Page 98 of Heart of Shadows

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DIMITRI

When he was certain Harper and her companions had escaped, as sure as he could be that she would be safe, Dimitri left, as well, slipping through the world and racing to Saradon’s tomb with the Dragonheart. Faster than his thoughts he travelled, running from any notion of her, because a part of him was not finished with Harper of Caledan yet—though for their mutual safety, he knew he needed to be.

The Dragonheart, he told himself. He had what he needed—and that was what mattered. Nothing else. This was the lock that fit the key in the puzzle he so desperately needed to unlock. To unleash.

It had only been too easy to take it from Aedon’s unknowing hands. Dimitri allowed himself a smirk. How Aedon would despise accidentally helping his worst enemy. It was the perfect cover. The thief would be blamed once more for the loss. Dimitri would escape with no suspicion upon his head.

He marvelled at the well of power within it, greater than even his own. His blood sang with anticipation. In the cave, Dimitri took a moment to adjust to the strange sense of crushing power that always left him reeling and dizzy. He sent out a greeting to Saradon, who responded with a magical touch of his own and the rumbling sense of his presence awakening. Silent, Dimitri offered the stone to the sarcophagus.

He felt Saradon’s interest instantly snap to the white-hot star of power in his hands. It was so powerful, it threatened to shred his own energy and absorb him. He fought to keep his own magic from it, lest it devour him. It was exactly what Saradon wanted, for Dimitri felt his approval and excitement radiating through the space. His own life-beat was light and fast compared to Saradon’s—a slumbering, ponderous, pulsing vitality that lay deep in the stone, under the swirls of glowing glyphs.

“Place it on the sarcophagus,” Saradon commanded.

Dimitri obeyed and stepped back. In the living world, the Dragonheart seemed innocuous, a rock upon a pile of stone. But when Dimitri sank into the magical river of energy and bathed in its heady delight, the stone brightened to a star—undimmed, pure, and powerful.

At its touch, the scripts upon the sarcophagus wriggled and shifted before Dimitri’s eyes, sinking into the vortex of swirling energy. They fell into it with glowing splashes, and the energy expanded and brightened with each rune that dropped into it. Saradon’s voice rose around Dimitri, a monotone drone in a language he did not understand, but one charged with the buzz of magic that lifted every hair on Dimitri’s skin, prickles crawling across him.

What is he doing? Something about the magic felt dark, wrong, as if the energy was tainted. Dimitri recognised the dark magic Saradon invoked—something far older and more dangerous than either of them—and the skin prickled at the back of his neck, an uncomfortable sensation crawling across his skin. A part of him questioned whether he was doing the right thing, but he silenced it. There was no room for doubt. Not any more.

Dimitri backed away as the energy constricted and sank into the sarcophagus, which melted into golden sparks until it was entirely gone. They swirled into a mass, and the outline of an elf-shaped form materialised. It rose on the stone base to stand before him. Slowly, the swirling golden marks coalesced into the form of a male, one Dimitri recognised only too easily as the glowing magic sank into his skin.

Violet eyes pierced Dimitri’s as Saradon beheld him, then his stern visage broke into a grim smile. Slowly, Saradon slipped his eyes shut and deeply breathed the stale air of the cave as if it were the sweetest fresh breeze. He flexed his lithe, strong arms, clenching and unclenching his ring-adorned fingers, causing the fabric of his bell-shaped sleeves to bunch around his forearms. He ran his hands through loose, black hair that fell to his shoulders in waves, as perfect as the day he had been laid to rest, and fingered his neat, closely cropped beard. Saradon’s gaze dropped to examine his form with wonder and a buzz of anticipation that was palpable to Dimitri before he grinned a triumphant, wolfish smile.

“It feels most wonderful to breathe again,” Saradon said, inhaling a deep breath once more.

The tang of raw power still burned Dimitri, searing his skin. He watched carefully, wondering if Saradon had been as mentally preserved as he had been physically.

“You have my unending gratitude, Lord Ellarian,” Saradon said, turning his attention to Dimitri once more.

He bowed. “What next, Lord Ravakian?”

“Revenge,” Saradon said, savouring each syllable of the word. “Revenge on the royal line of Pelenor, and their abhorrent sins. Then the restoration of order and fairness to Pelenor, and as far afield as can be touched by my hands.”

Dimitri smiled, a tight-lipped one of approval, as anticipation curled in his stomach. It would not be long before he would not return to Tournai as Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris, the king’s spymaster, snapping at heels to find small favour. Soon, he would return as the right hand of Saradon and a new order.

He had started a mission for his deepest yearning. Now he stood a chance of overturning Pelenor’s ruling class as Saradon’s chief advisor. For once, he would be at the helm.

It was time to show his hand.

It was time to break the wheel.

It was time to build a new world.

THE END