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“Exquisite,” Laurent said behind me. He reached up and straightened my crown, and his silver eyes seared mine in the mirror. “This is who you are. Sithistra tried to make you meek. The Brotherhood tried to kill you. Midian would exploit you.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and whispered directly into my ear. “And if you think the mages won’t do the same, you haven’t been paying attention.”

My breath caught. “And what about you?”

“Where am I standing right now?”

Behind me. I didn’t say it. Once upon a time, not too long ago, he’d been more than willing to exploit me.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“No.”

His eyes gleamed with approval. “You’ve been laboring under the assumption that only good can defeat evil. I’m of a different mind, princess. If you’re going to go toe to toe with darkness, I think you’ve got to embrace the darkness within you.”

On top of my head, the crown shifted, the thorns slowly rearranging themselves. I held my breath as Laurent and I watched the sinuous dance in the mirror. When it stopped, Laurent met my eyes again. The mischief he displayed so often was gone, replaced with a dead seriousness that lifted the hair on my nape.

“You won’t win this battle with Midian by throwing yourself off that balcony, Given.”

My heart sped up. I didn’t resist as he turned me to face him, and I held my breath as he nicked his thumb on his fang and pressed it between my lips. His blood sizzled on my tongue, the taste just as intoxicating as the first time.

His eyes glowed. “I was sixteen years old when I vowed to have Varick’s back. To my shame, I haven’t always lived up to that vow. I’m not perfect. But I like to think I’m capable of correcting my mistakes. I have his back now”—he pressed his thumb firmly against my tongue—“and I have yours. Levu.”

As it had during our wedding rite, his magic wrapped tightly around me and squeezed. It stole my breath before fading, the sensation—and his vow—settling under my skin. Wonder spread through me. For all his faults, Laurent took his role as a priest seriously. He wouldn’t make a blood vow unless he meant it.

He pulled his thumb away. “I don’t always agree with Jordan of Twyl, but I believe he’s right about one thing. Everything is connected. The Brotherhood is its own brand of darkness. The kind that hides behind light and lies about it. Elissa might have penned that invitation, but you can bet Crasor handed her the quill. He wanted to see if you would show up today, or if you’d huddle on your side of the Rift, meek and cowed like he expects.” Laurent’s silver gaze grew more penetrating. “Like everyone expects,” he added softly. “And always has.”

“Including you.” I made it a statement.

He took my hand again and lifted it to his lips. “As I said, I’m not afraid to correct my mistakes. I like to think it’s one of my very best traits.”

Against my will, a smile pulled at my lips. “So modest.”

“That’s not one of them.”

The smile broke through my defenses.

He bit my middle knuckle lightly, that alluring wickedness dancing in his eyes once more. “Come, my queen. Let’s go show our enemy something unexpected.”

Chapter Two

VARICK

Laurent was late, and it was doing nothing to improve my mood.

I slapped my gloves against my palm as I stood on the edge of the Serenity Tower’s snowy courtyard and watched my knights, Jordan of Twyl, and several priests from the Sanctum prepare to depart for the Rift.

“Let me do that,” Petru snapped, his bloodstained beard swinging as he shoved a squire away from a horse and began adjusting the saddle’s stirrups with gnarled hands.

The High Priest was a notoriously poor horseman. However, tradition demanded he accompany the crown on state visits. Which meant the entire party could look forward to listening to Petru bitch for the duration of the hour-long ride to the Rift.

Thwack. I slapped my gloves into my palm.

Jordan of Twyl stood a distance away, his hands extended over a brazier. He’d exchanged the gray robes of the Brotherhood for the leather armor worn by the mages of Wesyfedd.

Thwack.

Nearby, the castle blacksmith labored in the open doorway of his workshop, the rhythmic, jarring clank of his hammer spilling into the yard. The sound was tedious.

Thwack.