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He cut once, sword angling through the air. Blood spurted through the space between the knight’s helmet and his steel gorget, a red river running from his throat.

Two more Lionguard charged from the far side of the solar, closing the distance down the long room. One of them called out to the fallen and the other roared, his blade drawn.

Dom moved better than they did in heavy armor, weaving between the arcs of two whirling swords. Gallish knights were built for the melee, to overpower any opponent with good steel and the strength of their arm. The Lionguard were most revered of all, handpicked to defend the ruler of Galland from all danger. Many kings were saved by their skill, many battles turned by the swing of their sword.

It would not be so today.

Against Domacridhan, they had no advantage at all. He held morespeed, skill, and brute force than both of them put together. Not to mention sheer will.

Steel bit steel, clanging through the solar. The other knight came around to flank Dom but the immortal perceived, dropping to a knee to throw the first off balance. When the Lionguard stumbled, Dom lunged. His sword drove straight through the lion’s snarling face, shearing through steel, chain mail, and cloth, into flesh and bone beneath.

The skewered knight screamed in agony, grasping at the sword sticking out of his chest. With a jerk of his arm, Dom drew it loose and let the knight collapse, a hole through his center.

It was the work of only a few quick seconds, stunning to mortal eyes.

The surviving Lionguard rolled back on his heels, almost falling over himself. Dom expected him to surrender. Instead, the knight kept his sword raised, a guard between them. As if it would do anything at all.

“You will not touch the Queen,” the knight said, his voice wavering. Beneath his helmet, tears glimmered.

“I don’t care about your queen,” Dom growled, slashing.

The force of his blow knocked the blade from the knight’s hand, his grip on the hilt breaking. Still, he did not relent, raising his gauntleted fists to fight even as he backed across the solar.

Dom did not break stride, following the knight like a hunter tracking prey. As much as it pained him to do so.

The knight loosed a low hiss of frustration. Sweat beaded down his face, rolling off his chin to drip down his armor.

“I am sworn to defend Prince Taristan too,” he said. It sounded like a question.

“Defend him then,” Dom answered. He angled his shoulders, so that the servant door appeared behind him. It was a clear invitation. “Or run.”

The knight held his ground.

Domacridhan was quick and merciful, a Vederan prayer falling from his lips as the knight fell to the floor.

Grim-faced, the immortal stepped over the body. Flames already licked at the knight’s feet, looking for more to consume.

The Queen’s apartments were richly furnished, even compared to the halls in the rest of the palace. Dom hated it all, the trappings of conquest and greed. Without thought, he dragged an arm over the closest table, knocking over a row of candles. Wax ran thick over polished wood. He kicked over another candle stand, not bothering to watch as the heavy brocade drapes caught fire.

“Do you know the definition of insanity, Domacridhan?”

He recognized the voice too well, the deep ripples of power woven into each word.

Mortal and demon both.

Taristan stood tall at the far end of the solar, planted in a doorway.

The Queen’s bedroom opened behind him, all velvet and gold again. Firelight danced at his back, low and controlled, from an unseen hearth. It edged Taristan’s silhouette in pulsing red, the hard lines of his face drawn sharply between scarlet and shadow.

As always, Dom saw Cortael first, brought back to life by the very man that killed him. But Taristan was not Cortael, twins though they were. His eyes were sharper, more cruel, filled with hunger instead of pride. Where Cortael was a loyal hound, Taristan was a starving wolf, always scratching for his next meal. Always alone, surviving through any means necessary.

The son of Old Cor leaned against the heavy doorframe, disheveled by sleep or something else. Dom noted his mussed hair and the open collar of his white shirt. He’d dressed hastily, wearing black leather breeches and no shoes, barefoot on the parquet. White veins spidered uphis exposed ankles and chest, reaching his neck. They looked like painful scars against pale skin.

Taristan clutched a sword like an afterthought. He looped it lazily between them, the arcing blade his only smile.

“It’s doing the same thing over and over again,” Taristan offered, still leaning. “And somehow still expecting a different outcome.”

The fire spread like plague behind Dom, the heat of it breaking against his back. Its light grew, throwing lashes of gold against Taristan’s face, illuminating him fully.