Page 78 of Horns of Wicked Ebony (Deathcaller Duet #2)

A knock sounded on my office door, followed by one of my sentries’ voices. “Messages for you, My Kral.”

“Enter,” I called out lazily. I set the note from one of the unhappy nobles aside and slid my boots off the desk.

The red-armored guard entered, carrying two sealed rolls on a gold tray. He bowed, nose far below his waist, as he offered them to me. My jaw tightened when I noted Rokath’s seal in the wax on one. The other was from Kiira.

“Dismissed,” I grumbled as I weighed them both in my hands. The sentry departed immediately.

Deciding to read the worst first, I broke open Rokath’s note. “What could he possibly want now?” I grumbled to myself. Unrolling the parchment, I scanned its contents.

My Kral,

The Angels mounted a surprise attack in Fured. We were able to rout them, but not without cost. A captured Myrza informed us that the Angels have altered their plans of attack. They plan to spread out along the wall and attempt to penetrate the realm at multiple points.

Now is your chance to prove your commitment to these changes. Should you fail to act, I will not send aid if the Angels enter Uzhhorod.

I request that you send any reinforcements you have been able to gather to the portion of the wall closest to Uzhhorod to ensure they do not breach there. More assistance will come from other units once the officer in charge has notified me of their arrival at the watchtower.

The Halálhívó

My nostrils flared as I let out a long breath.

I was still so fucking angry—with my cousins, with myself.

Rokath’s blunt note was so typical of him, but I still didn’t appreciate the threat and mistrust. Kiira’s revelation had shaken me.

Dragged me in front of a mirror to bear witness to my own shortcomings.

I hadn’t even fucking realized how deep I’d gone in with my beliefs.

Confronting the ugly parts of oneself was no easy task.

Especially when I kept getting these fucking notes from the nobles questioning our choices. I’d only managed to get through three today, and an entire stack awaited me on the far corner of my desk.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I penned a message of my own to be distributed throughout the city, requesting volunteers. The head of the Kral’s Guard could oversee their training and departure to the wall.

I’d figure out how to quell the unrest later.

With a sigh, I snatched Kiira’s and opened it, hoping hers would be kinder than Rokath’s. The innermost page contained a short note.

Read these, then distribute them to the priestesses. The myth of the Halálhívó and the Szélhámos is strong among the soldiers in Fured. This should help you combat any pushback you might receive.

No salutation, no valediction. Just instruction. It stung even more than Rokath’s accusatory note. Kiira and I had always been close, given our continual proximity. Rokath was gone for months, if not years at a time, while Kiira was always a short ride away.

Has she always resented me?

I thought after all we’d shared…

I loved her deeply, and the ache of disappointing her remained weeks later. Her venomous displeasure, spit from her mouth during our heated conversation, was a knife to my heart. That she’d sided with Rokath time and time again, and then united with Assyria to drive even more points home…

Shoving the pain my mind was trying to inflict on me aside, I tossed the terse page and began reading the remaining dozen.

Story after story of Rokath and Assyria working together, using their magic together, of Assyria impersonating the mighty Halálhívó wound their way in Kiira’s elegant script.

Quotes of veneration from the soldiers abounded.

The final installment detailed the prowess both demonstrated at the Battle of Fured, and how together, they’d saved the academy and townspeople from certain death at the hands of the Angels who sought to exterminate our race.

By the end, even I was swayed by her impassioned words.

I’d seen the two of them together, and yet the picture she painted cast them in an entirely new light.

It was almost…treasonous how well she portrayed them as the mates sent from the Fates to save us all.

The perfect union, just like the perfect circles between their shoulder blades.

As I slipped the second to last page off, I was confronted with just that.

Someone had drawn a striking likeness of the two of them together, standing over a bloody battlefield.

They only had eyes for each other though, and the artist had captured an incredible depth of emotion.

Their backs were bare, exposing their mate marks.

Rokath’s tattoos and muscled shoulders were entirely accurate.

Which meant they must have posed for the portrait .

My fingers tightened over the parchment.

I’d never been pressured into marrying, nor had I planned to for many years to come.

