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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ROOK

Lark casts a portal to the outskirts of Netherhaven. Beyond the portal, I can see gnarled trees shadow an overgrown graveyard. We both agreed this would be a strategic location, since it’s just outside the city walls and yet unoccupied by the living.

Since I’m not a complete idiot, despite my sister’s opinion of me, I put on my wool cloak and lift the hood.

It does a halfway decent job of obscuring my face, though it’s impossible to deny my horns jutting out through the slits in the hood.

Luckily, I won’t be the only demon in Netherhaven.

Otherwise, this would be a fool’s quest.

With the help of my teeth, I tug on leather gloves to cover my silver skin and black claws.

Finally, I put on a mask, common enough in Netherhaven—those who survived the pox often wish to hide their scars.

That should be enough to disguise my identity as the Gray Prince, though I won’t be able to conceal my glowing red eyes if someone looks too closely.

Before I let Pyrah’s sad eyes convince me to stay with her, I stride through the portal.

The magic hits me in the stomach. Acid rises in my throat. I brace myself against a tombstone and wait for the feeling to pass.

When I glance back at the portal, it’s already gone. No more time for good-byes.

Keeping to the shadows, I creep through the graveyard. My feet wander as if compelled by magic. I can’t help but linger by one of the graves. This plot looks less overgrown, as if it was unearthed not long ago. It has a simple tombstone, carved with one word: Everhart.

My father’s grave.

I recoil from the sight of it. My boot crushes a plant underfoot. The pungent smell—bitter, stronger than sage—fills my nose. My stomach churns, the urge to vomit intensifying.

Wormwood. They planted wormwood at my father’s grave.

Fuck .

My knees buckle and I collapse against the tombstone, the rough stone scraping my palms as I struggle to stay upright. The scent of wormwood floods my senses, dragging me back to memories I've tried desperately to forget.

Everhart always reeked of wormwood. He believed that this herb would protect him from vermin and disease.

He had survived the pox as a child, though it left his face pitted with scars.

While he was king of Chymeria, he ordered that wormwood be strewn throughout his bedchambers.

The smell often foretold his arrival like a bad omen.

Who planted this wormwood? Or was this a sick coincidence?

He was never given a royal burial after Queen Dulcamara murdered him. By her command, she had his stallion drag his corpse through Netherhaven before dumping him outside the city walls. Someone took pity on him and buried him in this commoner’s cemetery.

I never saw him after he died, since I had already fled like a coward, though they have whispered this story in taverns for years. My father would have been enraged by such disrespect.

Here in the graveyard, the stink of wormwood clings to my nose with every breath.

He’s dead. He’s gone. Nothing left of a proud king but bones. They already robbed his grave not too long ago. My sister’s voice echoes in my mind. Dulcamara brought me a baby boy, a pitiful little thing from some orphanage, and a finger bone dug from our father’s grave.

Perhaps there’s nothing left buried in the dirt.

Whenever he worked himself into a rage, his voice would boom across the castle. Everyone in court would try to remain hidden and avoid his wrath.

Should I feel something for him? I’m too broken to care.

I still want to set this wormwood on fire and destroy the scent of him. That would be stupid, of course, since it would do nothing but attract the attention of guards. The bells in Netherhaven play their song before ringing the hour: two o’clock.

There’s no time to waste. The night market closes at dawn.

Shaking, I abandon my father’s grave.

Outside the graveyard, a night watchman wanders along the crooked street. The reek of alcohol trails behind him in the wind. When he stops to piss against the wall, I steal past him before he notices me.

Of the nine gates of Netherhaven, St. Kestrel’s Gate is the easiest to enter. It’s one of the oldest gates, the walls crumbling and shrouded by moss, and it’s known for having underpaid guards with a fondness for gold.

I don’t even need to bribe my way in, since the wall has fallen into further disrepair. My boots find footholds between the decaying stones. I scramble higher and vault over the rampart, then land in a crouch. I cling to the shadows and avoid the flickering torchlight.

Guards patrol the top of the wall. I wait for the nearest one to turn his back on me. Once he does, I jump off the wall and onto the roof of a nearby tavern. I run along the shingles until I can leap down to the ground. My boots skid on the muck in the gutter. Disgusting.

Netherhaven has gone to shit under the rule of Queen Dulcamara.

