Damian’s office had become the administrative centre of a small war within hours of his return.

Reports covered most of the enormous desk, several more had been stacked on the floor beside Simon’s chair, and Ipos Hastur had somehow accumulated three separate appointment ledgers despite Damian having repeatedly informed him that he had no intention of attending half the engagements listed in any of them. Two years of absence had left an Empire technically functioning and practically held together by delegation, habit and the combined determination of Damian’s children not to let anyone realise how badly things could have gone.

Simon stood beside the desk with a sheaf of notes in one hand, spectacles sitting low on his nose while his long black hair remained tied neatly behind him. He had been briefing Damian for nearly an hour and had not yet reached the end of the first category.

“The Southern garrisons remained loyal, although several commanders began requesting confirmation of Imperial orders approximately six months ago. Cassandra diverted most of those requests through the Council. Azarael maintained contact with the military, Jared handled anything requiring a visible member of the Imperial family, and Elizabeth attended enough Council meetings to prevent anyone from deciding your prolonged seclusion was an invitation to become ambitious.”

Damian signed the document Ipos placed beneath his hand without looking up. “Helen?”

Simon paused. Damian’s pen stopped.

“That pause was unnecessary, Simon.”

“I was deciding how charitable to be.”

“Do not!”

“Helen has been socially active.”

Damian looked up.

Simon pushed his spectacles higher. “Extremely socially active.”

“I see.”

“You do not yet, but you will.”

Ipos quietly removed the signed document and replaced it with another.

Damian stared at both men. “I have been home for less than a day.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ipos said.

“And already I am beginning to miss the dungeon.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. “Franziska did say you complained too much!”

Damian’s expression changed immediately. There was no disguising it. Pride. Warmth. Something almost possessive. Simon noticed, because Simon noticed everything.

“She said no such thing.”

“She implied it.”

“My treasure has considerably more respect for me than that!”

Simon looked at him over the rims of his spectacles, but Damian ignored him and signed another order.

Ipos cleared his throat delicately. “Your Majesty, regarding Princess Franziska, there are already several scheduling difficulties.”

“Of course there are.”

“She appears to have acquired a household.”

“I know.”

“A very large household.”

“I know.”

“Containing refugees, several Dwarven clans, members of numerous races, liberated prisoners and what appears to be an increasing number of senior political figures.”

Damian stopped signing.

Simon smiled.

“I know.”

Ipos looked down at his ledger. “And she intends to conduct another rescue operation today.”

Damian’s eyes lifted. “Yes.”

Simon folded his arms. “That was going to be my next point.”

“I already know about the Facility.”

“You know she intends to go back?”

“Yes.”

“You approved it?”

Damian gave him a long look.

Simon sighed. “Of course you did. She’s already wrapped you around her elegant little finger, hasn’t she?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

“No need!”

Before Damian could answer, there was a sharp knock at the office door.

The guard outside spoke through the heavy wood. “Your Imperial Majesty? General Michael has arrived.”

Damian looked at Simon, whose eyebrows rose.

Ipos immediately checked something in one of his ledgers. “He was not scheduled for another twenty-three minutes.”

Damian stared at him.

Ipos calmly closed the book. “Admirably punctual.”

“Send him in,” Damian called.

The doors opened. Michael filled most of the entrance. Even without wings, the Angel General was enormous, well over two metres of disciplined muscle and gleaming white-and-gold armour, every line of his body communicating command before he spoke a word. Pure-white hair fell to his shoulder blades, his deep silver eyes taking in Simon, Ipos and the disordered desk in one quick sweep before settling on Damian.

“Your Imperial Majesty.” Michael bowed.

Damian rose. For the first time since Simon had entered the room, the Emperor’s expression relaxed. “Michael.”

The two men crossed the space between them and clasped forearms.

Michael’s grip tightened. “You look terrible!”

Damian smiled. “Good to see you too!”

“I had heard reports.”

“I am aware.”

“I had begun assuming you were dead.”

“Everyone appears disappointed that I am not.”

Simon cleared his throat.

Damian looked towards him. “Except my children, apparently.”

“Most of us,” Simon corrected.

Michael glanced between them and, for the first time, the severity around his eyes eased.

“You are genuinely well?”

“Well enough.”

Michael studied him for another moment, the habit of an experienced commander assessing damage rather than trusting reassurance, before finally releasing his forearm.

“I would have come sooner.”

“I know.”

“The southern positions …”

“Were more important.”

Michael frowned. “They were.”

“I know, Michael.”

Damian gestured towards one of the chairs. “Sit.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Of course you do!”

Michael ignored the observation. Damian returned to his own chair and immediately reached for another report. That bothered Michael. Simon saw it. Damian probably saw it too and simply had too much to do to care.

“I assume you did not summon me merely to confirm that you survived?”

“No.” Damian read three lines of the report, signed it and pushed it towards Ipos. “I need two hundred soldiers.”

Michael stared at him. “For what?”

“A rescue operation.”

“How many enemy forces?”

“Unknown.”

“Fortifications?”

“Unknown.”

“Location?”

“Another Facility.”

That changed Michael’s expression. Not dramatically, but enough. He had heard enough about where Damian had been imprisoned to understand the word.

“How many prisoners?”

“We do not know.”

“What intelligence do we have?”

“Someone else will brief you.”

Michael’s silver eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Princess Franziska.”

A pause.

“Who?”

Simon lowered his notes. Ipos became extremely interested in his ledger.

Damian finally looked up. “Princess Franziska.”

Michael waited, but Damian did not elaborate.

“Which Princess Franziska?”

“My daughter.”

Simon coughed.

Damian’s blue eyes shifted towards him.

“Sired daughter,” Simon amended.

Michael looked between them. “You acquired another daughter while imprisoned?”

Damian smiled. “I had an eventful captivity.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No.”

Michael’s expression suggested he was beginning to remember exactly why being Damian’s friend could be exhausting. “How experienced is she?”

Damian reached for the next report. “Experienced enough.”

Simon looked at his father. Damian did not look back.

Michael noticed neither. “What military experience does she have?”

Damian’s mouth curved. “She led the rescue that freed me.”

That stopped him. Michael looked at Damian properly.´“The prisoners escaped under her command?”

“She organised the operation.”

“With whose troops?”

“No troops.”

Michael frowned.

Damian’s pride became impossible to miss now. “She was abducted into the Facility herself. She escaped her cell, found allies among the prisoners, discovered what she could do and then, rather than simply leaving when she had the opportunity, stayed and rescued everyone she could reach.”

Michael’s brows drew together. “How many soldiers did she command?”

“I just told you. None.”

“Experienced officers?”

“None when she began.”

“Military advisers?”

“No.”

Michael was silent. Simon watched him with increasing interest.

Damian continued, almost absently because Ipos had put another stack of documents beneath his hand. “She worked with whoever she could free and whoever was willing to help. Freed warriors, a Wolven warrior. A technomancer. Dwarves. Prisoners from races she had not known existed hours earlier.”

Michael stared at him. “And it succeeded?”

Damian finally stopped working. His blue eyes glowed faintly with pride. “She brought them out.”

Michael’s expression shifted. Not admiration. Not yet. Reassessment, certainly, but the reassessment went in precisely the wrong direction. A resourceful Princess. Courageous, apparently. Perhaps unusually competent. Still a Princess! And now Damian intended to place two hundred of Michael’s finest soldiers under her operational command.

“Two hundred?”

“Yes.”

Michael’s voice remained perfectly controlled. “For a mission led by a woman who already successfully escaped one of these Facilities without an army?”

“Yes.”

Damian signed another page.

“Damian!”

The use of his name made Ipos glance up. Simon remained very still.

Damian did not. “What?”

Michael stared at him. “What exactly do you believe is waiting in the second Facility?”

“I do not know! That is why I’m sending you!”

“And yet you want two hundred of my best soldiers?”

“Yes.”

“Placed under her command?”

“Yes.”

Michael’s silver eyes narrowed further.

Damian looked up at last. “Is there a problem?”

Michael considered his answer. “No.”

“There appeared to be one.”

“I am attempting to understand the scale of the response.”

Damian’s mouth twitched. “A sledgehammer?”

Michael did not answer, which was answer enough. Simon looked down so nobody would see his smile.

Damian leaned back slightly. “You think I am taking a sledgehammer to crack a nut.”

“I would not have phrased it that way.”

“You were thinking it very loudly.”

Michael’s expression became colder. “I am responsible for those soldiers.”

“And Franziska will be responsible for the mission.”

That did it! Michael’s jaw tightened.

Damian saw the reaction and became faintly impatient. He had an Empire to reclaim, conspiracies to identify, Councillors to interrogate, children to brief and two years of accumulated administrative rot sitting in piles across his desk. He did not have time to persuade Michael that Franziska deserved to be taken seriously.

“You asked whether there is more to this,” Damian said. “There is!”

Michael waited.

“She is important to me.” Something in Damian’s voice changed.

Simon heard it immediately. So did Michael.

Damian set the pen down. “Extremely important.”

Michael’s expression softened by a fraction.

“She saved my life.”

Michael was silent.

“She had every opportunity to leave me where I was. She did not.”

Damian’s blue eyes held his. “You remember what that means.”

Michael’s face changed. Old history passed between them.

Damian continued quietly. “I once came for you when I did not have to.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “I remember!”

“I expect you to do the same for her.”

The room was suddenly very still.

“Keep her safe.”

Michael inclined his head. “I will.”

“No.” Damian’s voice sharpened.

Michael looked at him.

