Page 6 of The Last Knight (The Cursed Kingdom #5)

When the male continued to be silent, Gunther lifted a tankard to his lips and took a long drink.

“As I said, the conversation can wait. I have much to learn. If you are intent on our joining forces, for whatever purposes, I cannot foresee it. Personally, if I were to choose a champion in a match between a Torant and an Eslander, I would choose the latter as victor.” Although his guards stiffened, they kept silent.

Indros’ eyes narrowed on him and Gunther felt the intrusion, the shuffling through his mind. He almost laughed at the rudimentary attempt to not only read his thoughts but also seek a way to control him.

Lifting his gaze, he shot fiery energy pulses back at the male, who squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his head, gasping until finally able to block the onslaught. Indros was left panting, beads of sweat trailing down his temples.

The Yori glared at him, nostrils flared, lips twisted into a snarl.

“You are a fool if you do not see that the joining of our realms will create an unstoppable force. I will become the greatest ruler, with or without your help. I am giving you the opportunity to share the largest kingdom, but you are a fool,” Indros gritted out as he stood.

His generals exchanged looks, seeming to get satisfaction from what the Yori stated.

Gunther stood as well, following the male who stalked toward the doorway. When he let out a breath, the Indros turned to look at him with a questioning look.

Assuring a pleasant tone, Gunther spoke. “I may be a fool, but I know that if our realms ever become one, there will only be room for one ruler, which, of course means one of us would have to die.”

Indros’ upper lip curled into a sneer. “There is no reason for it to come to that. We are both reasonable…er, rulers.”

When Gunther didn’t reply, they continued on toward the opening, side by side, guards in front and behind them.

It was ironic to Gunther that his men held no loyalty to him and that he could be attacked at any moment from either a Torant or a Yorian.

The only thing that kept him alive was the fact that Torants barely tolerated the Yorians.

Having battled against each other, their truce was a tenuous one.

It was late when the skies were dark outside, not that it made much different in his realm. Gunther placed his elbows on the tabletop and rubbed his eyes.

Reading through Meliot’s notes for two days now and questioning the scribe who’d attended most of Meliot’s meetings with others, had clarified a few things.

Meliot had been cruel beyond belief, and the warlock hated Indros.

It seemed he’d only agreed to a truce to keep from war with the one realm that surrounded two of the Dark Realm’s borders.

The scribe, a human male, sat at a small desk that was placed unobtrusively next to a doorway that led to a study.

The man, who’d been in service to Meliot for decades, had been a well-known philosopher and writer during his lifetime in the other realm.

He was called Philippe, born in 1700s in Marseilles, France.

The man maintained a strong French accent but was fluent in several languages.

Unlike other humans who had been captured and kept captive in the Dark Realm, Phillippe seemed content with his life. In a way, Gunther understood.

Meliot had enjoyed the philosopher’s company, and they’d developed what could only be described as an indefinable friendship. The scribe had luxurious quarters and his own servants. There was little the man wanted for.

Phillippe was the only person in the realm Gunther somewhat trusted. He’d delved into the man’s mind and had not detected anything other than willingness to serve.

“You do not seem to mind being here. Do you not wish to return to the other realm? To where you come from?” Gunther asked the scribe who lifted a goblet to his lips and took a delicate sip.

Philippe’s eyes moved to meet his. “There is nothing left of the France I lived in. Why would I want to return? I have seen with my own eyes the devastation of our realm over the years. No, I prefer it here.”

“There has been devastation here. No realm is free of destruction.”

There was a change to Philippe’s countenance.

An opportunity for debate seemed to brighten the man.

“True. However, there is a stark difference. What happens here has not changed the realms overall. For example, this realm remains and will always be a place of darkness. No one who comes here expects anything good will happen.”

Gunther walked out to the balcony and peered across the dark land. Immediately upon arriving, he himself had instantly understood that the Dark Realm was the closest he’d ever been to hell.

“You can go,” he said out loud. “We will continue this tomorrow.”

Once the scribe was gone, Gunther followed, down a narrow corridor and up a flight of stairs to his bedchamber. Once there, he closed the doors, leaving the guards outside.

It was as if the air became cleaner. He took in a long breath and exhaled slowly.

A picture of a woman formed in his mind.

A beautiful, caramel-skinned woman, with piercing brown eyes and a riot of dark curls framing her face.

Her body was perfection, from the swells of small breasts high on her chest to soft curves forming an hourglass figure, her small waist flowing out to hips.

He yearned to pull her to him and taste her lips, surely a delicious elixir.

Undressed he climbed into bed, his mind still on her.

“Aubrey,” he whispered her name into the darkness, his hand folding over his hardened sex. “Aubrey.”