At least the locations of the streets haven’t changed. I follow an alley down to a wider boulevard, then duck through an archway. It’s late, but the city never sleeps. I avoid the townsfolk walking the streets.

At the heart of Netherhaven, I’m forced to confront the ruins of a temple. Candles drip melted wax into the broken marble, where plucked flowers wilt. Both must be tributes to the god of humans.

I linger in the darkness by the ruins. When I close my eyes, there’s an image seared into my memory: Pyrah, kneeling in a wedding dress, forced to obey.

Scaldric would have married her if I had been a moment too late. I interrupted the wedding just before he crowned her with a bridal crown. The ceremony broke into a battle, and the temple was destroyed.

I can’t keep losing myself to memories.

I leave the ruins of the temple and journey into the night market.

It takes place in the temple square, the space crowded with booths.

Sizzling meat scents the air. Lanterns illuminate the night market both with candlelight and enchanted fireflies.

It’s brighter than I would wish, since I’m forced to leave the shadows.

I wander through the townsfolk until I find a merchant selling clothes. She’s tiny, even for a human. Her stare travels from my boots to my horns. The top of her head doesn’t even come to my chest.

The merchant blinks a few times as if she can’t believe her eyes. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

I shrug, hoping she hasn’t seen me plastered on any wanted posters. “I’m looking for women’s clothes.”

“For a lady friend?”

“Yes.” That’s safer than explaining I’m mated to a dragon shifter.

She brings out a few dresses and hooks them over her arm to show them off. “Does your lady favor a color?”

“Amethyst purple.” As if I could ever forget.

Choosing jewel colors seems to be a safe strategy. I select dresses in emerald green and ruby red. Surely these will please the covetous heart of a dragon.

It’s still cold at night, especially in her cave in the mountains, so I get her a few pairs of woolen stockings.

Inevitably, I’m forced to ask, “Undergarments?”

The merchant opens and closes her mouth as if momentarily lost for words. “Will these be for yourself or your lady?”

I arch an eyebrow, since I own no undergarments. “My lady.”

Her ears turn pink. “Of course.”

The merchant ducks down, rummages beneath her booth, and finds several linen underpants.

She discreetly folds them and slides them across to me as if we’re making a black-market deal.

I resist the urge to laugh. Silently, I count out the required coins and pay the flustered merchant.

I stash my purchases in my pack before nodding in thanks.

After I retreat into the darkness once more, I stalk along the edges of the night market until something catches my eye.

Midnight plums, the same dark ones I pinched from the royal orchard when I was a boy. My claws close around one of the fruits, though I’m careful not to pierce the flesh. They have deep purple skin, red flesh, and a sweet yet sour flavor that makes my mouth water just from remembering.

I want to share this taste of my childhood with Pyrah.

“How much?” I ask the merchant.

“Twenty gold pieces each.”

“Ludicrous.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Ten.”

“Fifteen, and not a coin less!”

I don’t want to waste any more time haggling and risk blowing my cover. An unhappy merchant might call the guards. I grit my teeth and pay fifteen gold pieces for a plum, a king’s ransom for a fruit.

These thoughts of castles and kings keep drifting through my head like smoke.

The castle looms over the city.

Beckoning me.

I can’t walk away from Netherhaven without seeking the soulstone. I’ve spent far too long never dreaming of my future beyond surviving to the end of each day. I let hope dwindle inside me until it died to little more than an ember.

But Pyrah rekindled this ember inside me. For her, hope burns again. Without her, I have no reason to dream.

Lirithel. She is my dream.

I belong to this beautiful, fierce woman just as much as she belongs to me, and I want her to know it every moment. She deserves the soulstone.

I need to keep her safe—even from me.

And I want to marry her.

The truth of it sinks into the marrow of my bones. A weight lifts from my shoulders, and for the first time in a long time, I breathe a little easier at the path ahead of me. My exhalation escapes in a cloud of white.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared.

Not of marrying Pyrah, though perhaps I should be a little afraid. I’m scared of returning to the castle at Netherhaven. I haven’t been back since my father died.

Queen Dulcamara must be waiting for me to blunder too close. She’s lurking like a black widow in her spider web.

And I can’t pluck a single thread without getting caught.

Netherhaven Castle was my home, not too long ago. It feels strange to return to a place shrouded by memories like years of neglected dust.