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Their actions might have hurt if he’d felt anything for them at all—and if he hadn’t had more gold hidden away in other worlds.

“Could you be as happy with one woman as you were with a dozen?” the princess asked, her interest soothing his ego a touch.

“My experiences weren’t enhanced by the number.” If he were honest—that word again—he’d say the opposite.

“With so many females involved, you must have fathered countless children in all your years.”

“No. This cuff I wear”—he pulled up the sleeve of his stolen coat to display it—“is bespelled to prevent that.” All the females he’d bedded had insisted upon the cuff.

In a haze, hadn’t he once heard his concubines agreeing that he’d make an awful father?

“I suppose after you were sentenced to this place, bonding with another wouldn’t be fair,” the vampire said. “But do you not wish to share your life with someone?”

“Perhaps that’s easier said than done.” In a rare bout of sincerity, he admitted, “I haven’t always been what you’d call a catch.”

“Yes. I can see that.” Irritating woman! He parted his lips to deliver a setdown, but she said, “Your moods shift like the sands you favor. Are you always so changeable?”

I don’t know!“I’ve heard no complaints about my moods.”

“Weren’t your companions paid not to complain?” she pointed out, the mirror shining her light.

His jaw clenched. “And what about you? Any family besides Mirceo?” That prick.

“My parents died when I was young. Mirceo raised me, though he was just a boy.” She eyed Silt. “He is still incredibly young to be targeted for one folly.”

“One folly?” Silt gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m likely going to die here, sweet. And so are you.”

“Perhaps. Yet the only way you can get revenge is if youdon’tdie here. So your logic is flawed. But convincing you of that doesn’t matter when you’ve made your reckless vow.”

He started to explain what revenge meant to him—without it, he would have perished as a child—but she would never understand. She was only experiencing powerlessness for the first time.

Besides, he owed her nothing. He fell silent, staring into the flames, fielding the memories that surfaced. Without dragon’s breath to deaden the past, recollections sparked like this fire.

In time, her shivering eased. Gaze alight with curiosity, she said, “I once read about a sorceress who uses mountains as weapons. Portia, the Queen of Stone. Are her powers similar to yours?”

He welcomed the distraction of more conversation. “Yes, in theory.” He and Portia had joined forces a couple of times in the past. He’d taught her how to make tornadoes out of boulders. “We both control stone at different sizes.Sanddescribes a size—it’s just a grain of infinite types of stone. Silt is smaller, and pebbles are larger. Portia can’t control the finest sand, and I can’t control pebbles—or mountains.”

Despite his nickname, silt wasn’t his favorite medium. Pure quartz sand was a silken luxury for his sorcery. Or, rather, it used to be. He dug into his pocket, stunned by how disconnected from it he felt—as if his fingertips had disappeared.

“If you’ve always had this power, why are you so adept with a weapon?”

Incisive female.Because I haven’t always had this power.“I trained with all manner of weapons, sand among them.”

“How did you get these?” She gestured to the makeshift sword she kept nearby.

“From a rare growth of crystal near the fire field. I don’t know the name of it outside of my native tongue, but in old Sorselan, we call itjustale-ko.”

“Sorselan? That’s also the name of the Sorceri origin realm. I wanted to read some of its history, but even Dacia’s great library contained no information on it.”

Then you wanted to readmyhistory.He’d shaped that dimension like sand, and when he’d released his hold, it had collapsed just as easily. “I was born there. It’s a desert land with scarce resources, but the dunes carry gold, which made it sacred to my kind.”

“Describe a desert to me. I’ve only seen illustrations.”

How could he possibly? Yet just those three words—describe a desert—sent him back to a time long ago, when he’d been six years old on a grand adventure across a sea of sand.

As if he were there, Silt recounted some of the details of that day: “The sun glares down, burning like a white flame. The sand hisses at it, begging for mercy, but it’s indifferent. The dunes swell and break as they dance with the wind.” Awash in memories, he murmured, “The sand is never-ending; I witness everything in it. Every color. Every shape. I see infinity. Death. Life.”

But then his connection to it had been broken by those he’d loved best.