stolas would have laughed—almost did laugh—if not for the strange look in his mother’s face.
Her wings flared, sending cups flying to topple into the void, and she surged into the sky with such force that the mountains around them shook.
It was all the answer the Demon Lord would get tonight. But Stolas was left feeling slightly untethered.
Peace. The word ricocheted through his skull like a curse.
Peace.
Peace was dangerous. Treasonous. A death sentence. Peace meant no more battles. No more prisoners to trade to the Demon Lords. If they discovered his mother’s longing for an end to the Shadow War . . . if Odin suspected . . .
Or his favorite pet, Morgryth—
Snarling, Stolas took to the sky, unable to shake the heavy feeling of fate locking into place like a chain slowly, slowly sliding around his neck.
1
By the time the booming ring of the giant bells atop the guard towers reached Haven Ashwood, she was already out of bed and clad in her knee-high boots, wool-lined pants, and long-sleeved tunic. Demelza said nothing as she helped Haven outfit her weapons, which had been conveniently laid out last night on her bedside table.
Demelza’s rare silence was almost as unnerving as the peal of the bells. It was a macabre ritual, unfortunately. One that Haven prayed every night never came. So far, her prayers had gone mostly unanswered.
But tonight was the first night there were screams. Which meant the intruders had broken past the tower wards . . .
“Faster,” Haven hissed as Demelza plunged the final weapon—a short sword—into the leather sheath at her thigh.
Haven spun around to face Demelza. The woman’s tight curls haloed a face weary from nights such as this. The deep grooves marching across her craggy forehead and spiderwebbing the corners of her eyes were noticeably deeper, her thin lips bracketed by worried lines.
“Must you go out again?” her lady’s maid asked.
“I must. But you’ll be safe here.” Haven nodded to the shadows flickering outside the windows.