Stolas Darkshade stifled the urge to prowl from the worn stone chair holding him captive, unfurl his restless wings, and ride one of the blasts of howling wind into the steely sky. Only his mother’s gaze, flinty and crackling with power, convinced him what a bad idea that would be. Perched on a dark throne made to accommodate her glorious midnight wings, the Seraphian Empress commanded the head of the circular onyx table—and the rapt attention of every single guest.
The empress’s laugh carried on the violent breeze, and Stolas slid his bored gaze to his mother. As always, her wings drew his focus.
Five attendants were required nightly to clean and oil them, and when a quill was shed, it was burned in the eternal fires deep below their palace, in the hollow caves made by the first Noctis.
Clad in delicate armor as dark as her onyx feathers, her razor-sharp features were trained on the Demon Lord to her right, Kazaack Nightfell, and his son, Raziel, the Prince of Ash.
But her mother’s attention was solely on him.
Leave this table, she purred into his mind, and I will strip those soft downy things you call wings and leave them nothing more than shreds of leather and bone.
The warning in her voice couldn’t quite mask her affection for him. It was no secret that he was his mother’s favorite. Perhaps because she hated these affairs as much as he did.
Not everyone shares your scathing assessment of my appendages, he teased, sliding a look toward Lord Kazaack’s mistress. The demonai female to his right had stared openly at Stolas since she was seated.
Her lips tilted upward, revealing the sharp silver teeth all demonai sported. Dark red clung to the silver.
The practice of sangui mortus, or blood-letting of lesser creatures, had been shunned by the Seraphians since ancient times. But those from the Demon Realm of Niefgard still practiced the savage custom.
His nostrils flared as he caught the scent of the half-congealed blood settled inside the demonai’s glass. Solis, by the floral and coppery scent. Laden with copious amounts of fear.
A sharp prick in his gums heralded the descent of his fangs.
She noticed the change, a look of triumph overcoming her face.
He returned the smile, taking great pleasure in imagining the sound her bones would make as he snapped them. The only thing more satisfying would be the fear in her eyes as he tossed her into the void and then watched her body break upon the rocks below.
Hide your loathing, son, his mother purred, or I will pluck out those beautiful eyes from your useless head.
How can you tolerate them? They’re almost as loathsome as the Golemites.
The Golemites were the parasitical creatures who scurried in the deepest recesses of the Netherworld. They lived off the magick of souls and blood of the living, off fear and terror and every emotion in between.
They serve a purpose, his mother reminded him. When that purpose is done, they will slink back to their realm.
Downing a pull of his spiced wine, Stolas turned his attention to Lord Kazaack. The Demon Lord had finally gotten past the pleasantries and was discussing the reason they were all gathered: trading for more demons to aid in their never-ending war with the Solis and mortals.
As he neared the end of the negotiations, his features softened, his voice changing, becoming more melodic.
The negotiation price was much more favorable to the Seraphians than it should have been.
“Why would you offer such agreeable terms?” His mother’s question hung in the cool, briny air, thick with lethal promise.
If this was a trick, the Demon Lord, his son, and his entire court’s black blood would feed the greedy sea below.
Kazaack’s son, the Prince of Ash, drew his lips back in a bland smile. “We want all of your prisoners.”
So the notorious Prince Raziel speaks.
Raziel’s mastery of the Seraphian language was flawless, his features pleasant and voice honeyed and soothing. Yet none of that changed the enormity of what the Court of Nightfell was asking.
To trade with only one of the Demon Lords would be an act bordering on war.
Stolas studied the Demon Prince carefully.
All of the Demon Lords and their retinue took great care to hide their true natures and features from those in this realm, masking both behind layers of magick. To every eye but the most powerful, they appeared almost human.
The Prince of Ash had chosen the façade of a golden-haired boy with kind brown eyes and a mouth quick to smile. His tunic, while finely