Page 46

IRIS

Kevan can call himself a lich king because Kyorgos was sired from that bloodline.

THE Lich King—the original, the ancient—exists on an entirely different power level than a petty, modern duke.

I don’t doubt they’re related.

I just don’t want this to be happening.

“The monster we’re facing,” I say numbly. “This is the same lich king that sired the Kyorgos bloodline?”

Remy’s, “Mmmm,” could mean anything, but I’ve picked up enough breadcrumbs to paste together a truth that sours my stomach.

History tells us how the Sentinels were created. Monsters were captured alive and made into magic experiments.

That’s easier done with weaker monsters.

The Supreme bloodlines were sired from leftover scraps of the SSS-tier, Apocalypse kind of monsters.

Like the chip from the naga queen’s scale, used to sire Mirta Supreme and begin the Mirta ducal line.

Ancient humans never could’ve subdued the queen herself.

We were too weak. They were too strong.

Basic undead math reveals the problem our ancestors would’ve faced after somehow lucking into capturing the grand-daddy of all liches.

For every human that could survive inheriting the lich king’s blood and magic, how many had to be sacrificed in the experiments?

Remy’s memory was from the early days of the war—not a single Guide among the soldiers. That was when all Sentinels rampaged and died young, and humanity was still being exterminated city-by-lost-city.

Meanwhile, liches aren’t alive.

They can’t be killed.

You have to destroy their vessels, which could be people, rocks, or old bottle caps slowly churning out micro-plastics from a trench at the bottom of the sea.

That fucking monster just had to wait for its chance to rise again while we stockpiled corpses for its army.

I shiver.

I can even guess why the tomb-prison needed to be erased from history.

Lots of humans would’ve pushed back against the order to bury such a powerful test subject.

Kyorgos would’ve craved more power, more blood, more Sentinels.

Kevan still does.

He might not have wanted me as his duchess, but he sure as hell made me do the secretary work that went with the title. I booked his crypt-trips and signed off on his invoices for hauling grave dirt back to the estate.

His ancestors must’ve left him breadcrumbs, too.

Maybe the legend of a limitless source of power.

A way to become the ultimate necromancer.

This prison tomb is what he’s been searching for.

I can’t believe Kevan knows the whole truth. Not even he could be stupid enough to unleash an Apocalypse-tier enemy that Azrid Supreme couldn’t take down.

Either way, I need to know what Kevan knows.

“Guide,” Remy’s rasp draws me back to reality.

I comb my fingers through the silver streaks in his hair and soothe his battered soul. “Rest. You must be exhausted.”

“No.” Remy drags me to his chest, not noticing that Vhex is pulled along for the hug.

He squints, fighting to stay with me.

Something warm and soft moves in my chest. I clear my throat. “You’ve worked hard enough. Close your eyes.”

“Yes.” He tucks my head against his shoulder.

As I stroke him to sleep, I can’t help flashing back through his violent deaths.

In all those short lives, I never saw the Azrids hold a funeral.

Remy’s past is a fucked up carousel.

He reawakens in a coffin, confused and blinking wet, red eyes in a child-sized body. As soon as he recovers enough bulk and energy to hold a sword, some dehydrated older vampire always appears to boot him back to war.

He grows tall and strong and stoic—a straight-faced general, nothing like the eldritch creature that the empire cut loose as soon as the vampire won and Remington Azrid lost his use.

Every time he dies, the cycle restarts.

My throat pinches.

Does anyone ever say thank you ?

Or are we all just using each other until we’re all used up?

I can’t live like that.

I have to keep caring, even when it hurts.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “If you hadn’t fought, I wouldn’t have been born.”

That’s how many battles rage behind Remy’s shadows.

That’s how much difference one stubborn soul can make.

Enough to turn the tide of our world.

Eventually, his silks relax.

As Remy drifts to sleep, his thoughts pull together just enough to sigh a full sentence. “Then it was worth it.”

Vhex grabs my hips from behind and snuggles me closer.

“Firefly,” he mumbles.

I’d shiver, but their souls wrap me even tighter when they sleep.

Vhex’s leg hooks between mine. Remy’s heart beats against my skin. I manage their energy flows by habit, soothing them deeper and deeper into the kind of rest they probably haven’t had in years.

I can’t bring myself to push them away.

Now, they’re comforting me as much as I’m comforting them.

My head throbs.

We have to fight that thing.

Even with Vhex and Remy at full strength and Simms forced to join the war, three S-classes aren’t enough to guarantee that the lich king stays buried underground.

I can’t lie here doing nothing.

Well, it’s not totally nothing.

Vhex and Remy rub against me every time they breathe. If I let myself stay between them, it’ll turn into something really soon.

I let them rest a while before I carefully disentangle and pad across the room.

Remy’s bedroom furnishings are as rich as you’d expect from the son of a Supreme and a titled duke. I can’t name the wood the furniture is carved from. The desk is this deep, glossy red, like a piece from a museum. Humans haven’t logged as much since most forests turned into battlegrounds.

Remy’s personal messaging orbs sit on shelves made from the same antique wood. I climb his upholstered chair to scan them in the candlelight.