“I know what your ‘I will’ means. It means you will command the mission properly, position your troops correctly and prevent avoidable casualties.”

“That is generally what keeping someone safe requires.”

“Not this time!”

Michael’s eyes narrowed.

Damian leaned forward. “She leads.”

Silence.

“You advise when she asks. You provide information when she requires it. You give her the soldiers I am assigning to her, and you make certain every one of them understands whose mission it is.”

“Damian …”

“She leads.” The words landed with unmistakable Imperial authority.

Michael stopped.

Damian’s gaze hardened. “And you do not interfere merely because you believe you know better.”

That was considerably more difficult.

Michael’s deep voice dropped. “If she makes a tactical mistake?”

“You warn her.”

“If she ignores the warning?”

“Then you determine whether she is endangering lives or merely offending your sense of proper military procedure.”

Simon’s mouth twitched.

Michael caught it. “Something amusing?”

“Not at all, General.”

“You are smiling.”

Simon pushed his spectacles higher. “I was thinking that you do not mix particularly well with aristocratic ladies.”

Michael went very still. Damian slowly turned towards his son.

Simon continued, because apparently self-preservation had abandoned him. “You know this, Father, and you still pushed him on Franziska.”

Damian looked at him for a long moment. Then the irritation left his expression. What replaced it was colder. More serious.

“He is the only one I trust to keep her safe!”

Simon’s amusement vanished. Michael’s expression changed too.

Damian’s hand tightened slowly around the pen. “I will not lose another.”

No one spoke.

The words were quiet, but the grief behind them were not.

Damian looked towards Michael. “She will clash with him.”

Simon glanced at the Angel General.

Michael looked faintly offended.

Damian ignored it. “Almost certainly.”

“Father!”

“But she is not weak.”

There was pride in the words now, but not blindness. “She will survive that.”

Damian’s gaze returned to Michael. “That is important.”

Michael held his stare.

Something old and understanding passed between them again.

“You truly expect us to clash?”

Simon made a quiet sound suspiciously like a laugh.

Damian looked down at his paperwork. “Michael, you regard most young noblewomen as decorative complications.”

“I do not.”

Simon raised an eyebrow.

Michael looked at him. “I do not.”

Damian signed another document. “Franziska has spent approximately two days discovering that powerful men are accustomed to telling her what she should do.”

Michael’s mouth tightened. “And?”

Damian’s smile was very small. “She dislikes it.”

Simon coughed.

Michael stared at both of them.

Damian continued writing. “You will be fine.”

“Your confidence is touching.”

“My confidence is in her.”

Michael’s expression went flat. Simon looked away.

Damian finally sighed and put the pen down. “Michael.”

The General looked at him.

“Whatever else happens between you, bring her home.”

Michael’s irritation disappeared. “I will.”

This time Damian accepted the answer.

He nodded once. “Two hundred soldiers. Your best. Major Svensson. Ten specialists you believe useful. Report to the Map Room.”

“When?”

Ipos answered without looking up from his ledger. “Twenty-eight minutes, General.”

Michael stared at him. “Of course.”

He turned towards the door.

“Michael.”

The General stopped.

Damian’s voice had softened. “Thank you.”

Michael looked back. For a moment the annoyance disappeared entirely, leaving the old friendship beneath it.

“You rescued me once.”

Damian’s expression became still.

“If she matters to you that much, I will make certain she returns.”

“That,” Damian said quietly, “is what I wanted to hear.”

Michael nodded and left. The doors closed behind him.

Simon waited three seconds.

“You did not tell him.”

Damian had already returned to the next report. “No.”

“That she is a baby Succubus.”

“No.”

“That she discovered magic yesterday.”

“No.”

“That she does not understand military ranks.”

Damian’s pen paused. “She will learn.”

Simon stared towards the closed door. “Michael is going to assume you sent him to babysit an overconfident Imperial Princess.”

“Probably.”

“And Franziska is going to realise within approximately thirty seconds that he thinks that.”

“Probably.”

Simon slowly smiled. “You are a terrible planner.”

Damian began signing the next order. “I am an excellent planner.”

“This is going to explode.”

“Michael will keep her alive.”

Simon considered that. Then nodded. “Yes.”

Damian looked up.

Simon’s smile faded into something more thoughtful. “And she will not let him run over her.”

“No.”

Damian’s mouth curved faintly. “She certainly will not.”

Ipos turned a page in his ledger. “Your Majesty, you are now two hours and fifty-three minutes behind.”

Damian closed his eyes. “I was happier in chains.”

Simon smiled. “No, you weren’t.”

Damian opened his eyes and reached for the next report. “No.”

A pause.

“But there was considerably less paperwork.”

The Map Room had been silent for almost a minute, which, considering who occupied it, was remarkable.

Ten of the most dangerous Commanders in the Demon Army had somehow remained after the others left, scattered around the enormous map table beneath the suspended representation of Fairyland. Rashoon Oyal stood with them, her newly permanent armour gleaming darkly over red skin, one hand resting against the edge of the table. Malrik the Infernal Warden, enormous even among the others, had folded his thick arms over a chest now protected by armour worth more than most noble estates; Sythira Bloodveil stood opposite him, her crimson veil hiding everything below sharp maroon eyes; Azrith Doomspire's mechanical fingers clicked softly against the edge of the table while furnace-orange light pulsed behind his eyes. Kharvouk Soulshatter had gone unnaturally still, one pale hand resting on the closed cover of his grimoire. Trazel's chains shifted whenever he moved, the red crystal replacing one eye catching the light, while four-armed Loryth Venombane had occupied enough table space for three people and was examining one of her gauntlets as though personally offended that she could find nothing wrong with it.

Draeven Hellmaw finally broke the silence by slapping one enormous grey hand against his breastplate. “Draeven’s fits.”

Ten heads turned towards him.

The Half-Giant spread his hands. “Do you know how rare that is?”

Xorath's ember-bright eyes crinkled with amusement, heat shimmering faintly around his Charredborn body. “I think we may have identified the least significant aspect of our current problem.”

“No,” Draeven said solemnly. “Draeven considers this extremely significant.”

Malrik closed his eyes for a moment. “We need to tell the Emperor.”

Trazel leaned back against the table, blackened chains sliding across his new armour. “About Hellmaw finally owning something that fits, or about the fact that the Imperial Heir appears to have propositioned all of us?”

Draeven's booming laugh filled the Map Room. “Draeven likes this interpretation too.”

“You would,” Sythira murmured.

“Draeven has eyes.”

“Some of us even have two,” Trazel added, his crystal one gleaming.

Loryth sighed, two hands settling on her hips while another pair remained on the table. “Could we remain on the actual problem for longer than thirty seconds?”

“No,” Serith Voidthorn said pleasantly. The Commander of His Imperial Majesty’s Saboteurs and Infiltrators Units looked almost offensively beautiful leaning against the table in his new armour, charismatic features composed into the expression of innocent interest that nobody in the room believed for an instant. “But we can discuss it between diversions.”

Rashoon had said almost nothing. Neither had Velkris Nightgloom, although in his case it was becoming increasingly difficult to determine whether he was still part of the conversation. The dark-haired scout had begun beside one of the windows and was now standing near the doors without anyone having seen him cross the room.

Malrik ignored all of them. “We are going to tell the Emperor!”

“Before we do,” Kharvouk said, his deep-violet eyes moving slowly around the table, “we should establish precisely what we are telling him.”

“That his daughter made us priceless artefact armour,” Xorath suggested.

“His heir,” Serith corrected.

“His Sired daughter.” Malrik amended.

“His Succubus heir,” Trazel added.

That stopped several of them.

Trazel smiled. “Yes. That part is rather relevant.”

Sythira exhaled through her nose. “Unfortunately!”

Loryth tapped one long black nail against the table. “A personal gift of extraordinary value, individually crafted for the recipient and freely given by a Succubus of Imperial rank.”

“Eleven recipients,” Serith pointed out.

“Ten Commanders and one specialist,” Rashoon said quietly.

Trazel's remaining natural eye moved to her. “No.”

Rashoon raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“You are not escaping this on a technicality.”

“I am not a Commander.”

“Neither is Hellmaw technically a Demon. Yet here we all are!”

Draeven beamed. “Draeven feels included.”

Rashoon looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“The tradition does not require equivalent rank among recipients,” Serith said. “It requires a gift sufficiently personal and valuable to indicate that the Succubus wishes to open negotiations. Not a bond. Not an obligation. An invitation to discuss the possibility of joining her hareem.”

Azrith looked down at the armour covering his mechanical arm. “Then the requirement has been met rather comprehensively.”

That sobered them again. Franzi had not created eleven copies of the same armour. She had watched them, questioned them and adapted each design to its wearer. Sythira's enhanced stealth and light manipulation, Velkris's protection from sudden sound without depriving him of the sounds he needed, Loryth's unrestricted movement through all four shoulders, protections built around Azrith's mechanical limbs, Draeven's sheer impossible size. She had considered how each of them fought, what might kill them and what might prevent it.

“She built the protections around the wearer,” Azrith said, mechanical fingers clicking once against the map table. “That is considerably more personal than issuing equipment.”

Kharvouk's mouth tightened. “Which makes the traditional interpretation worse.”

“Better,” Trazel corrected.

“Worse.”

“That depends entirely upon one's ambitions.”

Malrik's heavy jaw tightened. “We do not know what she intended.”

“Yes, we do,” Velkris said from beside the doors.

Everyone looked at him. The scout's black eyes moved over the armour around the table. “She intended to keep us alive.”

No one immediately disagreed. Serith's lips curved. “She called all of us Lord Commander during the aftermath of the rescue.”

