Page 7 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)

T he great hall of the Academy glittered with candlelight and the soft murmur of polite conversation, but the elegance felt hollow tonight.

Every smile seemed forced, every laugh a little too bright, as if we were all trying to pretend that just weeks ago this very building hadn't been shaking with explosions that killed dozens of people.

The formal dinner was meant to show that life had returned to normal, that the Academy remained strong despite the terrorist attack.

I knew better. Nothing was normal. Nothing would ever be normal again.

I stood near one of the tall windows, a goblet of wine in my hand—my third, though I'd stopped counting after the second.

The alcohol dulled the sharp edges of my thoughts but couldn't quiet them entirely.

The wine tasted like ash in my mouth, but I took another sip anyway, staring out at the dark academy gardens beyond.

Four weeks had passed since the festival bombing, four weeks of sleepless nights and days that blurred together in a haze of guilt and confusion.

The Imperial flags still flew at half-mast throughout the city, a constant reminder of the lives lost—lives my father had sacrificed for his political games.

I'd known he was ruthless. I'd always known that. But somehow I'd convinced myself there were lines even he wouldn't cross, boundaries that separated necessary cruelty from outright evil. The bombing had shattered that naive belief like glass against stone.

The worst part was the not knowing. Not knowing how many innocent people had died. Not knowing whether Livia had been involved, whether she'd known what was coming. Not knowing if everything between us had been built on lies from the very beginning.

How long had she been playing these games? How many other secrets was she keeping? And what did that make me—just another mark in whatever scheme she was running?

Across the room, Livia moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her emerald silk gown making her dark hair seem to shimmer in the candlelight.

She was breathtaking, as always, but tonight the sight of her sent a spike of pain through my chest instead of the usual warmth.

I’d been avoiding her since the day of the festival attack, since she confessed to me that she had three other lovers besides me.

Three men. She'd looked me in the eye and told me she'd been in a relationship with three men—Marcus, who had moved into her quarters since her slaves disappeared, and her two slaves, Septimus and Tarshi.

Just names at first, but the way she'd said them, the pain that had flickered across her face, told me they meant everything to her.

The revelation that she'd been sleeping with her slaves had been shocking enough—the casual way she'd admitted to crossing those boundaries, to taking lovers from among her own property. But it was when she'd mentioned Tarshi, that my world had tilted off its axis. He was half-Talfen. I’d seen him myself with those eerie black eyes and pointed ears. The creature was huge too, their male always were. I still couldn’t believe it.

She was in love with a Talfen. The woman I'd fallen hopelessly in love with, the woman whose touch made me forget everything else in the world, had given her heart to one of the Empire's enemies.

A creature that barely qualified as human in the eyes of Imperial law, a slave she owned but apparently loved.

The knowledge sat in my stomach like poison, burning through any rational thought I might have had about the situation.

These weren't just casual lovers—they were her chosen family, the people she'd built her life around.

Men who'd vanished the night of the bombing, presumed dead, leaving her alone and grieving in ways that suddenly made terrible sense.

I understood now why she'd been so devastated, why she'd seemed to be drowning in sorrow that went beyond normal grief for Academy casualties.

She'd lost the men she actually loved, the ones who truly mattered to her.

I was just a convenient distraction from that loss, a way to feel something other than emptiness while she mourned.

And I could almost understand why she had joined the resistance, though it disturbed me to think she might have known what was going to happen that day.

I drained the rest of my glass. No. There was no way Livia would have been fine with killing innocent civilians. I might not know all her secrets, but I knew enough to know that was not her.

The worst part was how much I wanted to see her again, despite everything.

Four weeks without her touch, without her laughter, without the way she made me feel like I was more than just the Emperor's son playing at being important.

The longing was a physical ache in my chest, made worse by the knowledge that I couldn't trust my own feelings anymore.

No matter how much I tried to distract myself by my studies and by training, my thoughts kept circling back to Livia.

To the way she'd felt in my arms, the sound of her voice when she whispered my name, the trust I'd thought I'd seen in her eyes.

Had any of it been real? Or was I just another mark, another useful connection to be cultivated and exploited?

The evening dragged on with painful slowness.

I made the expected conversations, smiled at the appropriate moments, played the part of the dedicated student instructor everyone believed me to be.

But my attention kept drifting back to Livia, to the way she moved, the sound of her voice carrying across the room.

When she laughed at something one of the other instructors said, I felt the familiar twist of jealousy in my chest and hated myself for it.

She approached me once, early in the evening, her brown eyes bright with wine and what looked like genuine pleasure at seeing me.

"Jalend," she said, her voice warm with affection that made my heart stutter despite everything I knew. "I've been looking for you."

For a moment, I almost forgot my anger, almost let myself fall back into the easy intimacy we'd shared. Then I remembered the other men, and the pain crashed back over me like a wave.

"Have you?" I kept my voice politely neutral, the tone I might use with any casual acquaintance. "I've been here all evening."

Something flickered in her eyes—confusion, maybe, or hurt. "Is everything alright? You’ve been... distant recently."

“I’ve been busy,” I said, the words clipped and cool. “We all have. The aftermath of the attack has created a great deal of work for everyone at the Academy.”

The lie tasted as bitter as the wine. Her brow furrowed, a delicate line of concern between her eyes that I would have kissed away just a month ago. Now it only stoked the fire in my gut. How could she stand there looking at me with such innocence? She knew I was lying. We both knew it.

“Of course,” she said softly. “It’s been difficult. I just… I miss you.”

Her honesty was a physical blow, striking the air from my lungs.

For a wild, desperate moment, I wanted to confess everything—my fear, my jealousy, the agonizing love that refused to die no matter how much poison I fed it.

I wanted to pull her from the hall, take her somewhere dark and quiet, and demand to know if any part of what we’d shared had been real.

But the image of her with the others rose unbidden—with her slaves, with that Talfen creature. The thought of her in his arms, touching him, loving him, was a sickness in my gut.

“I’m sure you’ve had plenty to occupy your time,” I said, the words laced with a venom I couldn’t conceal.

"On the contrary, I imagine you've been quite busy yourself. Keeping up with all your... commitments must be exhausting."

The barb landed exactly as I'd hoped. The warmth drained from her face, replaced by a guarded, wounded expression. She understood my meaning, if not the depth of the venom behind it. She took a half-step back, as if I had physically struck her.

"I see," she said, her voice barely a whisper. The hurt in her eyes was a fresh wound in my own chest, a painful reminder that I still loved the woman I was trying so desperately to hate.

Before she could say more, before I could give in to the urge to either apologize or escalate the fight, I gave her a curt nod. "If you'll excuse me," I said, turning away from her without another glance. "I need more wine."

Without waiting for a reply, I gave her a curt, dismissive nod and turned away, melting back into the crowd. I needed more wine. I needed to forget her face, her voice, the way my heart still fractured for a woman I could never truly have.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of meaningless conversation and steadily increasing intoxication.

I found myself thinking about my father, about the growing certainty that he'd been behind the bombing that had killed so many innocent people.

The Emperor I'd spent my life trying to please, trying to make proud, was a monster who saw lives as expendable pieces in his political games.

And what did that make me? His son, his heir, complicit in his crimes through blood and association? If Livia ever discovered who I really was, would she look at me with the same disgust I felt when I thought about my father's actions?

The wine made the thoughts sharper, more painful.

I'd spent so many years believing I could be different, could rule with justice and compassion when my time came.

But how could I ever escape the shadow of my father's legacy?

How could I ask someone like Livia—someone who'd clearly suffered under Imperial rule—to love the future Emperor?