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Chapter thirty-two

D imitri strolled to the Royal Legion’s mess hall.

The mundane chatter silenced the moment he set foot inside the large dining hall.

It had been nearly a decade since he graced them with his presence in this place.

His chest tightened into a bitter knot. He’d fought beside them once. Was one of them.

Once.

He’d been an awkward whelp the first time he’d stepped foot inside these walls—a youth of only fifteen. Inexperienced and foolish. Always attempting to win the affection of his father, the King, when the male was never capable of the sentiment.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, but the lingering purpose he’d once felt within these walls grounded him. No matter how many years transpired, or how much he denied it, the unwanted ghost of a life that could have been never left him.

The brutal drills and training came easily, and he’d found the place he belonged.

Dimitri’s thoughts turned bitter. His comradery vanished when he turned eighteen. A fully grown male assigned to his first legion, tasked with his first assignment.

Dimitri ran two fingers along a buffet table staffed by a handful of footmen.

They made regular trips to the kitchen, ensuring the dishes remained piled high with meats, bread, and potatoes.

He smirked at the wide bowls of rich brown gravy, a common condiment on the royal table, but a rarity here.

A treat the battle-hardened earned for the legion through particularly vicious victories.

He strolled past the delicacy and wondered if his father would have served the legion gravy if his plan had succeeded.

Dimitri was dispatched with a small team for his first assignment.

It was unusual for a male as young as he’d been to be assigned such an honor, but he’d mistakenly thought his dedication to the craft of war was noticed and rewarded.

A foolish young male, so blinded by his pursuit of belonging, he didn’t recognize the ambush his father orchestrated.

The enemy knew they were coming. Seventy males waited for their arrival, dwarfing their force of ten. Fear had never chilled Dimitri’s blood. He worshiped Vinceret and there was no better death than on the battlefield, wrought in steel and blood.

He cut down the enemy forces with cold precision and the inevitable happened.

Pain had exploded through his chest, and Dimitri glanced down, scarcely recognizing the spearhead jutting through his armor. His magic culminated in a torrent of famished shadows, lashing at the closest soul. Then the next.

Dimitri broke the spear and ripped it from his rapidly healing body. His curse was finally a blessing. He could save his friends and win this strategic foothold for his father.

He’d yelled for them to fall back, to stay out of range, and began his assault with no regard for the shriveled, black-veined bodies he left in his wake.

When it was done, his team survived, but at a cost. The males he’d fought with kept their distance.

Instead of regarding him as an asset, he became a menacing threat.

The same males he’d saved spread whispers of the Death Spirit through the Royal Legion.

His place of belonging and the friends he’d made died before him, as lifeless as the contorted corpses he’d left on the battlefield.

None of it mattered, Dimitri reminded himself. He was above them, by birth, skill, and intellect.

Dimitri found his quarry at the end of the table.

Several bottles of wine with cups stacked tall beside them.

He uncorked and sniffed several bottles before finding the honeyed wine he searched for.

The footman stood exceedingly still, and Dimitri grinned.

The male pulled his wings tighter to his back and sweat began to bead on his forehead.

“Do you think if you hold still, I won’t notice you?” he asked, recorking his neva’s wine.

The footman swallowed. “N-no, Lord Dimitri. I can have a new bottle brought to you, my lord.”

“No. I have what I came for,” he answered, glancing over the silent mess hall. Dimitri held the bottle of wine out and wiggled it at no one in particular. “You don’t mind if I take this do you?”

The silence continued and Dimitri casually strolled down the three steps separating the buffet from the rows of tables. Hundreds were packed into the long tables, and not one Fae moved.

They were hardly breathing.

Dimitri lifted his hand, admiring his scar for long moments before turning his palm in to display his wedding mark.

“My wife is in my chambers, and I’ve been assigned to a target.

If any of you so much as look in her direction while I am gone, I will kill all of you and your families. Do you understand me?”

The silence continued, but their eyes followed him.

“Should I kill all of you as a message? I asked, ‘do you understand me?’” Dimitri yelled the last.

“Yes, Lord Dimitri,” they answered in unison.

“Good,” Dimitri said, lifting the bottle of wine at the legionaries. “Enjoy your meal.”