“Draeven enjoyed that.”

“We noticed.”

Serith glanced towards him before looking back around the table. “Forty-eight hours ago, she did not know that the Demon Empire existed. Yesterday she discovered she was a Succubus. Today she learned what our military ranks are, with limited success. I find it improbable that somewhere between the Facility briefing and inventing permanent artefact armour she also acquired a detailed knowledge of traditional Succubus courtship etiquette.”

Trazel's grin spread slowly. “So we have been propositioned accidentally.”

Loryth rubbed one temple with one hand. “Please stop looking so pleased.”

“I cannot.”

Xorath had been leaning against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest while faint fire moved beneath charred skin. Now he straightened. “Suppose she did know?”

Malrik looked at him. “She didn't!”

“I said suppose. If Princess Franziska understood precisely what those gifts meant and deliberately opened negotiations?”

Silence settled across the Map Room.

Draeven's grin diminished. Sythira's expression disappeared behind her veil and watchful eyes. Azrith suddenly found one particular mountain on the magical map fascinating. Kharvouk looked irritated, which on Soulshatter could indicate anything from mild discomfort to imminent murder. Loryth stopped examining her gauntlet.

Trazel looked around slowly and chuckled. “Interesting.”

“Nothing has been decided,” Malrik warned.

“No,” Trazel agreed. “But no one said no.”

Malrik opened his mouth and then closed it.

Serith's smile became almost angelic. “An excellent observation.”

“Shut up, Voidthorn.”

“I said nothing offensive.”

“You were going to.”

“I usually am.”

Rashoon pushed herself away from the table. “She came for me.”

That ended the amusement.

Rashoon's fingers rested against her breastplate as she looked down at it. “Six months.”

Nobody needed to ask what she meant.

“For six months, nobody came! My unit thought I had deserted. The army thought I had deserted. As far as everyone who had known Rashoon Oyal was concerned, I had chosen to disappear.” Her mouth twisted, but there was no humour in it. “I hadn't. I was chained in that place, used as a battery when they needed magic and as a body when they wanted something else.”

The silence became absolute.

“She had never heard my name. She had no reason to believe I was important, no political reason to find me and no debt to repay. She learned there was another Facility, gathered people who could help and came through that Portal knowing what had happened in the first one.”

Rashoon looked around the table at people who had spent centuries judging rulers, soldiers, allies and enemies. “She came for whoever was there.”

Malrik's arms slowly unfolded.

Rashoon swallowed once. “And when I asked her why she was doing any of it, the answer was essentially that it was the right thing to do.”

No one spoke.

For several long seconds the only movement came from the shifting light of the magical map above them. Then Malrik inclined his head. Azrith followed. Sythira's eyes lowered. Xorath's fire dimmed, Loryth went still, and even Trazel's amusement disappeared. Around the table, one after another, they nodded.

Kharvouk was the one who finally broke the silence. “She saw through my little test with the blood.”

Rashoon looked at him.

Kharvouk's pale fingers tapped once against his grimoire. “Forty-eight hours before that conversation, she did not know magic existed. She certainly knew nothing about the established principles of blood magic, magical stabilisation or binding. I offered a solution that should have sounded authoritative to someone that ignorant.”

“You told her to use three drops of her blood,” Azrith said.

“Yes.”

“And she refused.” Xorath grinned widely.

Kharvouk's expression became deeply annoyed, although whether with Franzi or himself was difficult to tell. “She questioned it. Then she concluded that my solution was wrong.”

Trazel's crystal eye gleamed. “Was it?”

Kharvouk stared at him.

Trazel smiled. “I enjoy hearing you say it.”

“My proposed solution was not the correct one.”

“Again.”

“Die!”

Trazel looked delighted.

Kharvouk ignored him. “She had no theoretical basis upon which to challenge me. None! Yet something in the magic felt wrong to her, so she stopped instead of accepting the judgement of the expert standing in front of her.” His violet eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Most newly awakened magic users either distrust everything because they are frightened or trust anyone who sounds sufficiently certain. She did neither. She listened, tested what I said against what she could perceive, and when the two conflicted, she trusted the evidence.”

Azrith's furnace-orange gaze sharpened. “That interested you?”

“It irritated me.”

“That was not the question.”

Kharvouk glared at him.

Xorath laughed softly. “It interested him!”

“It suggests unusual magical intuition,” Kharvouk said coldly. “Nothing more.”

“Of course,” Serith murmured.

Kharvouk's eyes promised a future death.

Malrik's deep voice cut across them. “We all saw the briefing from the first Facility.”

That brought them back to the more serious matter. Malrik planted both huge hands on the map table. “She was abducted too. That matters!”

Rashoon nodded.

“She didn't choose to enter the first Facility,” Malrik continued. “She woke there. She could have escaped with the Emperor once she had a Portal. Later she could have fled alone. She had opportunities to make her own survival the end of the matter.”

“But she didn't,” Sythira said.

“No. She stayed.” Malrik's dark gaze moved across them. “Then she sought allies. She learned what she could do. She went back through that place and pulled out everyone she could reach.”

“Regardless of race,” Azrith added.

“Or sex,” Loryth said.

“Or rank,” Sythira murmured.

“Or whether freeing them was politically useful,” Serith finished.

Malrik nodded. “She did not know who most of them were. She could not know what they might give her later, and from what we heard in that briefing, she did not ask.”

Azrith flexed his mechanical hand. “That is the part I find interesting. Not simply that she stayed. She adapted.”

Kharvouk glanced at him.

Azrith continued, “She had almost no understanding of the world around her and no established command structure. She identified what she needed, found people capable of supplying it and adjusted every time the situation changed. The same thing happened today with the armour. She did not know the accepted method, so the accepted method did not constrain her. She asked what the armour needed to accomplish and worked backwards.”

“Which is a polite way of saying she repeatedly attempted things everyone else knew were impossible,” Loryth said.

Azrith's mouth twitched. “Yes.”

Xorath grinned. “That is the part I liked.”

“Obviously,” Sythira said.

Xorath pushed away from the wall, the cracks of ember-light across his skin brightening with the movement. “She was frightened in the Facility.”

Rashoon looked at him sharply.

“I saw it,” he said. “Don’t misunderstand. It wasn’t panic or cowardice. It was fear. There is a difference, and anyone who has led soldiers for more than a week knows it. Courage from someone who does not understand the danger is merely ignorance. She had already seen what those people did. She went into the second Facility knowing enough to be afraid.”

“And still went,” Malrik said.

“Yes.” Xorath's smile faded into something more thoughtful. “I have led fools who loved danger and cowards who loved safety. She appears to be neither. I have known her for several hours, so I will not pretend to know why she makes the choices she does. But I know what I watched.”

Sythira nodded slowly. “That is all any of us know!”

There it was, perhaps the most important qualification of the entire conversation. None of them knew Franziska Roseheart. Not really! They had watched her for hours, not years. But these were not inexperienced young men and women dazzled by beauty and power. Every person around that table had commanded others, assessed strangers under pressure and survived because they could distinguish competence from bravado, courage from stupidity and loyalty from performance.

They were interpreting evidence. And the evidence was interesting.

Loryth flexed all four hands. “She stared at my arms.”

Draeven immediately grinned.

“Do not.”

He wisely closed his mouth.

“She stared,” Loryth continued, “and then she started asking questions. How they move independently. Whether the shoulder joints interfere with one another. What range I require when fighting. She looked at my poisons, my bones, my equipment and my physiology as problems to understand rather than reasons to step away.”

Sythira's maroon eyes gleamed. “You liked being studied.”

“I liked being studied intelligently.”

“Important distinction.”

“Extremely!”

Trazel's chains scraped softly over the edge of the table. “I preferred Michael.”

Serith groaned. “Of course you did.”

“The woman has been here for two days.” Trazel's red crystal eye caught the light as his grin returned. “She does not know the rules, barely knows who outranks whom, discovers the Angel General disapproves of something she intends to do and responds by doing it anyway.”

“He was trying to stop her from endangering herself,” Serith pointed out.

“Yes. And she listened to him.”

That made Serith pause.

Trazel's grin faded a little. “That is the important part. She did not dismiss him because he challenged her. She heard his argument, decided the risk was hers to take and refused to surrender the decision simply because he was louder, older, more experienced and very accustomed to being obeyed.”

Xorath nodded. “That is what I meant!”

“She stood up to him without trying to humiliate him,” Sythira said.

Trazel tilted his head. “She did tell him not to worry his pretty head.”

Draeven's laugh shook the table.

Even Sythira's eyes creased.

Serith rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I had almost managed to forget that.”

“No, you hadn't.”

“No. Her anger at him was magnificent!”

Sythira waited until the laughter subsided. “What interested me was what she watched. She doesn't know enough yet to know what she is supposed to notice, so she watches everything. During the briefing, during preparation, during the rescue. Positions. Reactions. Who moves when someone else moves. She is inexperienced, but she is not unobservant.”

“Her brothers,” Velkris said.

Several heads turned.

Velkris had somehow moved again. He now stood in the shadow between two tall cabinets, dark armour and darker clothing making him easy to overlook until he chose to speak.

“Jared and Azarael,” Sythira said.

Velkris nodded.

“They adore her,” Rashoon said.

“Yes.”

There was something in the single word that made Trazel look at him more closely.

Velkris continued, “Jared makes it obvious. Azarael doesn't. He watches entrances, distances, anyone approaching her. They move differently around her than around other people.”

Malrik nodded. He had noticed too.