My premier kept me satisfied, especially with how handsomely I paid them.

Yet no one held my heart in their hands, except for my cousin—as fucked up as that was.

Perhaps now was the time to solidify her place by my side, to combat whatever exalted status Rokath and Assyria would receive.

The last thing I wanted was for the nobles and the populace to think Rokath should replace me on the throne.

I gritted my teeth so hard my head started to pound.

I need a fucking drink.

Throwing Kiira’s stories onto my desk, I stalked to a table where a decanter waited and poured enough scale into it to burn me up from the inside out.

After throwing the whole tumbler back, I went to the windows overlooking the Skala Mountains and attempted to rein in the anger racing through my veins.

It would do me no good to lose my cool now, not when I had to play all of this in just the right way. Rokath held a lot of power, should he want to wield it against me. My cunning and smooth talking had always gotten me where I needed to go. Yet no one feared me like they feared him.

The tension in my neck and shoulders eased as the alcohol worked its way through me. Clarity returned as my inner turmoil lessened. I rested my forearm against the glass and looked down at the grounds of Gyor Palace, spotting movement along the outer wall.

Red armored guards walked the perimeter, checking for weaknesses. One pushed some bushes aside and slammed the hilt of his sword into a spot. It held firm. Then, they moved along, repeating the motion until they were out of my sight.

An idea struck me.

My defenses had always been the nobles. What better way to secure my place than tests of loyalty?

I could frame it as part of the larger commitment I’d made to shaping society.

Not only would they have to affirm their belief in the new order, but they’d also have to denounce one of their own to pass the test—Ollmund Varrir.

In the days since I’d been back in the capital, I’d stewed on how to execute him, to make him pay for the crimes against my cousin.

It was a delicate balance, since he held so much sway over the other nobles.

Since he’d been an architect of our initial changes in his own right.

We were beholden to him, with his one favor still uncalled.

There was no way I’d allow him to use it now.

I had to prove to Kiira that I believed her. And more than anything, I wanted to be the one to do it. Rokath would have in a heartbeat, which would have only shifted her allegiance further to him.

The plan unfolded in my mind. Cunning. Cruel. Creative.

I strode to my desk and scanned the remaining notes from the Nayúr and Kormánzó. Some had sent messages of dissent. Others had not opined at all. I tallied the spread and made a mental list of who to pressure—and who to crush.

Dusk was fast approaching by the time I finished penning the last letter. Dropping the wax onto the fold, I waited a moment, then stamped my signet ring into it. The three skulled sigil of House Vrak stared back at me when I pulled it away.

I called for my sentries again. They entered, hands on the hilts of their weapons. After a quick scan of the space, the leader asked, “What do you need, sir?”

“Take these and distribute them. Ensure that each party accompanies you back to Gyor. Settle them in the grand ballroom,” I instructed with practiced precision.

“Yes, My Kral,” he confirmed. “Anything else?”

“Have your Parancsok meet me there. We have some things to plan.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, then distributed piles of notes to those behind him.

While many of the nobility were in the capital, the Kormánzó on the southern plains were not in residence.

Since I’d recently appointed the one that oversaw Stryi, I didn’t have to doubt his loyalty.

In fact, I’d chosen him specifically because he’d been so fervent in his attempts to garner my favor.

I wrote him a note separately, instructing him to carry out a similar test of loyalty to me in the south, and to execute anyone who refused to profess their devotion to me as their Kral.

Satisfied, I grabbed my sword, securing the scabbard around my waist, then lifted my crown from the pedestal in the far corner. The plush velvet had a permanent ring from the weight of it.

Settling it over my brow, I ensured it wouldn’t fall with a quick shove down my head. Then, I fixed my hair atop it so it was tidy. My attire wasn’t as formal as I would have liked, but that was no problem. I didn’t want to stain my best clothing with the blood of the male who raped Kiira.

Grabbing the final note, I set out for the aviary, which was thankfully on the way to the grand ballroom. The Parancsok of the Kral’s guard was already waiting by the time I strode inside.

“Prepare a pyre in the courtyard,” I commanded, my tone cold. He spun away from the windows facing the very place and eyed me warily.