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MEZOR

Mezor rematerializes with no breath in his lungs, surrounded by the chaotic pressure of water on all sides. It’s pitch black except for the gate’s faint glow and the answering flicker from his own marks. He pushes off blindly, heading away from the gate. A powerful current tugs at him and he kicks harder until his fingers hit stone. Following the wall, he finally breaches the surface with a gasp.

The bond is in turmoil—desperation, pain. For the first time since longer than he can remember, true fear pricks him. He has no idea where Cyrus is or what’s happening to him. Did Mezor send him into a trap?

He realizes now it’s unlikely Cyrus is hiding out in safety. The flood, the fire on the mountainside, they’re signs of a deep upset in the Court. Cyrus could be in the middle of it all.

I could lose him.

He swims to the exit, feet finding the stone staircase. He drags himself out of the water and pauses to catch his breath. Sounds of water echo off the stone. His life in the grotto is over. When his duty to the King is fulfilled, it will be time to leave the realms behind. His body will become the King’s vessel. His soul will go into the aether.

The bond will break.

I never really had him.

Mezor searches his heart for the stoicism that once protected him, but it’s out of reach now.

Across the bond, Cyrus’s muddied distress turns sour. Urgency blooms behind his ribs. He sent Cyrus into danger when he should have taken him across the gate. Now it might be too late.

A fresh spike of pain stops him in his tracks as he follows the pull of the bond. This pain is different. It’s bright, deep, and sharp. Like it’s touching his soul. The bond flares high with Cyrus’s panic.

Then, horribly, the feeling fades.

The bond fades.

Mezor’s heart twists.

He leaps out of stillness. The walls blur as he barrels in the direction the bond pulls him. He pays no mind to the twists and turns of the Court’s halls. His whole being is focused on the shriveling bond, the tiny bright sparks that flare and die as something slowly snuffs out Cyrus’s life force. He bellows with rage as each spark winks out one by one.

“ No! ”

The bond drags him upward, toward the midlevels. Torches flare to life on either side. Mezor’s vision narrows to a pinprick. A furious rhythm pounds through him. He passes the feast hall, all its doors closed. He recognizes this route. His feet are taking him to the training yard.

The door that materializes in front of him is a pathetic obstacle. With a roar, he sinks his claws into the flimsy wood and tears it off its hinges, tossing it aside, and it slams into the stone behind him. The grey yard materializes before his eyes and the scene makes his blood run cold.

In the center of the yard demons form a circle two fallen figures. Atop one figure perches a giant rok—a vicious Hellbeast with a wingspan the width of his cottage and an appetite to match. The rok rises from its prey with a screech, batting its wings and stirring up a forceful wind. Demons scatter. Mezor has an arrow drawn before he can think, following the rok’s path as he sights down the shaft. The rok stops rising and hovers. It’s going to dive.

He holds the bow steady. He has a clear shot. Yet something stops him.

The bird plummets like a stone. He breathes out.

“Don’t shoot!”

Cyrus’s voice freezes him. Mezor’s heart claws at his throat and his muscles obey his vergis’s command without thought. The rok’s wings come down in a powerful stroke as it banks, obscuring his shot. Then the massive bird lands in front of Cyrus, delicate as a feather coming to rest.

Slowly, Mezor lowers his bow. His arms tremble.

As soon as the rok settles, Cyrus strides across the yard. Mezor’s whole body pulses with shock. But when Cyrus is in front of him, he doesn’t fall into Mezor’s arms the way he half expects—instead he stops and hesitates, casting a quick glance around.

We’re not alone , his look says.

“You’re hurt,” Mezor rasps. Cyrus stinks of ichor, and there’s an ugly gash on his cheek.

Cyrus lifts his chin. His gaze is on fire. “I’m alive.”

Suddenly Mezor understands. These are Cyrus’s dubious allies, the remnants of the Grey Company. Much as Mezor wants to grab hold of him and carry him out of the Court, Cyrus must appear strong in front of them. Now he understands the looks and whispers that circle the yard—to these demons, Cyrus appears to have the King’s Hunter at his beck and call.

Slowly, he gets to one knee. “What happened?” he murmurs under his breath so only Cyrus can hear.

“Magnus happened,” Cyrus hisses, his eyes flashing.

Mezor’s hairs stand on end. That’s not the whole story—but it’s enough. He has a powerful urge to show those assembled why he was feared in the Court for so long.

“Tell me what you need,” he growls.

“Get up.” Cyrus’s fingers grip his chin, and Mezor’s heart beats fiercely. He climbs to his feet and Cyrus jerks his head. “Come with me.”

They pass the fallen body, crooked claws raised in hopeless self defense, the rest a gory mess. Mezor would gladly take a moment to revel in the sight, but Cyrus strides straight past, his shoulders stiff. A picture is beginning to form: by pitting Cyrus against his master, the Grey Company could kill two birds with one stone. Cyrus would prove himself or die trying, and they’d get rid of the Quartermaster either way, in challenge or after.

He’d like to tear them all limb from limb for it. He won’t.

Unless Cyrus asks.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Cyrus leads him to the bird. Where does the rok fit in?

“Your arm,” Cyrus prompts.

Mezor obeys as if he’s already under the thrall and holds out his left arm. He bites his tongue against a sharp warning as Cyrus reaches out to the rok—the deadliest Hellbeast in the realm, besides a full-grown serpent—and strokes its chest.

The bird is tame .

Cyrus whispers something to the bird and steps back. It leaps into the air, massive wings stirring the dust, and lands on his arm. Claws the length of his fingers encircle the muscle with utmost delicacy. It weighs little in spite of its size, but those talons make it as much a hunter as him.

The bird looks down at him with a golden eye.

“Cyrus,” Mezor murmurs, too quiet for the assembled demons to hear. “I’m taking you away from here.”

Cyrus nods jerkily. He walks ahead, keeping his head up. His exhaustion turns the bond sickly and heavy. But he only stumbles once. As they pass, a tall, broad-shouldered demon steps forward.

“Claudius,” Cyrus acknowledges him coolly.

Claudius’s gaze goes to Mezor, wary. “You’re going with the Hunter.”

“I have other duties to fulfil before I can join the march,” Cyrus says with unimaginable calm.

Duties to me, Mezor wants to snarl. He also wants to pin this demon to the stone wall and dig his claws in until he’s a gibbering mess. Allies, hah. There are no allies in this poisonous place. But he walks ahead, letting Cyrus pause to talk to the demon instead. He waits at the doorway with the rok sitting steady on his wrist, watching.

The demon’s gaze follows him.

“Duties to the King?”

“It’s not your business.” Cyrus tosses his head, such an arrogant little flick of his chin unless you know the fear it hides. “Magnus is dead. I don’t answer to you now—I’m your equal.”

Claudius blows out a sigh. “No, little demon, you’re much more than that. Your abilities are strange and powerful indeed if you have a rok and the Hunter at your beck and call. You’ll have a place in the procession if you decide to join us. Know that.”

The bond flickers with anger and Cyrus’s brow draws tight. “Well. Good.”

He turns away without another word and ushers Mezor into the dimly lit hall. As soon as they’re around the corner, Mezor finds himself with his arms full of vergis.

Cyrus’s face pushes hard into his chest and a single, horrible sob wracks his body. Mezor tries to hold him, but he gasps in pain. He pushes away.

“Let’s go,” he says, his face contorted with emotion. “Please, take me anywhere.”