“They have known her scarcely longer than we have,” Serith pointed out.

“Yes.”

“And?”

Velkris's black gaze moved to him. “And I want to know why.”

That was perhaps the most Velkris answer possible.

Trazel's crystal eye narrowed. “Is she just a fling for you?”

The question changed the room. Several Commanders looked at Velkris. Rashoon did too. Velkris stared back at Trazel. He did not move. Did not smile. Did not appear offended. The silence stretched long enough that even Draeven stopped grinning.

Finally Velkris said, “If she were, I wouldn't be in this room.”

Trazel held his gaze for another moment, then inclined his head. Nothing else needed saying!

Malrik cleared his throat, “She goes into horrible places because somebody needs to.”
Nothing. “She forgets to eat.”
“Feed,” Sythira corrected.
“That too.”
Draeven slapped the table. “Everyone wants to protect her.” His grin slowly returned. “Draeven thinks someone should also make sure she has fun.”
Xorath laughed. “There it is.”
“What?”
“Your great strategic contribution.”
“Yes.”
Draeven looked utterly serious. “Very important.” It was difficult to argue with that. “Also Franzi is funny.”

Sythira blinked.

“She is.”

“She does not mean to be half the time,” Draeven continued. “That makes it better. She is surrounded by Emperors, Generals, strange races, magic, people trying to explain rules she did not know existed yesterday, and she still makes jokes.”

Xorath grinned.

“Draeven likes people who can laugh when things are terrible. They are usually harder to break.”

The humour around the table softened.

Serith looked at the Half-Giant with new interest. “That was unexpectedly perceptive.”

Draeven frowned at him. “Draeven is always perceptive.”

“My apologies.”

“Accepted.”

Serith himself remained leaning against the table, golden features composed and pale wings tucked neatly behind him. Sythira eventually turned towards him. “And you?”

“Me?”

“You have been asking everyone else questions.”

“It is one of my more charming qualities.”

“No,” she said. “It isn't.”

Serith smiled. “She doesn't trust me.”

That surprised Rashoon.

Serith's smile widened slightly. “Not entirely. She listens to me. She works with me. She appears to like me well enough. But she watches me.”

Trazel snorted. “Everyone should.”

“Precisely. Yet many don't.” Serith's expression became thoughtful. “I have spent a very long time learning how people decide who is safe. Franziska has almost no information with which to judge any of us, and yet she seems unwilling to mistake charm for character. I find that…” He paused.

“Annoying?” Kharvouk suggested.

“Refreshing.”

Kharvouk looked disappointed.

Rashoon finally looked around the table. “So what exactly are we doing?”

“Clarifying whether we have accidentally been invited to negotiate entry into the Imperial Heir's hareem,” Loryth said.

“And,” Trazel added, “apparently discovering that none of us are especially opposed to the idea.”

Malrik's expression hardened. “We have known her for hours.”

“Yes,” Sythira said. “Which is why nobody is talking about bonding tomorrow.”

Trazel looked as though he might have been. Sythira's eyes narrowed. He wisely said nothing.

“We are talking about an invitation to negotiate,” Azrith said. “That is what the tradition means. An opportunity to become acquainted with one another with a stated possibility at the end of it.”

Xorath looked around the table. “Then the question remains. If the gift had been intentional, would you have accepted the invitation?”

Nobody spoke. Malrik looked from face to face. Sythira remained where she was. Azrith did not move.

Kharvouk scowled. Loryth's four arms stayed folded. Draeven grinned. Xorath's fire flickered. Serith raised one elegant eyebrow.

Rashoon's mouth curved very slightly. Velkris watched them all.

Trazel smiled. “No one said no.”

Malrik sighed.

“Now,” Trazel said cheerfully, “we can go frighten the Emperor.”

Damian was halfway through reading a military report when the guard at his study door knocked.
“Your Imperial Majesty?”
“Yes?”
“The Commanders request an audience.”
Damian continued reading. “Which Commander?”
There was a pause. “All serving under General Michael, Your Majesty.”
Damian’s eyes lifted. “All ten?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Another pause, then “And Rashoon Oyal.”
Damian slowly put down the report. That was unusual enough to become interesting.
“Send them in.”
The doors opened to a procession of highly skilled soldiers entering the room like they were walking on eggshells: Malrik. Sythira. Azrith. Kharvouk. Trazel. Loryth. Draeven. Xorath. Velkris. Serith swaggered into it. His cherubic face showing an endearing grin. Damian looked at him for a moment and his eyebrow lifted sardonically. He wasn’t buying the innocent act for one moment.

Then Rashoon entered, but no Michael.

Damian slowly straightened. “All ten Commanders?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Malrik answered after all of them had saluted their emperor.

“And Specialist Rashoon Oyal?”

“Yes.”

Damian looked towards Serith. “Where is Michael?”

“Not involved.”

Damian's eyebrows rose. “Now I am interested.”

The eleven arranged themselves before his desk. Damian leaned back and let his gaze move over them and and then over eleven sets of armour.

“Well?”

Malrik looked at Azrith.

Azrith's mechanical fingers flexed once. “Princess Franziska gave us armour.”

“I’ve heard!”

“Permanent artefact armour.”

“Yes, I was also informed of this fact!” In fact Michael had been practically verbose about that fact.

“Personalised permanent artefact armour of essentially incalculable value.”

Damian's mouth twitched. “Yes, Doomspire. I understand what she made.”

Serith stepped smoothly into the opening. “Then presumably Your Majesty also understands what such a gift traditionally means when given by an unmarried Succubus?”

Damian looked at him, his eyes moved to Malrik. Then Sythira. Then, one by one, around the table.

“Oh.”

Trazel's grin appeared immediately. “Exactly.”

Damian rubbed one hand over his mouth. “Oh, treasure!”

“Your Majesty,” Malrik said, with the tone of a man trying very hard to keep an Imperial consultation serious, “we need to establish whether Princess Franziska understood the implication.”

Damian's amusement faded enough for him to consider it properly. He knew more of Demon custom than anyone in the room, but of Franziska herself he knew remarkably little. Two days. That was all. Two impossible days since she had appeared in that Facility and changed the course of his life.

“No,” he said at last. “I cannot claim to know what she thinks, Commander. I have known her for scarcely longer than you have. But I would wager a considerable portion of my treasury that she has no idea she just invited eleven people to negotiate entry into her hareem.”

Draeven's laugh exploded across the room. “Draeven knew it.”

Sythira's eyes creased above her veil.

Damian looked again at the armour. “She has spent approximately forty-eight hours discovering that magic is real, the Demon Empire exists, she is a Succubus, I am her Sire, she has acquired a House, and our military hierarchy apparently consists entirely of Lord Commanders. I do not believe traditional courtship gifts have yet reached the top of her educational priorities.”

“That was our assessment,” Azrith said.

“Then why,” Damian asked slowly, “are all of you here?”

Silence.

Damian's gaze sharpened.

Trazel looked around at the others. “This part was considerably funnier before we came in.”

Damian looked at him, then at the others again.

He had commanded armies and ruled an Empire long enough to recognise a room full of people carefully not saying something.

“Ah.”

Malrik frowned. “Your Majesty?”

Damian's eyebrows rose. “The problem is not merely that she accidentally issued the invitation.”

Nobody answered.

“The problem is that some of you would have accepted it.”

More silence.

Damian looked around the table again.

“Would like her to issue an invitation so you could accept it? All of you?”

Kharvouk looked murderous, while Draeven grinned. Serith looked entertained and Trazel looked delighted. Malrik's jaw tightened. Rashoon folded her arms.

Damian stared. “That many?”

“We are not proposing immediate bonds,” Malrik said firmly.

“I should hope not!”

“Nor are we asking you to speak for her.”

“Good, because I won't!”

That answer came without hesitation. Damian stepped closer to the table, his expression becoming serious. “Whatever Demon tradition says, an invitation made without knowledge is no invitation at all. Those armours obligate Franziska to nothing.”

“Agreed,” Azrith said immediately.

Around the table came a series of nods.

Trazel raised both hands. “I enjoy exploiting technicalities. I do not enjoy coercing women.”

Damian gave him a long look. “A distinction I am relieved to hear you make.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain problems.”

“Also true.”

Malrik rested one huge hand over his breastplate. “The concern is not that we intend to hold her to it. It is that other people may recognise the tradition and believe she acted deliberately.”

That removed the last of Damian's amusement. “Yes,” he said.

Serith inclined his head. “And rumours involving the Imperial Heir inviting ten senior military Commanders and one Tiefling soldier into her hareem would travel somewhat quickly.”

“Somewhat,” Damian repeated dryly.

“Approximately at the speed of light.”

Damian exhaled. “I will deal with the political interpretation. You will not encourage it.”

Malrik nodded.

“More importantly, you will not allow anyone to suggest to Franziska that she owes you negotiations because of what she gave you.”

This time the reaction was immediate.

“She owes us nothing,” Malrik said.

Damian studied him.

Malrik's dark eyes remained steady. “She created armour for soldiers whose names she did not know because she wanted them protected during the rescue. Then she did this for us. Whatever her reasoning, none of us considers that a debt.”

Damian inclined his head.

“Good.”

He could have ended the audience there. Instead he looked around the table once more. He had known most of these people for decades or centuries. They were not easily impressed. Certainly not collectively. “What did you see?”

The question surprised them.

Damian rested both hands against the edge of the map table. “I am not asking why you want her. You do not know her well enough for that, and neither do I. I am asking what you saw that brought all eleven of you into this room rather than simply laughing off an accidental courtship gift.”

