The Heirs of Death

45. The Stone Tower

I hadn't realized how hardly I had squeezed Leon's fingers until his thumb started tracing idle circles, calluses rough against my scars. He donned the cape almost twin to mine, but the blackness of mine had been the fiery red. It suited him, so bloody much.

A ripple of magic stretched through the world and it was far enough to know Blake and Lysithea were moments of arriving.

Darkness spun atop my head, sewing a crown similar to the one I had flaunted that first night in this continent. A detailed artwork of threads thinner than a cobweb's, plunging in the middle, ending a breath before the space between my eyebrows.

The air grew colder and colder and colder. Leon let go of my fingers, hand falling slack at my side. The ruling Armedeses stepped out of their gate.

It felt as though the world fell silent at that moment, as though the winds and storms withered in a heartbeat. The Queen stood at my mate's side, nothing decent on her face as she extended her hand, perfectly manicured fingers curling around the arm he offered.

It took strength—a bloody amount of it—to take my attention off that hold, off that whisper of a smirk on her heavily, red-painted mouth. Off the arm Blake, or Dearcious, slid around my waist, slowly feeling the silken fabric of the shirt I wore—the one he'd sent to my rooms earlier this morning.

It had been soaked in his scent so heavily his smell had filled the entire apartment the moment I received it in its box. It was a twin to his—perhaps had been his, too, since it had been resized with magic to fit me perfectly. Leon and I had stared at it for so long, wondering if I should obey, if I should give him—and all those gathered today—such a clear sign.

We agreed to it, now that everything was on such thin, thin ice. Did all they wanted, didn't question, didn't rebel. It was the morbid calm before the storm.

And so I didn't push the king's touch away as the doors slid open, my chin high, my pace unfaltering as we went in, a wave of heat slipping out, caressing my skin.

Yesar was already inside with all the generals responsible of Nevora, Rimelia and Arelesia respectively at his left. His right was an empty chair standing between him and Weyar Ohad, general and second most powerful commander of the Umbra Warriors beneath the king and queen. He was one of them, those who had given themselves to the darkness—the strongest, actually. And the most merciless, cold-blooded demon to ever hold this position.

Mealin was here, alongside the leaders one rank lower than the generals while not a squire was in sight. 

They all remind silent, still as the pillars in the corners as we entered, Blake and Lysithea the first to sit, the court's eyes low, their heads down. The last time someone dared look at them during the start of a formal meeting…well, Weyar  hadn't grown yet an eye instead of the one he'd lost that evening.

Aedis and I took seat, the back of the chair low enough that my cape didn't bulge and drag behind me; actually, it was low enough to accommodate my wings should I decide to unfurl them. At last, Lysithea raised a moon-white hand and it was enough a cue for everyone to take seat.

The clock on the opposite wall chimed, the six hours meeting starting.

Yenes still hadn't arrived.

And Yesar was more than just aware of the king and queen's unfaltering stares, the loud displeasure radiating from them. The Dark General, if he valued his life, should be soaring up the stairs by now, sorting through every possible excuse to get himself out of the mess waiting for him with open arms.

The Umbra Warrior at my left was grinning as he took me in a sweeping stare, his mouth nothing more than a cut without lips, his teeth razor sharp. I had no doubt he could rip through raw flesh without so much as an effort.