Page 57

ARRIK

Arrik rolled his neck and stifled a groan.

It was close to daybreak, and he had finally come upon Lord Idril’s gaudy castle. It had been a punishing journey, delayed because a storm had hit two days into their ride. The terrible weather had closed the roads, slowed the horses, and felled several trees in the forest when they attempted to divert their path through it. It was therefore the morning of the ninth day, not the seventh, that Arrik found himself in front of the cavernous doors leading to Lord Idril’s home.

He was in the worst of moods—bad enough to rival his father’s—but Arrik knew he had to maintain a cool head if he was to succeed within the castle’s dark stone walls. Lord Idril, after all, was a dangerous snake to cross paths with even for the quickest, cleverest of folk.

“Lord Idril is about to retire to his chambers for the day,” a servant hurriedly informed Arrik when he crossed the threshold without bothering to announce his arrival. He wanted to catch the elf off guard. It was perfect to catch him just as he was about to sleep off one of his countless debauched nights.

“Take me to him,” Arrik commanded, noting the music and drunken laughter from the ballroom. His nose wrinkled as he scented opium.

The servant nodded and beckoned him to follow her.

The lord was just as twisted as the king, but for all their similarities Arrik knew Idril hated Soren. He had it on good authority from Josenu that he was, in fact, working directly with the rebellion to unseat his father.

It definitely gave the rebellion some advantages. Idril had connections and power and influence to match High King Soren—perhaps more, if his slave routes to Vadon were anything to go by—but Arrik knew fine well that working with him was going to end up being a curse to the rebellion. Once Soren was cast from the throne, what then? The rebellion wanted to stop the slave trade. Idrilownedthe slave trade. He’d never agree to the abolishment of slavery, nor would he be willing to part with the power of the throne if he ever got his hands on it.

It just so happened that Arrik was fine with the rebellion working with the viper to get rid of his father. They were doing all the heavy lifting for him—keeping Soren too busy to truly see what his own son was planning until it was too late. The only hitch was that Arrik had no intention of seeing Lord Idril take the throne. That, at least, he had in common with the rebellion.

He had to find a way to ensure Idril—or no other highborn Verlantian lord, for that matter—ascended the throne. To do that required information. Leverage.

He was determined to find that leverage now.

It wouldn’t do to just kill Idril. One of his sons would rise up in his place. It would be easier to keep an eye on the lord and use him.

Arrik followed a servant up the stairs to Idril’s wing of the castle, the chains around her neck clinking together. Guards stood outside the lord’s door.

“Open it,” he commanded.

They didn’t hesitate to obey as they spotted the sigil on his breastplate. The shorter of the guards scrambled to unlock the door.

The door creaked open.

“Who dares to disturb me?” Idril barked.

Arrik moved over the threshold. He was gratified to see Lord Idril weaponless and barely clothed, as expected. The elf’s eyes widened when they took in Arrik—in full armor and armed to his ears in all manner of blades and arrows.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Arrik said even though he was.

Idril sized him up, his eyes narrowed. He was a couple of inches shorter than him, but his haughtiness more than made up for the height difference. A false smile that didn’t meet his eyes curled his mouth.

They both knew fine well who would win a fight if the elf tried anything.

“Not at all,” Idril murmured. “What a surprise to see you, my prince.”

“Are you surprised?” Arrik asked, tone bland.

A ripple of emotion moved across Idril’s face before his smile widened. “But of course. It’s an honor to host our kingdom’s most feared prince.” The elf moved away from his bed and pulled a shirt from his closet, presenting his back to Arrik.

A blatant show that Idril didn’t consider him a threat despite his pretty words.

His pride is out in full force. A boon for you.

Arrik leaned against the wall and crossed his arms as Lord Idril once again faced him. The elf had an enormous gash on his cheek that looked to be only a couple of days old. Arrik had one guess who’d caused the injury. There’d only be one brave enough to try.

Naughty, naughty, wife.

He resisted the urge to smirk with satisfaction. Idril was a vain creature. Many people—including himself—would surely have loved to see her attack the lord and bring him down a peg or two.