Rashoon answered first. “Six months ago, I disappeared.”

Damian's face changed.

“They thought I deserted. Nobody knew I had been abducted.” Rashoon's voice remained controlled, but her fingers tightened against the table. “Nobody came looking because nobody knew there was anything to look for. Princess Franziska learned there was another Facility and came for whoever was inside. She had no idea I was there, no idea whether anyone she found would be useful to her and no reason to expect anything from us afterward.”

Damian listened without interrupting.

“She was abducted into the first Facility herself,” Malrik added. “We saw the briefing. She could have escaped. Instead she stayed, found allies and freed everyone she could reach.”

“Every race,” Sythira said.

“Every sex,” Loryth added.

“Useful or not,” Azrith said.

“Powerful or not,” Serith finished.

Kharvouk's violet gaze dropped briefly to the map table. “She saw through my test with the blood.”

Damian looked at him.

“Forty-eight hours ago she did not know magic existed,” Kharvouk said. “I gave her an answer as an acknowledged expert. She knew almost nothing about the subject, but something about my proposed solution felt wrong to her, so she challenged it instead of blindly obeying me.”

Damian's mouth curved slightly. “You liked that?”

“No.”

Trazel coughed.

Kharvouk glared at him. “I found it intellectually significant.”

“Of course!”

“Bound Tyrant, I will remove your remaining eye.”

“Then Franziska will probably make me another one.”

Damian closed his eyes. For perhaps the first time, he began to understand what having all ten Commanders together regularly might do to his life. When he opened them again, he found Velkris watching him. Damian's gaze moved around the table, taking in the armour, the expressions, the remarkable collection of people Franziska had somehow impressed within hours of meeting them.

“You are all making assessments,” he said.

Malrik nodded. “Yes.”

“So am I.”

That settled something between them.

Damian looked towards the magical representation of the Tri-Empire suspended above the table. “Forty-eight hours ago, Franziska was in another world. Now she is in a land she does not know, surrounded by customs she does not know and people she does not know. Yet she has already taken responsibility for some of those people, and everything I have seen suggests that once she accepts responsibility, she intends to carry it and protect it.”

The room had become quiet again.

Damian looked directly at Malrik, then let his gaze travel across each of them. “If this interest survives the next few days. If, once you actually begin to know her rather than merely judge what you have seen under extraordinary circumstances, you decide you genuinely wish to approach her, then remember that.”

Sythira's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Damian continued, “Do not become more people she has to carry simply because she is willing to try.”

His gaze passed over commanders, warriors and survivors who had spent centuries carrying other people themselves.

“If you want a place beside her, be the ones supporting her while she learns this world. Be people she can hand weight to, not more weight she has to pick up.”

For once, Trazel had no joke.

Malrik's fist came slowly to the centre of his chest. “Understood, Your Majesty! And let me be the one to say it: We’re all beyond thrilled at this opportunity!”

Around the table, others nodded.

Damian looked at eleven people wearing priceless armour made by a woman who had discovered magic two days earlier.

Then he sighed. “There is one other matter.”

Serith's expression immediately became suspiciously innocent. “Your Majesty?”

“Someone has to tell her what those gifts meant.”

Every single person around the table looked elsewhere.

Damian stared at them.

Draeven became fascinated by the ceiling.

Sythira studied the map.

Azrith inspected his mechanical hand.

Loryth apparently discovered something extraordinary about her third gauntlet.

Even Velkris disappeared.

Damian looked towards the place where he had been.

“Cowards.”

“Strategic withdrawal,” Velkris's voice answered from somewhere near the doors.

Trazel began laughing.

Damian rubbed his forehead.

Forty-eight hours.

Franziska had been in his empire for forty-eight hours.

Damian could have ended the audience there. Instead he remained with both hands resting against the edge of his desk, looking from one experienced face to the next and trying to reconcile what he was seeing with the simple fact that Franziska had existed in his world for approximately two days.

They were interested. Not amused by her, not merely grateful, not dazzled by a new Imperial Princess with considerable power and an attractive body. Interested. That was something else.

Velkris Nightgloom had become particularly still. Damian noticed because Velkris's ordinary stillness was merely unnerving; this was the deeper version, the one that usually preceded either a conclusion or someone's death. The Nocturna Commander's prominent bat-like ears barely moved as he watched Damian across the map table.

“She is a baby Succubus.”

Damian's attention settled on him. “Yes.”

Velkris waited, and everyone else did too, before asking quietly, “Why isn't she in the Seduction Halls?”

The room changed. Damian's amusement vanished, Rashoon's head turned sharply towards Velkris and then towards Damian, Serith's cornflower-blue eyes narrowed, Sythira unfolded her arms and even Draeven stopped smiling.

Damian took a breath. “She arrived into the Demon Empire under unusual circumstances.”

“That does not answer the question,” Velkris said. No challenge coloured his voice; there was no need. Velkris asked questions the way other men laid knives on tables.

Damian's blue eyes hardened slightly. “No. It does not!”

Rashoon stared at him. “How young is she?”

“As a Succubus?”

“Yes.”

“Two days.”

Rashoon's eyes widened. “Two days?”

“Yes.”

Kharvouk's expression altered by a fraction. “Fully awakened?”

“As far as I can determine.”

Serith straightened away from the table. “And she is not in a Seduction Hall?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Damian's mouth tightened. “Because she had just escaped one prison. I was not going to explain that the appropriate response to her transformation was to place her in another room and surround her with strangers waiting to feed her. My Stallion highly recommended I not break her that way!”

There was a brief silence. That answer, at least, everyone understood.

Malrik nodded first. “Reasonable!”

“Initially,” Sythira said.

Damian looked at her. Her maroon eyes remained steady above the crimson veil. “But not indefinitely.”

“No.”

Rashoon was still processing the number. “Two days.”

Draeven looked at her. “Rashoon has become stuck.”

“Be quiet!”

“Draeven understands. Two days is very small.”

She ignored him and looked directly at Damian. “Who is in her hareem?”

Damian said nothing.

Rashoon's expression sharpened. “Your Majesty?”

“No one.”

The answer landed like a dropped blade. Nobody moved, and then eleven people seemed to become dangerous at once. It was not theatrical; no weapons came out and no one shouted. These were Commanders, and Rashoon had survived long enough to think like one. Their reactions were smaller than that and considerably more alarming. Malrik's shoulders squared, Sythira's eyes went flat, Azrith's mechanical fingers stopped moving, Kharvouk's hand closed over the edge of his grimoire, Trazel's grin disappeared, two of Loryth's hands curled into fists while the other pair flattened against the table, Xorath's internal fire brightened, Draeven's jaw set, Serith became very still, Velkris did not move at all and Rashoon simply stared.

“No one?”

Damian almost sighed. “No one.”

“How is she feeding?” Loryth asked.

Damian hesitated for half a second too long. That was enough.

Serith's pleasant expression vanished completely. “Intermittently?”

“Yes.”

“From whoever happens to be available?”

Damian's eyes narrowed. “That phrasing is unnecessarily provocative.”

“Is it inaccurate?”

Damian did not answer.

Sythira's gaze sharpened. “She went on today's rescue without a stable feeding network?”

“Yes.”

Malrik's voice dropped. “After yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“After the first Facility?”

“Yes.”

“And the second?”

Damian's patience thinned. “Yes! I wasn’t going to deny her, was I? But I made sure she took all of you!”

Malrik held his gaze. “Then you know what I am asking?”

Damian did. He also knew exactly why the room had changed. Every person around that table had spent years, decades or centuries managing soldiers, resources, risk and exhaustion. They had all seen inexperienced officers destroy people by assuming stamina was infinite, and they knew what happened when a critical person lacked support. All eleven had just watched Franziska spend herself creating armour, opening Portals, Healing prisoners and walking into another Facility.

Rashoon's voice came quieter. “She fed before the mission?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Damian looked at her.

Rashoon's expression hardened. “Enough?”

That was a much more difficult question. “She was functional.”

Kharvouk gave a humourless laugh. “Functional.”

Damian's gaze snapped towards him.

Kharvouk did not retreat. His pale features had become cold. “That is the standard now? Forty-eight hours ago she had no magical core she knew how to regulate, no knowledge of Succubus hunger, no understanding of magical depletion and no experience judging how much energy she can safely spend.”

Damian's jaw tightened. “She is learning.”

“Yes,” Azrith said calmly. “While conducting rescue operations.”

Damian looked at him.

Azrith's furnace-orange eyes did not waver. “That is not criticism of her.”

“I know.”

“It is criticism of the support structure.”

The words sat there. Damian had ruled long enough to accept criticism when it was correct. He disliked it anyway.

Velkris spoke again. “She could have collapsed.”

“Yes.”

“During the rescue.”

“Yes.”

“While holding a Portal.”

Damian's expression went colder. “I understand the consequences.”

Velkris stared back. “Do you?”

Silence.

Malrik shifted slightly, but Damian raised one hand before anyone could intervene. “No. Let him finish.”

Velkris did. “She is in a world she does not know, using Powers she does not understand, surrounded by people she barely knows and taking responsibility for people she did not know existed yesterday. She is doing all of that while her body has developed a feeding requirement she has no experience managing.” His voice remained almost gentle. “And there is no one specifically responsible for making sure she feeds.”

Damian said nothing because that was true. There were people around her: Damian, her newly acquired siblings, Noctyralyn, staff, Commanders, Michael when he was not arguing with her. But responsibility diffused among many people had an unpleasant tendency to become responsibility held by no one.

Rashoon looked down at her armour. “She made this while hungry?”

