Page 4 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Cage

“TWIST AT THE HIP AS you punch. Momentum makes the blow far more effective.” The words leave my mouth with a heavy, irritated sigh.

For the third time today, my patience grows thinner explaining the basics to the same inept guard.

This time, I draw out the word “momentum,” slow and deliberate, as if the concept might finally penetrate his thick skull and we can avoid a fourth lesson on a simple proper punch.

I snort, not bothering to hide my amusement as he attempts to follow through but his focus on the movement leaves him wide open. His opponent seizes the opportunity to nail him in the face. A crack echoes as blood spurts from his now broken nose, twisted grotesquely. Amazing. Serves him right.

I step past without a second glance, letting my attention drift to the next sparring match.

I know it’s hot, and I can feel their resentment burning as much as the sun and them cursing me for adding another hour to their training.

Their thoughts seep into my head, unbidden, as natural as air.

The power thrumming beneath my skin never lets me forget it’s there, always searching for an outlet. Sometimes, it’s found in their minds.

Without warning, I step into the ring and sweep a guard’s legs out from under him. He crashes on his ass with a sharp curse. I lean in, peering down on him like a storm cloud.

“You lean too much on your left leg,” I say, brushing a piece of lint off my shirt before turning sharply on my heel.

My retreat is swift and deliberate, cutting off any chance for a response, not that I would be entertaining any discussions.

This is a damn training yard, not a chow hall for idle banter.

The captain had insisted he couldn’t oversee this himself, his excuse wrapped in whatever duties he claimed to have.

It annoyed me then, and it still does. The real weight of my frustration presses into the hard set of my jaw, lacing every command I bark to the guards in the punishing midday sun.

Not a flicker of guilt stirs in me, not even pity, as they sweat and stumble.

Surely, Kalix is off doing gods knows what or, more likely, gods know who.

Meanwhile, the mages needed work. I need to be there with them.

I’m their leader, not a drill sergeant for these bloody guards.

Mages are coming from across the realm to train under me now, their numbers swelling by the day, not that anyone is complaining.

King Tyran is overjoyed. His defenses have never been so strong.

Every new recruit is just more fresh meat for me to whip into shape.

As if the thought of Tyran summoned the man himself, his snooty messenger emerges from the edge of the yard, scurrying straight toward me.

“Master Black,” he says in that tight little stuck-up voice that I don’t particularly enjoy.

I slowly raise a brow in question just to grate his nerves. For my own entertainment, I decide to use his first name. “Loric,” I drawl, running a hand through my raven hair. The sweat helps to slick some back—for all of three seconds—before the messy strands flop into my face once again.

Loric’s lips press into a firm line of distaste. I can’t help but smile in response, to add fuel to the fire of his dislike.

“King Tyran is requesting your presence at once,” he says, chin held high and undeterred.

I give a dramatic wave of my arm. “Then by all means, lead the way. Can’t keep Tyran waiting.”

Loric quickly hurries from the training yard, carefully weaving around the sparring bodies as if afraid one might touch him. I almost hope someone knocks into him—or at least kicks some dirt his way—just to see him squirm as his pristine outfit gets soiled.

Keeping pace is effortless. He can’t be taller than five feet, I imagine, while my six-two frame eats up the space between us with ease.

We make our way through the stone palace halls lined with gilded chandeliers and ornate paintings depicting long-dead kings and their victories.

Servants pause to bow in respect as we pass.

Guards offer simple nods of acknowledgement.

The courtesans and ladies of the court, however, are much more entertaining.

Their thoughts did not need to be read. The way their eyes seemed to devour me says enough.

Everyone knows I don’t commit, but my bed was by no means empty.

At 206 years old, my lifespan feels endless.

Mage blood keeps me looking no more than thirty, and I’m well aware that my features are considered attractive.

When you’re nearly immortal, attachments lose their meaning; the world is plentiful.

The world is mine to take, and I hunger for more. I refuse to limit myself.

Finally, we reach the massive golden doors, a garish testament to King Tyran’s excessive tastes.

They swing open revealing the king himself, perched on his throne like a dragon atop his horde.

He’s dripping in gold—robes, jewelry, even the hefty crown atop his head of cascading golden curls that flow down to his shoulders.

His bright blue eyes lock on me, lighting up like a child’s.

“Cage!” His grin stretches wide, rounding his cheeks as he clasps his hands and leans back into his throne. “Thank you for coming.”

I smirk, raising a brow. “I had an option not to?” My tone is playful as I step deeper into the room.

Loric bows and slips away, a signal that this isn’t just another of Tyran’s casual summons.

“No, of course not. I am being polite.” Tyran replies, his grin never wavers.

“Ah yes. What a shining example of royal decorum, Your Highness,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I cross the room to the empty throne beside him, the one that’s been vacant for years.

He’s only twenty-eight, thrust into power when his father died, and the weight of the crown hasn’t done a damn thing to curb his appetite. An heir was needed soon, but the man can’t seem to settle—or keep his dick in his pants long enough to make it happen.

Tyran doesn’t even try to hide the dramatic eye roll my retort earns him. Not that he could. Felix did everything with a flair for theatrics. Diva .

“Now, Black, we have business to discuss,” he says, rubbing his hands like a scheming rat. It’s exactly the kind of gesture he makes when he is up to something.

“You mean you’re scheming?” I lean back in the chair, propping my elbow up on the armrest and resting chin on my fist as I cross my ankle over my knee.