A delicate, 3D symbol glows at the center of each glass. Some are personal sigils I don’t recognize. Some are cracked, suggesting whoever owned its other half is long gone.

I don’t want to call for help.

If I could, I’d fight the king myself.

But I’m just one Guide and the stakes are too high.

Human territory has been shrinking for centuries.

We can’t afford to lose anything else.

I can’t lose anything else.

After covering myself with a shirt from Remy’s fancy armoire, I make sure the guys are still out, then settle at the desk. I take down the orb with the tower-and-thorns symbol of the Azrids’ Northern Legion.

Its dust wipes off on my fingers. Remy clearly hasn’t been making any calls.

The owner probably shoved the paired orb to the back of a cupboard before I was born. I connect a silk and pump in mental energy hard enough to ring the other side at full volume.

My fingertips buzz, so I know the request is going through.

After a long wait, the light blurs into a red-eyed Sentinel’s pissed-off face. A brocade dressing robe hangs off his shoulders. The sharp features that should be handsome are ruined by his nasty scowl.

“Is he dead?” the man snaps.

“Excuse me?”

He makes a noise at the back of his throat.

“If you’re ringing at this hour, through this line, it must be because my brother rampaged for the final time.

You can dispose of the body.” He shuffles the orb with the sleeve of his robe, already shifting to end the call.

“I’ll assign the Farguard a new major when the sun is in the sky where it belongs. Goodn?—”

“Remington is alive,” I interrupt. No thanks to you.

The man huffs. “You don’t know who I am?”

“I don’t care.” I should kiss ass and tell him what he wants to hear, but it’s been a long day, and I’m saving my lips for better Sentinels’ fangs.

“The Farguard is about to be sieged by a lich king. The same one that sired the Kyorgos line. This thing is Apocalypse-tier, and it’s rising with an undead army.

If you don’t send reinforcements, it’ll sweep past the border and?—”

“Bullshit.” The man lifts his chin. “My father dismembered the Kyorgos’ sire centuries ago.”

I squeeze the orb.

All I want is the power to choke men from afar. “You were lied to. Imperial forces couldn’t kill the lich, so they buried it instead. Remy, Vhex, and Simms are the only S-classes left to stop it from rising again.”

“Trezzoran lives as well?” Remy’s “brother” rubs the bridge of his nose. “What terrible news. His family will be devastated.”

My face twists.

Is everyone in a position of power a self-centered sociopath?

Right. Of course they are.

I repeat myself more slowly, emphasizing every word so that he understands he’s also going to be affected. “We will lose the north. After we’re overrun, the Sentinels who made their last stand here will be the vanguard in the undead army sweeping toward Azrid’s cities.”

“True,” he says and taps his chin. “Send Remington and Trezzoran to suicide-attack the horde. Their rampage will give the Northern Legion time to pull back to a safe distance.”

What the hell? “You can’t retreat.”

“I give the orders. I don’t take them from….” His lip curls as his gaze flicks up and down, taking in my rumpled hair and Remy’s shirt. “What are you? My brother’s blood maid? Or his whore?”

“I’m his Guide,” I hiss.

He rolls his eyes. “Azrids don’t imprint.”

“We didn’t—” Godsdamnit. What does it even matter? “We’re facing an Apocalypse . You can’t just abandon?—”

“The Farguard was decommissioned twenty years ago,” he says matter-of-factly.

“What remains is an unfunded wilderness outpost in a sacrificial territory that buffers any actual civilization and serves as a dumping ground for defective warriors. We won’t lose the north.

We’ll simply continue to withdraw. That’s the palace’s stance, and the Azrid family’s as well.

I suggest you run. A loose little consort like you will always find herself welcomed. Perhaps, in my bed?—”

Krrrrrk!

The orb shatters from my grip.

I stare at my empty hand, waiting for it to hurt, but there’s no blood.

My breath comes fast and hard.

Run?

And go where?

Back to my mother to be sold again? To my father who’d give me away for free? To Sorrel and our other fucked up semi-siblings who’d rather kill me than see me succeed?

Am I supposed to run back to fucking Kevan ?

To an empty manor, with no one to talk to but the duchess who reminds me I’ll never be worthy of her son?

To the Deathguard, who treats me like a medicine doll they can use, then ignore?

Never.

I refuse.

I can’t run to another guard.

If the border is breached, Faervaine is screwed.

Just a quick mental flick through the records inscribed in my badge, and it’s clear that the Farguard is doing more than its share to protect the shrinking empire.

They cull hordes of kobolds twice a year. They’ve kept down wyverns and flying beasts, stopped orc invasions, and found and fought more monster spawns than any other “active” guard.

They may have been abandoned, but they never abandoned their fight.

My hand finally tingles from the exploded orb.

I make a fist.

So what if the Farguard is a mess?

It’s my mess.

I don’t abandon my people.

Even if they abandon me.

Remy has orbs for contacting all the high noble houses, but it’s clear that none will help for free.

My fingers shake as I reach for the orb inset with a skull wreathed in ice-blue flames.

I’d rather let the duchess use me as a footstool than call her son asking him for help.

But people shouldn’t have to die just so I can avoid my ex.

Kevan will come.

Not for me— never for me .

Kevan will come for the same reason he’s always kept me around.

I have the power he wants.