Damian's eyes moved to her. “I believe so!”

Her jaw clenched. “She made armour for us while hungry.”

“She did not announce it.”

“That is not a defence.”

Damian's eyebrows rose.

Rashoon caught herself. “Your Majesty.”

“No. It isn't.”

Serith dragged one hand through pale-blond hair. “How frequently should a newborn Succubus feed?”

“It varies.”

“Approximately?”

Damian considered the safest answer.

That was when Trazel noticed. His crystal eye brightened. “Oh, no!”

Damian looked at him.

Trazel's grin slowly returned. “You are choosing your words.”

“I am always choosing my words.”

“Not like that.”

Sythira's eyes narrowed. “What are you not telling us?”

Damian regarded them. Eleven experienced people, already inclined to accept the invitation, eleven people Franziska had trusted enough to armour, eleven people whose protective instincts had just awakened almost simultaneously. Suddenly Damian saw the solution. It was inelegant, manipulative and possibly unforgivable if handled poorly. It was also extremely practical. His treasure needed a feeding network, and she needed protectors whose loyalty did not depend upon rank, politics or orders from him. Through sheer ignorance, she had selected eleven exceptionally dangerous candidates herself.

His expression smoothed.

Serith saw it first. “Oh, I know that face!”

Damian glanced at him.

Serith pointed. “That is an Emperor face.”

“I am the Emperor.”

“No. That is the face you make when you have just realised everyone else in the room has accidentally solved one of your problems.”

Trazel laughed.

Malrik looked suddenly suspicious. “What problem?”

Damian ignored him and looked at Rashoon. “You asked who is in Franziska's hareem.”

“Yes.”

“No one.”

Rashoon's eyes hardened again.

Damian continued before she could speak. “She has fed from several powerful people since arriving. She is not starving.”

“That is not the same thing,” Sythira said.

“No!”

“She needs consistency,” Azrith said.

“Yes!”

“A known group,” Malrik added.

“Preferably!”

“People she can trust,” Rashoon said.

Damian looked at her. “Definitely!”

The room became very quiet.

Trazel's smile widened. “Oh.”

Serith closed his eyes. “Absolutely not!”

Draeven looked between them. “What?”

Serith pointed at Damian. “He is doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Recruiting us.”

Damian looked offended. “I have said nothing of the kind.”

“You do not need to.”

Trazel was openly delighted now. “I admire this immensely.”

Malrik rubbed one hand over his face. “Your Majesty.”

Damian's expression remained serene. “You came to me!”

“That is technically true,” Azrith said.

“You informed me that, had Franziska knowingly invited you to negotiate for places in her hareem, none of you would immediately reject that invitation. That in fact you would have felt honoured!”

Malrik frowned. “We also said we had known her for hours.”

“Yes.”

“And that we wished to proceed carefully.”

“Yes.” Damian nodded. “And I agree completely.”

Serith stared at him.

Trazel began laughing again.

Sythira looked from one to the other. “Why does that sound dangerous?”

“Because he agreed too quickly,” Kharvouk said.

Damian ignored him. “No one is asking you to bond with Franziska tonight.”

Eleven shoulders relaxed by varying degrees.

“However,” Damian continued, “when I explain the accidental invitations to her, she will need a culturally acceptable way to resolve them.”

Serith's eyes narrowed. “There it is.”

Damian smiled faintly. “She may request a nominal payment from anyone wishing to decline.”

Trazel tilted his head. “And anyone who does not pay?”

Damian looked at him. “They accept.”

That was accurate. Not complete, but accurate.

Azrith's mechanical fingers resumed their soft clicking. “Accept what?”

“Her invitation.”

“To negotiate?” Malrik asked.

Damian paused, very slightly.

Serith noticed. Velkris noticed. Sythira noticed. Several others probably did too.

Damian smiled. “To join her hareem.”

Trazel's grin became feral.

Serith stared at Damian for a long moment. “You are a terrible father.”

“I’m trying to keep my daughter safe and alive.”

Rashoon's gaze sharpened. “In this case would accepting the invitation require immediate bonding?”

Damian looked at her.

This was the moment. They already knew the entire custom, knew that negotiations could take time, that the implied invitation did not require an immediate magical bond and that they could court Franziska conventionally while ensuring her feeding needs were managed separately.

They knew, he knew.

Instead he looked again at eleven people who had just reacted to the news of her empty hareem like someone had informed them an unguarded child had been left on a battlefield.

“No,” he said.

True.

Rashoon waited.

Damian did not elaborate.

Serith's eyes narrowed further. “And yet I suspect you have a preferred solution?”

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

Damian folded his hands behind his back. “I would prefer that if you accept, you bond with her.”

His office went silent.

Malrik stared at him. “Immediately?”

Damian's expression remained calm. “Why delay?”

“Because we barely know her?” The Commander of the Shock Troops sounded like it was a hypothetical question. A theorem he was posing, because someone had to, not like he actually believed it himself anymore.

“You are not marrying her!”

“That is not the point!” Now he was just arguing for argument self.

“No. The point is that a hareem bond is dissolvable.”

Several people looked at him.

That, too, was true.

“If any of you later discover that the arrangement does not suit you or Franziska, the hareem bond can be released.” Azrith's expression became thoughtful as Damian continued, carefully selecting every word. “In the meantime, the bond establishes loyalty, allows her to recognise you as part of her feeding network and gives all of you a formal place from which to ensure she remains nourished.”

Rashoon's eyes widened again. “A formal responsibility? A duty even?”

“Yes.”

That was the argument that did it. Malrik looked towards her, Rashoon looked at the others, Sythira's posture changed, Draeven's enormous shoulders settled, Azrith's gaze dropped to the table, Kharvouk looked deeply irritated, Trazel looked delighted, Loryth's four hands went still, Xorath's fire flickered, Serith looked as though he had discovered the trick and was deciding whether he objected strongly enough to stop it. Velkris's expression did not alter at all, but Damian saw his answer first.

Velkris spoke quietly. “She would not have to ask strangers.”

The words cut through everything else.

Damian looked at him.

Velkris's black eyes remained fixed on nothing in particular. “If she wakes hungry, if she misjudges what she spends, if she comes back from another rescue depleted, she would have people she knows.”

Rashoon nodded. “People who already know what she is.”

Sythira added, “Who will not shame her for feeding.”

Loryth's mouth tightened. “Or exploit her ignorance.”

Malrik looked at Damian. “Would the bonds prevent that?”

“No.” Damian answered immediately. “Bonds are not substitutes for character.”

That seemed to matter.

“They establish magical loyalty,” he continued, “but loyalty alone does not make someone kind, competent or safe. You would still be responsible for your conduct.”

Kharvouk looked dryly around the room. “That excludes Trazel.”

“Cruel,” Trazel said.

“Accurate.”

Draeven chuckled.

Serith had not stopped watching Damian. “What are you leaving out?”

Damian met his gaze. “A great many details.”

Malrik's eyes narrowed.

Damian lifted one hand. “Franziska has spent two days receiving approximately a year's worth of cultural education in fragments between disasters. If I attempted to explain the complete history and etiquette of Demon hareems before dinner, she might Portal herself back to the Facility voluntarily.”

Several smiles appeared.

Damian continued, “You require the relevant information. The bond is voluntary. It can be dissolved. It gives you no ownership of her and her no ownership of you. Your existing duties continue unless you mutually decide otherwise. The purpose is loyalty, feeding stability, protection and mutual happiness.”

All true.

Serith still looked suspicious. “You are definitely leaving something out.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Damian smiled. “Courtship.”

Trazel laughed so hard one of his chains struck the table. Malrik's eyes closed. Sythira muttered something behind her veil.

Rashoon stared at Damian. “You are suggesting we skip it.”

“I am suggesting that Franziska currently requires reliable support more urgently than she requires eleven people sending flowers and requesting formal dinners.”

Serith slowly shook his head. “Remarkable!”

“Thank you.”

“That was not admiration!”

“It sounded like it.”

Velkris had not reacted. Trazel noticed. “Nightgloom.”

Velkris looked at him.

“You are very quiet.”

“I usually am.”

“Would you bond?”

The room went still again.

Velkris looked towards Damian, then at the armour covering his body, and finally his black eyes moved towards the direction that Franziska was now.

“Yes.” One word. No hesitation.

Sythira studied him. “So quickly?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Velkris's gaze returned to her. “Because I already know I want to remain close enough to keep watching.”

Trazel's grin widened. “That is the most Nocturna declaration of affection I have ever heard.”

Velkris ignored him.

Rashoon looked at Damian. “If we bond, she can still tell us she does not want us?”

“Yes.”

“And if she wants no sexual relationship with one of us?”

“Then there is none.”

That surprised Draeven.

Damian looked at him. “Hareem does not mean perpetual consent, Hellmaw.”

Draeven nodded seriously. “Good.”

Malrik looked around the table again. “This is moving very quickly.”

“Yes,” Azrith said.

“Too quickly.”

“Possibly.”

“Then why am I considering it?”

Trazel answered before anyone else could. “Because you spent the last hour explaining why you are already interested, and then discovered the woman has been wandering around Fairyland as an unsupported newborn Succubus.”

Malrik glared at him.

Trazel smiled. “You dislike it when I am useful.”

“Yes.”

Rashoon's hand settled over the armour Franzi had made her. “She came for me when nobody else did.”

No one spoke.

“I can feed her.”

Malrik looked at her.

Rashoon's expression remained steady. “If that is what she needs, I can do that.”

Sythira slowly nodded. “So can I.”

Draeven raised one huge hand. “Draeven volunteers.”