“Why are my plans called schemes but yours and the commander’s aren’t?” he asks, looking genuinely affronted, like he’s about to pout.

“Because we actually plan. There are steps, clearly defined, and we have a goal,” I say, staring him down.

“We don’t drink so much wine that we grab a quill and come up with a master plan to take over the continent while calculating how many bastard sons we can produce in a week by impregnating every woman we meet. ”

Tyran huffs in protest, “I get drunk one time and have a master plan, and now it’s thrown into my face! Gods above! Live a little!” He sinks into his chair, sulking like a petulant child before mumbling, “I could impregnate so many it is not...illogical…just give me rest breaks.”

Suppressing a laugh, I wave a hand to redirect the conversation, “So, what’s this business?”

Tyran perks up immediately, turning to face me with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me brace for whatever absurdity he’s about to unleash. “We’re at war with the North. They’re annoying. I’ve been thinking about power, how we get more of it. So far, more mages have been a huge help.”

He pauses, dragging it out far too long for my liking. I know better than to interrupt. He’ll start over from the beginning. I truly do not have the patience for both training guards and Felix’s theatrics today.

“Witches,” he whispers, as if the word itself is forbidden.

“For centuries, we’ve hunted and burned them, but they’re strong.

What if we could bridge the gap, find something they want and use it to get them to comply?

Think about it, Cage. They’re half fucking demon!

” His eyes light up filled with exuberance.

My chest tightens, burning from the fury that is spreading like wildfire inside of me. I tense. My hand flexes against the cool golden armrest.

“Iris has made herself at home here just fine,” Tyran continues, oblivious to my growing anger. “Her skill set has been incredibly useful, especially in our current situation.”

“No,” I say, my voice sharp and final. The word leaves no room for argument.

Tyran’s grin falters, but only for a moment before he recovers, “Well, I’m the king, so…yes. I will want you to train and keep an eye on them.”

Like hell I will. “No.” My interruption is sharp, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You sit here reading texts and hearing stories about what they used to be. I lived with them—for a time. They’re insanely powerful, lethal, and they do not care for human life.”

Memories flash behind my eyes: the fucking white-haired bitch tying me to a stone altar, her knife running over my flesh, unzipping my skin until my blood flowed freely. I was weak.

Tyran raises his hands in surrender, his palms up like white flags. “Look, I know you were with them for a time, but—”

“But what, Felix?” My voice is low, dangerous. “I trusted one witch—one—and she’s here in these very walls. The rest? They follow their own fucked up moral codes. They’re abominations. That’s the truth, ingrained in me as deeply as the scars left on my body and the lies I believed for years.”

Tyran shifts in his seat but presses on. “The North is up to something. I do not know what, but a seer came to me. Call Luna crazy all you want, but she’s predicted everything.”

Gods above, he’s actually listening to that lunatic.

The North is a cold, dead land, shrouded in snow and mystery. Our spies haven’t been able to penetrate their ranks since Tyran’s grandfather. Entering the land ensures certain death either by the cold, creatures, or the company.

Mountains and sea help keep our lands safe from the maleficent magic that has reigned there since the dawn of time. It’s the region where the tales claim that the most wicked of things went to rest.

World enders.

Their sons.

Their servants.

“We’ll need witches for what’s coming. It comes at night. We’ll need creatures of the night,” Tyran says, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “And before you argue, witches would never agree to this, but they have. That alone is a huge feat for us.”

The shock of witches agreeing hits me like a slap to the face. “They agreed?” Witches don’t make deals, especially not with mortals. This reeks of wrongness. A trap, plain and simple.

“Yes, they agreed, which tells me they know something, too. In return, they get free rein and won’t be hunted. And yes, I know the damn risks,” he adds. Irritation flashes in his eyes. “But there’s nothing to protect if what Luna warns us about comes true.”

For once, real worry etches itself onto Tyran’s face, carving lines into his youthful features. It makes him look older, more drained, finally showing a sliver of the true weight of carrying the crown.

“What is Luna predicting, exactly?”

Tyran shakes his head, frustration clear. “I’m not allowed to know it all—fates above—but something dark, something strong and capable of wiping out the South, is being brought in. And with what we have right now, we’ll lose, even with you.”

The words land like a stone in my chest.

“No moves have been made yet,” he continues, “but they will come. I’m just trying to prepare.”

How ominous. Luna couldn’t even manage to specify if it’s an army, a god, a new fun power, or witches teaming up with the North. No, just “something dark” that “could kill the South.” Brilliant. Thank you, Luna. The night sky is black, you mental ward patient. Truly narrowing it down for us.

I sigh, rising to my feet. Rolling my neck and shoulders, I try to shake off the tension coiled in my muscles, but the weight of this unwelcome news refuses to leave. “What coven agreed to help?”

“The Le Strange,” Tyran says, all too proudly. The fucking idiot .

The shadows beneath my skin stir like restless tides, the inky onyx coursing over my neck, chest and arms beginning to writhe.

I feel the silver in my eyes churn as his words settle like poison in my veins.

It evokes a wrath like no other from deep within.

That name, the one I swore would never pass anyone’s lips again.

Tyran just made a deal with the devil to save us from some new hell.

The young king would learn the devil comes when you call but it’s no friend to anyone.

The scars on my back burn again, echoing the memory of when they were fresh.

Rage wells up, thick and suffocating, as the hate I’ve buried for years claws its way to the surface, constricting my throat.

They should have all died that night, every last one of them. Of course, the Le Strange survived.

Cockroaches always do.