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“Northman,” the man responded, his accent that soft, lilting drawl of the Sels.

Náli’s pulse thrummed in his throat and temples. He swallowed and fought to keep his expression neutral.

“From which clan?” the Sel asked.

“None.” He didn’t know the best way to answer, and in his panic, the truth won out. “I’m the Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands. Necromancer of the North. Demon of the Dead.”

Bloodless lips spread in a tight grin. “That’s a lot of titles for one so small.”

Náli stood up straighter. “You’re trespassing in my magic. I don’t have to justify my titles to you.”

A single, white brow lifted. “Your magic?” He moved, and Náli did too, so they circled one another around the pillar. The light of the tricolor fire danced up the Sel’s face, casting purple shadows beneath the sharp cut of cheek and jaw. “You claim to own it, then?”

Why was this happening? How had this man – a disconcerting head and shoulders taller than him, by the way – found his way into Náli’s consciousness? Into the pulsing center of his power? He wanted to ask Lucian, but Lucian wasn’t here, so he kept moving, step after step, speeding up as the Sel’s stride lengthened.

He kicked his chin back and adopted an imperious tone. “I was born with this power. It was passed down to me generation after generation, since magic first arrived in the North.”

The Sel grinned without humor, a baring of stark white teeth in his ivory face. “Since the traitor Lucia fled the shores of Se, you mean. Since the power of my ancestors was stolen from our people.”

“We both have magical ancestors, then,” Náli said, stepping quicker to keep pace – to keep away. “La-dee-da. Magic can’t be stolen if a person possessing magic chooses to leave home and make a new home elsewhere among new people. You might want to come up with a new narrative, friend.”

The Sel’s lip curled, half-snarl, half-smile. “You think you’re clever.”

“I know I am, but thank you for noticing.”

“Tell me then, clever Corpse Lord Náli of the Fault Lands, Demon of the Dead: if your magic was honestly obtained, why has the North pushed it further and further outside the realm of common use? Why has magic become so rare and weak? If this power” – here he gestured to the dancing flames, purple bleeding blue bleeding orange – “belongs to you, why have you never been able to find this place before now?”

“It’s complicated.” Náli affected a sniff. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

“Hm,” the Sel hummed, gaze falling to his feet, hands linking behind his back. A contemplative pose, white lashes on his nearly-white cheeks, white hair sliding forward over his shoulders and chest. “Yes. Magic is complicated. It requires complete and total devotion. A craft more intricate and demanding than any ever attempted by an artisan.”

“Yes,” Náli said. “So we agree, then: magic is a right pain in the ass. Having thus agreed, I think it best we wish one another farewell and be about our business. Separately.” He edged backward a step–

And the Sel leaped. Too fast for Náli to react in time, he jumped up and over the pillar, straight through the fire, and tackled Náli to the ground with ease.

“Oof!” He landed flat on his back on the cool, unseen floor, and the Sel caged him in, one knee and one boot planted on either side of his hips, one hand knotted in the front of his robes, beneath his chin. He lifted his other hand aloft, and a knife materialized, long and jagged, its hilt carved obsidian set with diamonds.

“Wait!” Náli tried to buck him off, failed miserably, and lifted his empty palms in supplication. “Wait, wait, just – stop.” The point of the knife lowered, hovering over his eye, and he broke out in a cold, terrified sweat. Where had the knife come from? How could he conjure his own? How was this beast so gods damned strong? “I don’t want to fight you,” he panted. “Can’t we just – we can talk, can’t we? Who are you? What’s your name?” The man’s face was a harsh mask, his eyes flat and unfeeling. “I gave you mine. It’s only fair to tell me yours.”

He flinched inwardly, after. But he forced himself to meet the man’s stare, rather than shut his eyes or turn his head away from the threat of the knife.

“I’m curious,” Náli ventured, aiming toward flattery, “how you came to be here. You must be very powerful.”

“Hmph.” The man spread his hand wide, but pressed down, once, against Náli’s breastbone, a clear order to stay. Then his touch climbed, until his thumb rested against the point of Náli’s chin. He studied him a long moment, gaze unreadable – before he shoved Náli’s head to the side, leaned down, and licked his neck.

“What?” Everything in him rebelled. He twisted, and kicked, and scrabbled with both hands to tear the Sel’s hand away, but he was immovable. Strong and heavy and rooted like a tree above him. “Stop – get – no–”

Teeth nipped him, and the Sel hummed low in his throat, sounding pleased. “Little pretty Corpse Lord. Do you think you’ll save them all? Do you think you can overpower me? You and that redheaded whore?” His voice turned savage at the end, dripping contempt, his breath hot against the side of Náli’s face.

Oliver, Náli thought wildly. He means Oliver. He remembered the general’s snarl back at the palace, the hatred in his gaze when he looked at the king’s consort. His assertion that Oliver would prove Erik’s downfall.

What did it mean? What did any of this mean?

Cool lips pressed to his ear, and a warm, wet tongue slithered inside it.

“Ah!” Náli fought hard, and was as effective as a pinned butterfly, shredding his wings uselessly against a strength that was crushing him.

“It’s him I want,” the Sel murmured. “But you’ll do for now.” His hand slipped down, grip closing tight around his throat.