Loryth stared at him. “What?”

“Draeven is generous.”

Xorath laughed. “Like it’s an onerous job? She is trouble, after all!”

Serith turned to him, “And that draws you?”

“You know me so well, Voidthorn!”

Azrith shook his head, but there was amusement in it now. One by one, the tension around the table changed rather than disappeared. The question was no longer whether any of them were interested enough to negotiate; it was whether the practical argument for waiting still outweighed the practical argument for giving Franziska a stable support structure immediately.

Serith finally sighed. “I cannot believe I am about to say this.”

Damian smiled. “That is usually when you say something interesting.”

Serith ignored him. “If she understands that the bonds are voluntary, that they can be ended and that accepting one does not mean she owes anyone sex on demand, then I would accept.”

Trazel looked delighted.

Malrik looked betrayed.

Serith gave him an apologetic smile. “I am weak.”

“You are many things.”

“Charming?”

“No.”

Sythira looked at Malrik. “Well?”

Malrik's massive chest rose slowly as he inhaled. He looked at Damian. “If she says no?”

“Then the matter ends.”

“If she hesitates?”

“Then it waits.”

“If she agrees because she believes she has accidentally obligated herself?”

Damian's expression became very serious. “Then nothing happens afterwards, bonding does not mean automatic rights to intimacy. It just gives her the option to know, there are people interested in providing her with what she needs.”

That mattered more than anything else he had said.

Malrik nodded. “Then I would accept.”

Azrith followed. “As would I.”

Kharvouk looked disgusted with everyone in the room, including himself. “This is profoundly irrational.”

Trazel's crystal eye gleamed. “Is that a yes?”

Kharvouk stared at the armour Franzi had created around his body. “Yes.”

Loryth exhaled. “Yes.”

Xorath grinned. “Obviously.”

Draeven looked offended. “Draeven said yes first.”

“You shouted volunteer.”

“Same thing!”

Sythira shook her head. “Yes.”

Trazel spread his hands. “Was there ever doubt?”

Serith sighed. “Unfortunately not.”

Rashoon nodded.

Every gaze turned towards Velkris.

He stared back. “I already answered.”

Trazel smiled. “I enjoy making you repeat yourself.”

“Do it again and I will shoot you.”

“There he is.”

Damian looked around the room. Eleven. That had happened considerably faster than even he had expected, and perhaps that should have troubled him more than it did. Instead he felt something heavy in his chest loosen. Franziska would have people. Not his people ordered to protect her. Hers. People who had chosen her.

He allowed himself one quiet breath before his expression became Imperial again. “Then we proceed carefully.”

Serith laughed.

Damian looked at him. “What?”

“You omitted half the courtship customs, turned an accidental invitation into an emergency feeding intervention and somehow ended with eleven volunteers for immediate bonding.”

Damian lifted one eyebrow. “And?”

Serith smiled. “I merely wanted to clarify your definition of carefully.”

Damian's answering smile was slow. “My treasure is alive.” The humour faded from his eyes. “She stays that way.”

No one argued.

Lord Severn closed the door to the small morning room and remained beside it for several seconds, listening until the footsteps in the corridor had faded. Only then did he cross to the table, where three neatly organised folders waited beside a tea service, each containing what little information they had been able to gather about the three women currently attempting to function as housekeeper of the Red Mansion.

Serena Luthien sat perfectly straight in one of the high-backed chairs; fine silver hair arranged with the precision of a Dragon Court lady who considered disorder a personal insult. Noctyralyn occupied the chair opposite her, midnight-blue wings folded carefully behind her and dark blue-silver-speckled eyes moving between the folders with an attention that made it quite clear she had spent a significant portion of her life evaluating people who had no idea they were being evaluated. Lord Severn took the third chair with the quiet economy of movement that still occasionally revealed the decorated officer beneath the butler's immaculate clothing.

Serena looked at the three folders. “We cannot keep all of them!”

“No,” Lord Severn agreed.

Noctyralyn's gaze lifted. “Could we?”

Serena stared at her.

Lord Severn considered the question seriously. “We could employ three women with experience in domestic management. We cannot have three people believing themselves responsible for the same household. That would produce either paralysis or civil war before dinner.”

Noctyralyn's mouth moved faintly. “You make domestic service sound remarkably similar to intelligence work.”

“In my experience, Lady Noctyralyn, most organisations are remarkably similar once enough people are involved.”

“That is true.”

Serena looked between them. “The Princess asked us to choose one.”

Lord Severn's expression tightened almost imperceptibly at the title.

Noctyralyn noticed.

Serena noticed Noctyralyn noticing.

Neither commented.

Instead, Serena opened the first folder. “The first candidate has experience.”

“All three have experience,” Lord Severn said.

“Yes, but hers is respectable.”

Noctyralyn tilted her head. “Define respectable.”

Serena gave her the sort of look one Dragon Court lady might give another courtier who had asked whether gold was really necessary on formal tableware. “Established households. Proper hierarchy. Familiarity with Royal service.”

“And that is a recommendation?”

“Obviously!”

Noctyralyn glanced towards Lord Severn.

He reached calmly for the teapot. “Not necessarily.”

Serena looked offended. “You cannot seriously be suggesting experience in a provincial merchant household is equivalent to experience in a Royal one?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I am suggesting that experience in a conventional Royal household may be considerably less useful here than you imagine.”

Serena's expression cooled. “This is the household of an Imperial Princess.”

“It is.”

“Then standards matter.”

“Very much.”

“Protocol matters.”

“Also very much.”

“Hierarchy matters.”

Lord Severn poured his tea. “That remains to be seen.”

Serena stared at him.

Noctyralyn smiled.

“You are enjoying this,” Serena accused.

“A little.”

Lord Severn placed the teapot down. “Lady Serena, yesterday we had Demons, Dwarves, Elves, Fairies, Dragonkin and several other races moving through the same corridors while a ballroom operated as a hospital, kitchens fed hundreds of unexpected refugees and members of two Dwarven clans attempted to rebuild sections of the Manor while people were living in them. This morning Her Imperial Highness has already questioned why certain things are done merely because they are customary.”

Serena's nostrils flared delicately. “That does not mean there should be no standards.”

“No. It means we require someone capable of distinguishing a standard from a habit.”

Noctyralyn's eyes sharpened.

Serena sat back. She was arrogant, but she was not stupid. “That,” she admitted after a moment, “is a fair distinction.”

Lord Severn inclined his head as though accepting a diplomatic concession.

Noctyralyn opened the second folder. “This one is efficient.”

“She is,” Lord Severn said.

“She also dislikes Fairies.”

Serena looked up. “Did she say that?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

Noctyralyn's expression became almost puzzled. “Because I asked her how she would organise the chamber staff and she assigned every Fairy to decorative work.”

Serena frowned.

“She suggested Elves for formal rooms, Demons for security-adjacent duties, Dwarves for laundry and heavy domestic work and Fairies for flowers, table arrangements and entertaining children.”

Lord Severn's face became completely blank.

Serena looked at him. “That expression means you have already rejected her.”

“It means I am considering how long she would survive after attempting to explain to Chef Tormentus that racial assumptions are an acceptable basis for assigning staff.”

Noctyralyn gave a quiet laugh.

Even Serena's lips twitched.

“She might learn,” Serena said.

“She might,” Noctyralyn agreed. “But this household cannot afford a housekeeper who must first unlearn the organisational principle upon which she has built her entire career.”

Serena studied her.

Noctyralyn folded her hands. “I spent years in the Fae Empire's intelligence apparatus. If you want to know whether someone can adapt, do not ask whether they are tolerant. Give them a situation in which their assumptions become inconvenient and watch what they preserve. She preserved the assumptions.”

Lord Severn nodded once.

Serena closed the second folder.

“That leaves Duskbranch.”

“Mistress Lyrel Duskbranch,” Lord Severn corrected automatically.

Serena's eyes narrowed. “You have already decided.”

“I have a preference.”

“That means yes.”

“It does not.”

“It does when you say it like that.”

Noctyralyn opened Lyrel's folder. There was less written there than Serena would have preferred. Her long captivity had left Lyrel with no references or testimonials from previous employers or coworkers, in fact she was destitute. but what information they had been able to establish supported her claim of centuries spent managing large estates and complicated staffs.

“She admitted she cannot prove most of her history,” Noctyralyn said.

“Yes,” Lord Severn replied.

“That bothered you?”

“No.”

Serena looked between them. “It bothers me.”

“Why?”

“Because people lie.”

Noctyralyn's expression became very still.

Serena caught herself.

“I did not mean—”

“I know what you meant.” Noctyralyn looked back at the folder. “And yes, they do.”

Her fingers rested lightly against the page.

“Duskbranch did not lie.”

Lord Severn looked at her. “You are certain?”

“No. I have known her for hours. Anyone who claims certainty after hours is a fool.” Noctyralyn glanced up. “But I spent a very long time professionally determining whether people were telling me what they believed, what they wanted me to believe or what somebody else had instructed them to say. I saw no indication that Mistress Duskbranch was fabricating her experience.”

Serena considered that answer more seriously than she would have two days earlier.

Lord Severn said, “She has also been the only candidate to say directly that managing this household will be challenging.”

Noctyralyn nodded.

“The others promised they could manage it?”

“They assured me the household would be placed into proper order.”

Serena lifted one eyebrow. “You say that as though proper order is undesirable.”

Lord Severn's gaze moved towards the closed door. Somewhere beyond it came the distant sound of hammering, followed by an argument in at least two languages and somebody shouting that a Griffon was not permitted in the corridor.

