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Daimon

Daimon awoke in his empty castle. His hands were shaking and a tear had trailed down his face in his sleep.

Evelina was there. She was there .

He shook his head and pulled himself off his bed.

The Harvest Moon still hung high in the sky, but he wouldn’t have long to get the dagger ready. He could feel the traitorous human king’s shadows leaking from the cave like smoke from a fire. Vidaris had hidden Moros right under Daimon’s nose, or at least let him weasel his way to the edge of the Shadow Realm, straddling the line between Penyth and Daimon’s domain.

He needed to get to Moros and end this once and for all.

There was even more to fight for now, Evelina carrying a child of her own. He couldn’t think of it now—the child wasn’t theirs .

He stalked out of the castle and into the Wailing Woods to retrieve Nightfall. He knelt beneath a tall pine tree and began to dig. He pulled the damp soil apart until he felt a lump of cloth. It was caked in dirt, but still wound tightly around the dagger. He unrolled it and released a breath when he found the blade still inside .

It was warm when he wrapped his hand around the hilt. His magic sang in answer to its silent call. His shadows flared, whispering in his ear, begging him to use the blade on anyone who stepped into his path.

He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Reluctantly, his shadows withdrew into the depths of his soul.

It took him a moment to regain his bearings and open his eyes again. Slowly, he got to his feet and looked down at the weapon. The dragon bone gleamed in the moonlight; the tip of it sparkled where the black blood of an unknown being had melded into it.

Now all he needed was to take care of this final loose strand, and then maybe he could find a way out of this joyless place.

Daimon traveled on shadows and darkness to the edge of the Shadow Realm. He wished he could see Evelina, wished he was still dreaming. But he couldn’t do this in his dreams, couldn’t risk waking up or not getting to Moros.

He needed to draw Moros out of the cave. There were too many small holes and places to escape. He needed them out in the open. With nowhere to hide. He also had to be careful not to risk Vidaris somehow finding out, needed to draw Moros out and get him out of the Shadow Realm without Daimon himself stepping too far outside of it.

Daimon wrapped his shadows around himself until he was hidden. He slid into the cave, sticking close to the walls. If anyone looked his way, he could pass as a shadow cast by the gleam of moonlight.

He felt a heavy darkness at the mouth of the cave, and the deeper he ventured, the heavier it weighed on him .

It didn’t surprise him when he found a small host of Furies with Moros.

Their king had gone into hiding, and so had they.

Daimon left his shadows concealing most of his features, but released them enough to get Moros’s attention.

“Who are you?” Moros spat. “Show yourself.”

He looked… old .

His skin was wrinkled and leathery, with deep circles beneath his eyes. He looked more like a decaying corpse than a living being. Daimon could still feel his dark magic, could feel how much stronger it was than the body that held it.

By all accounts, he should have been dead in human regard, already over a hundred years old. The toll this amount of magic was taking on his body might just kill him before Daimon got the chance.

Moros surrounded himself in darkness, wrapping himself in a shield of safety. Shadows billowed off the old king, spewing from his flesh and encasing him in a magic that reeked like a decaying body.

Daimon set his shadows loose on the cave, sending sharp rocks falling from the ceiling and tumbling down onto the rebels below. He backed away, slowly forcing them out of the cave as rocks fell. Moros shielded himself from being struck, as did the Furies. He couldn’t kill them in here, but he could get them to come out.

Daimon taunted them, striking their bodies so they would follow.

Moros’s face reddened with rage.

Daimon smiled. His plan was working.

Moros and his followers had been drawn out of his hiding place and were nearly to the edge now.

A screech filled the air. Daimon froze. He knew that sound. It was a wyvern. He had heard it a thousand times over the years, had fought with the beast’s Rider just as long. The Alpha Fleet was here .

Moros heard the sound too, as did the Furies with him. He screamed in anger and turned around to retreat, but Daimon was behind them. Now, the Furies would have no choice but to run across the border into the fae lands, away from the safety of the curse that would trap souls inside.

Moros ran, slow in his old age.

Vero’s wing crested over the cliffside first. His massive body came next, so fast there was nothing Daimon could do to stop it. Two more wyverns flanked Brielle and Vero—Aster and Willow atop them.

The three wyverns flew over him, their eyes fixed on Moros.

Daimon clothed himself deeper into his shadows, making it impossible for anyone to see him in the darkness.

Willow and Aster descended first, swooping down and using their magic together. Willow pulled any kind of nature she could from the forest’s edge—large branches, clumps of soil filled with sharp rocks—while Aster called on the sea, surrounding the rebels with a torrent of water to try and drown them.

Brielle set Willow’s projectiles on fire, and Aster made openings in the water for the fiery weapons to soar through.

Daimon couldn’t see through the chaos, but he could feel his magic flare in answer. He took care of the five Furies with a single spear made of shadows. They rushed toward him and he sent the spear sideways. It tore through their throats one by one.

He ran after Moros. He got close enough that he caught Vero’s eye. The beast turned its head and growled. Brielle looked over her shoulder, but he was still invisible to her.

A wave of sickening heat slammed into him; the familiar pulse of darkness that lived inside of him sang in answer. Moros was about to attack.

Alpha Fleet split their attention between Moros and the rebels, but they couldn’t attack Moros. Not yet.

Daimon knew it wouldn’t work—not with Moros’s dark magic still coursing through him. They wouldn’t be able to kill his body without severing his connection to the dark magic. It had to be both. Death to his magic as well as to his body.

They didn’t know that. Didn’t know just how deep his ties to Vidaris ran—but Daimon did. His shadows peeked a curious eye out near Vidaris, recognizing the likeness. Moros’s darkness did the same.

Soldiers erupted from the forest, with Senna leading the charge. They outnumbered the rebels ten to one. Senna’s group closed in on them quickly and the rebels started to panic.

Daimon crept closer, fighting against the pull in his chest that was yanking him back toward the Shadow Realm. He had to be careful, could only go so far outside of it. He kept his eye on Moros as he slowly withdrew his dagger, close enough to?—

The ground beneath Daimon’s feet trembled so hard he almost tripped. A sound pierced the air, like the high-pitched screech of a wyvern, but heavier. Deeper. Something he didn’t think could leave the Shadow Realm.

Moonlight was blocked out as the massive creature flew overhead. It was shrouded in shadows, the edges of its wings blurry and hard to see in the night. But it was unmistakable.

A dragon had joined the fight. And it was answering to Moros.