Page 1

ALARIC

The Eyrie—Nightfall

The storm above us is cosmetic. I should know, I summoned it.

A touch of drama never hurts when four would-be kings are gathered to bicker like old crows.

Lightning flashes beyond the obsidian walls of the Eyrie, my personal stronghold at the edge of Nightfall’s skyward border.

Below us, the realm churns with unrest.

I can see it in the haze of magic seeping into the atmosphere from all sides of the Endless Forest.

Nightfall is a place of mystery and magic. It is to be respected.

I learned that at the hands of the old Prime, when I was barely old enough for my wings to carry me.

Fuck, I miss that old man. And I vow to have my vengeance on those who killed him.

The SoulTakers creep in closer with every passing day, and the seat of the Prime grows colder still.

With the absence of a Prime, the realm is vulnerable. Our people suffer. And up here?

We argue like boys in a schoolyard.

“Why are we here? What makes Alaric, Lord of Air, think he can summon us to his little kingdom like we’re his servants?”

Thorne, Lord of Fire, frowns as he spits his venomous words. His flame-colored eyes flash with his anger, but I know he is every bit as sorrowful as I am about the fall of our Prime.

“You know, your bitter words don’t make you a leader, Thorne,” I say with a smirk, propping one boot on the ancient obsidian table. “They just make you more irritating than usual.”

Thorne’s molten eyes narrow. Fire dances along the edge of his skin, licking at the air like a warning.

“At least I don’t hide behind trickery and illusions.”

“Please,” I scoff, spreading my hands. “Illusions are simply truths waiting for a good story.”

Kael sighs from his side of the table, broad arms crossed over his sea-glinted armor. His horns catch the light when he shifts.

“You two are children.”

“And you’re a puddle with a crown fetish,” Dagan mutters from his corner, wings folded tight as stone slabs behind him. “We’re wasting time. The realm needs a Prime.”

“Then go find a mate already and see if you can wear the crown,” I say lightly. “Unless you’re afraid the Fates won’t fall for your brooding routine.”

His almost pure white eyes meet mine, full of violence and contempt, but also— amusingly —a spark of worry.

Because we all know the same thing:

To claim the crown, we must be mated.

Not just joined.

But truly mated, and with all the blessings of the Fates themselves.

Only a pure matebond will awaken the crown, grant the Prime’s magic, and keep Nightfall from tearing itself apart.

But who among us believes in true love?

Not Thorne, with his scars and fiery contempt.

Not Kael, with his ocean of regrets and submerged secrets.

Not Dagan, the stone-hearted executioner with his angelic appearance and Demonic ruthlessness.

And certainly not me.

Love is a myth.

A pretty lie.

But mating? That we can fake.

“Humans,” I say, leaning forward, fingers steepled. “They’re the key.”

“Humans?” Dagan says the word like it’s a curse.

“What are you on about? A zareth cannot be faked,” Thorne scoffs.

“Wait a moment. Alaric might be on to something,” Kael murmurs.

All of his attention is on me.

Of all the Lords, Kael and I get along the best. And judging by his smirk, he knows where I am going with this.

“Think about it for a second,” I continue. “I don’t speak of forging a real soul bond. Not a zareth , Thorne. Merely the appearance of one.”

Everyone is silent. So, I press on.

“Humans have the softest hearts in any realm. Fragile. Loyal. Starved for affection. If we want to get past the crown’s magic, if we want it to think we’ve found our true mates, we’ll need to charm the Fates themselves.”

Thorne scoffs. “You want us to seduce mortals ?”

“I want one of us to win,” I say, shrugging.

“Oh, I see. And we should all believe that you, Lord Alaric , would be content with any one of us wearing the Prime’s crown?” Dagan turns his lips downward and growls.

“You can hear lies as well as I?—”

“Yes, but you are the Lord of Illusion . You lie better than most,” he interrupts.

“Do you dare impugn my honor in my own home, Lord Dagan?” I growl, feeling my magic spike alongside my temper.

“Brothers, please! We must remember ourselves. Without a Prime, our baser instincts vie for control. But we are better than that. Now, let’s hear Alaric out,” Kael says, standing and raising his arms in peace.

“ If we can get a human to fall in love with us?—”

“Wait like share one woman?” Kael asks, eyebrows raised.

This one. Always thinking with his cock.

I roll my eyes at him, fighting my smirk when the others do the same.

“No!” I snort. “Look, if each of us finds one human woman and gets them to fall for us, and I mean truly fall in love with us, then maybe the crown won’t know the difference. Maybe it won’t care if we don’t love in return. The Fates won’t test us. They’ll just believe .”

Kael tilts his head. “And if we fail? If we bind ourselves to the wrong ones?”

Dagan answers, voice like grinding granite. “Then we die when the SoulTakers breach the gates, and it won’t matter, anyway.”

A heavy silence falls.

I break it, smiling with my inner Dragon showing himself through my eyes, always ready to play with his prey.

“Then we’d better hurry, brothers. It’s a race now. First one to bring home a human and get her to say I love you wins the crown and rules the realm.”

“And what happens when your mortal figures out the game? What if she finds out the truth and leaves you? What then, Lord of Lies ?” Thorne asks.

I grin. “You just answered that question yourself. I am the Lord of Illusion, I lie better than anyone save maybe Satan himself. She won’t know the truth. Not ever.”

The four of us rise, old magic shuddering through the stones beneath our feet.

This is either the beginning of a new age or the end of it all— of Nightfall, of everything.

“Only one of us can ascend,” Dagan begins.

“True, but all of us must try,” I reply, placing my hand between us, palm down.

“Then we agree. We will all try this mad plan of Alaric’s?” Kael asks with a wicked grin on his face.

Kael slaps his hand on mine, the strength in it echoes in the room.

His gesture is followed by Dagan, who claps his palm down on Kael’s.

We all look to the last of us who has yet to agree.

It’s Lord Thorne, of course. But he’s always been an ornery bastard.

“Well, why the fuck not? Can’t let this cocky prick have all the fun,” Thorne mutters, tossing his hand on top of ours.

None of us plan to fall.

None of us believe in fate.

But we’re going to try to cheat it anyway.

“May the best Lord win!”