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“Who let you out of your cage? Little. Dragon.” He flippantly emphasized each word before his night-blue eyes flashed something crucial, locking onto the green of Jade’s as the tips of his coat spikes ignited into navy flames.

“Malik. Never a fucking pleasure,” Jade hissed, shifting her posture, intensely watching his flames dance.

Malik’s gaze narrowed, A muscle feathered in his cheek as he folded his arms over his chest and smiled. “Oh, Iknowthe pleasure would be all mine.” He formed a blue flame on his finger poking out from his bicep, twirling it in the air, watching her just as intensely.

Jade drew her sword. “You’re not worth the dirt it’d take to bury you in. Piss off,flamefucker.”

Curling his lip, Malik moved to step forward.

Garrik palmed her shoulder, the iciness radiating through her armor. “Enough.” He had the fury of a thousand thunderstorms, but Jade could level kingdoms with her attitude alone.

With an amused smirk, Malik shifted his focus back to Garrik’s darkened eyes. “You’re not in command here. Watch your tone.”

“You would be wise to stay within your piss-poor protection under the Ravens. If I see you outside these borders, your head will be mine. And I would enjoy every last bit of it until your embers are ash in my wind.”

“Is that a threat?” A reptilian grin crossed Malik’s face as navy flames rose from his hair and cascaded down his neck, shoulders, and as far as his fingertips.

“You would know when I am threatening you. That was a promise.” Garrik glowered into Malik’s eyes.

And I would not require such an embarrassing display of magic while doing so. Now run along, before I remind you what real magic can do,the High Prince’s voice seared deep into Malik’s mind.

Garrik lifted his chin, tilting his head slightly to the side with a menacing grin. How helovedthis game. Every burst of his magic pricked his skin, pleading to fire. But he much preferred the invasiveness of haunting one in the comfort of their own thoughts. The intimacy of the attack.

His most treasured power—stealing thoughts.

Always being twenty steps ahead.

Malik gritted his teeth through the headache Garrik knew was forming behind his eyes, straightening the collar of his coat to lift his chin high. The look suited him. Like a conceited royal who never was worthy enough of the bloodline. “Brennus has been waiting for you. You know how he hates to wait.” His voice slithered, more like a threat than a statement.

“Then why are you standing in my way?” Garrik knocked shoulders with Malik, storming the middle of the line of guards, before bursting through the tent entrance, with no consideration for permission.

Inside, the stench suited a brothel, but the finery was fit for a king. Brennus certainly thought himself one.

Golden banners with the High King’s Raven crest decorated the walls, lavish, golden chairs filled with plush cushions, a four-post bed rested in the center. Numerous female High Fae peppered the space, lounging on plush, round cushions on the floor in the back, talking and laughing. Ancient vases, a red-stained wooden table teeming with glasses and liquors, weapon racks of swords that were ineffective in battle, golden armor, rugs of fine animal pelts covered the dirt. It was extravagant, almost blinding.

A table constructed for twelve waited to the side. Drawing his eye, a large map of the kingdom was laid out.

Brennus, much shorter than Garrik by three hands, leaned against it by his fingers, wearing a long, regal robe, decorated with gold filigrees, and spotted fur that covered his neglected, round figure. Dull, stringy red hair and beard were greased and disheveled as if he had just woken from a restless sleep.

“So, you finally decided that you wasted enough of my time today?” Brennus’s eyes, one scarred and white, the other a sandy hue, glared enough that they could have stabbed holes through Garrik. His battle-worn face set in a permanent frown.

Garrik nodded—a small gesture—a forced bow. He hated that Magnelis ordained Brennus with the honor of authority over him. The heir to Zyllyryon’s throne under the command of one such as Brennus. It was humiliating.

“Apologies,” was all he muttered. The word burned like blazing coals in his throat.

Brennus turned without any regard and slumped onto a throne-like chair, holding a large goblet of wine between filthy fingers. One blonde, curvy female, scantily clad aside from the little scraps of red-laced underthings, sat mewling on his lap, tracing her fingers along the opening of his robe in an open display of seduction.

His mouth twisted in disgust at the sight of it. “Is it not early for a revelry, Brennus?” Garrik trailed to the table of liquors, scanned them with significant hesitation, and poured himself a knuckle’s length of amber liquid, tossing the contents back before pouring a second. It would do little but was enough of a burn to calm the rising hostility fitting to explode. For now.

A tall, scarcely dressed, brunette toweled her leopard spot, tattooed arm around Garrik’s icy neck, nearly knocking the glass from his hand, before rubbing down his chest. Before he could react, she forced a second around his waist, down the V of muscles, and pushed inside his waistline, where he grabbed her.

Garrik viciously growled and pushed her away before adjusting his armor at his abdomen. “Do not touch me.”

Brennus called her to his lap. “I was subject to entertain myself while waiting for you to arrive. Bloodshed and sex, two of the most pleasing ventures. I delighted in that brunette this morning.”

Inhaling a steadying breath, Garrik closed his eyes.

When they opened, the brunette had Brennus’s robe open at the chest, tracing lazy circles around his flesh. Thin fingers running through wisps of hair.