“Define proper?”

Noctyralyn laughed.

Serena's expression became pained. “That animal should not be in the corridor.”

“At least on that point,” Lord Severn said, “we agree.”

He opened Lyrel's folder again. “Mistress Duskbranch looked at the existing household and did not immediately begin explaining how she would change it. She asked who was already doing which work. She asked which arrangements had developed naturally among the refugees. She asked which members of staff worked well together.”

Noctyralyn leaned slightly forward.

“She also asked me whether the household was intended to remain mixed,” Lord Severn continued.

Serena frowned. “Remain mixed?”

“Racially.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“That I had no evidence Her Imperial Highness intended otherwise.”

Noctyralyn's eyes darkened. “After what Franziska did in the Facility, I would be astonished if she did.”

Serena looked at her. “You have known her two days.”

“Yes.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

“No.” Noctyralyn's voice remained calm. “But I watched her free people without asking their race before deciding whether they deserved freedom.”

That silenced Serena.

Noctyralyn did not press the advantage. “That is evidence. It is not certainty.”

Lord Severn inclined his head in approval.

Serena looked down at Lyrel's folder. “And Duskbranch?”

“She said that if the household was to remain diverse, then the housekeeper's role was to make the departments function together rather than to reorganise them into more conventional racial divisions.”

Serena's mouth tightened.

Noctyralyn noticed immediately. “You dislike that.”

“I dislike the implication that tradition has no value.”

“No one said it has none.”

“You were both thinking it very loudly.”

Lord Severn's mouth twitched.

Serena looked at him. “Dragons have maintained functioning Royal Courts for millennia.”

“Yes.”

“For good reason.”

“Yes.”

“Our standards of household management are considerably more sophisticated than those of most races.”

Noctyralyn's wings shifted.

Lord Severn took a measured sip of tea.

Serena looked between them. “What?”

Noctyralyn said, “Nothing.”

“You disagree.”

“I did not say that.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

Noctyralyn's eyes widened with genuine offence. “I was second in command of an Imperial spy circle.”

“And?”

“And I assure you, Lady Serena, I am an excellent liar.”

Lord Severn coughed into his hand. Serena stared at both of them. Then, against her will, she laughed. The tension disappeared as quickly as it had formed.

Lord Severn waited until Serena had recovered before speaking again. “There is another consideration.”

Both women looked at him.

“Her Imperial Highness.”

Serena's expression sharpened. “What about her?”

Lord Severn set his cup down. “Princess Cassandra spoke to me yesterday.”

That immediately gained Noctyralyn's attention.

“What did she say?”

“That we are all in danger of making the same mistake.”

Serena frowned. “Which is?”

“Looking at Franziska and seeing an Imperial Princess before remembering that she has been in this world for two days.”

Neither woman spoke.

Lord Severn's voice remained calm, but something of the former officer entered it, the same measured authority with which he could reorganise a household or an evacuation without raising his voice. “She is a baby Succubus. She does not know the Demon Empire. She does not know its customs. She does not know its political structures beyond what people have managed to explain to her between rescues, Healings and meals. She barely knows the people now calling themselves her family.”

Serena's arrogance faded a fraction.

Noctyralyn listened very carefully.

“And,” Lord Severn continued, “according to Lady Cassandra, she is Damian Roseheart's heir.”

Serena went completely still.

Noctyralyn's eyes narrowed. “Does Franziska know?”

“No.”

Serena stared at him. “You are telling us that the Demon Emperor has selected a woman who discovered the Tri-Empires two days ago as his heir and has not informed her?”

“That is what Princess Cassandra told me.”

Noctyralyn sat back slowly. “That family,” she murmured.

Lord Severn's mouth almost moved.

Serena was still processing the information. “She is the Imperial heir!”

“Yes.”

“And she does not know!”

“No.”

“She is due to be formally introduced tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“And she still does not know?”

Lord Severn looked at her.

Serena closed her eyes. “Demons.”

Noctyralyn smiled. “You make that sound almost as though Dragons are superior.”

Serena opened her eyes. “Dragons are superior.”

There was no humour in her answer.

Noctyralyn stared at her for a moment.

Then laughed.

Lord Severn rubbed two fingers against his temple. “This is precisely why we require a very particular sort of housekeeper.”

Serena looked at him indignantly. “My statement was entirely accurate.”

“I am sure.”

“It was.”

“Of course.”

Noctyralyn was still laughing.

Lord Severn returned to the folders. “Her Imperial Highness needs guidance, but we cannot surround her with people who interpret inexperience as permission to control her.”

That sobered both women.

“She needs someone who will tell her that a Royal household requires uniforms,” he continued, “without demanding she will do so immediate. Someone who will improvise until her Highness can make the decision and someone who will accept unconventional decisions and solutions. Evaluate them and then go back and tell her if they worked or even that they didn’t and why they didn’t. But respectfully! So if Franzi decides the refugees should sleep in her bedroom, because the light is especially stimulating to their recovery, the housekeeper needs to run with it.”

Serena's eyebrows rose. “She would do that?”

Lord Severn looked at her.

Serena considered everything she had seen in two days.

“Yes. She would.”

“She needs someone who can say, ‘Your Imperial Highness, this is customary,’ and distinguish that from, ‘Your Imperial Highness, this is necessary.’”

Noctyralyn nodded slowly. “And someone willing to hear no.”

“Yes.”

Serena's fingers tapped once against Lyrel's folder. “You believe Duskbranch will?”

“I believe she is the best of the three candidates.”

“That was not what I asked.”

Lord Severn's eyes met hers.

“No. I do not know whether she will.”

Noctyralyn nodded. There it was again. Not certainty. Assessment.

Three people who had spent their lives judging others under pressure were attempting to make a decision about a woman they had known for hours, for an employer they had known scarcely longer.

Noctyralyn looked down at the three folders. “Then we watch her.”

Serena tilted her head. “You make that sound sinister.”

“I was a spy.”

“Former spy.”

Noctyralyn's expression became bland. “Of course.”

Serena looked suspicious.

Lord Severn continued before they could begin another argument. “A trial period.”

Both women turned towards him.

“Mistress Duskbranch receives the position. We make clear that authority over the domestic staff rests with her, but Serena coordinates Her Imperial Highness's schedule and formal obligations, and I retain overall household management until the structure settles.”

“And me?” Noctyralyn asked.

Lord Severn looked at her.

“You are not actually employed here.”

Noctyralyn blinked.

Serena smiled.

“I live here.”

“Yes.”

“I am helping run your hospital.”

“You are.”

“I have spent the last day resolving disputes between refugees.”

“You have.”

“And I have just helped select your housekeeper.”

“Yes.”

Noctyralyn folded her arms.

Lord Severn waited.

“I feel I should have a title.”

Serena's smile widened. “Perhaps Chief Interferer.”

Noctyralyn gave her a cool look. “Coming from the woman who has been here just as long as I have and has already reorganised the Princess's life into fifteen-minute increments?”

“They are thirty-minute increments.”

“My apologies.”

“Precision matters.”

Lord Severn looked between the Dragon Court lady and the former Fae spy, then towards the three folders on the table and allowed himself a very small smile.

“This household is going to be exhausting.”

Serena lifted her chin. “It will be efficient.”

Noctyralyn smiled. “It will be interesting.”

Lord Severn gathered the two rejected folders and placed Lyrel Duskbranch's alone in the centre of the table.

“Then we are agreed?”

Serena looked at it for several seconds before nodding. “Mistress Duskbranch. She has sufficient experience, she understands hierarchy without appearing enslaved to it, and she has demonstrated at least some capacity to work with people from races that are not Dragons.”

Noctyralyn stared at her.

Serena stared back. “What?”

“That was almost progressive.”

“Do not be ridiculous.”

Noctyralyn's smile widened.

Lord Severn ignored them both. “Lady Noctyralyn?”

“Duskbranch. She watches before deciding, admits what she cannot promise and appears capable of changing her assessment when she receives new information.”

Lord Severn nodded. “My assessment as well.”

Serena looked towards him. “And if we are wrong?”

“Then we correct the decision.”

That answer pleased all three of them.

Lord Severn stood and gathered the folders. “There is one final point. Lady Cassandra was quite explicit about it.”

Serena rose. “What?”

Lord Severn looked from the proud Dragon Court lady to the midnight-blue Fairy who had spent years navigating Imperial secrets.

“Franziska is going to be an unusual employer and an unusual Royal.”

Noctyralyn smiled faintly. “I had noticed.”

“She will break convention,” Lord Severn continued. “Sometimes because she does not know it exists, sometimes because she dislikes it and, I suspect, occasionally because she will find it amusing.”

Serena sighed.

“We are not here to prevent that.”

Serena's head snapped towards him.

Lord Severn's voice became firmer. “We are here to make certain that when she breaks something important, she knows what she is breaking and what it will cost. The choice remains hers.”

For a moment none of them spoke, then Noctyralyn nodded.

Serena took longer, but eventually she did too.

Lord Severn picked up Lyrel Duskbranch's folder.

“Good. I shall offer Mistress Duskbranch the position.”

Serena moved towards the door, then stopped. “Lord Severn?”

“Yes?”

“If the Emperor truly intends to make her his heir…”

“He does.”

“And she does not know?”

“She does not.”

Serena looked towards Noctyralyn.

Noctyralyn looked back.

For the first time since they had met, the arrogant Dragon Court lady and the former Fae intelligence officer appeared to reach exactly the same conclusion at exactly the same moment.

Noctyralyn spoke first. “Someone is going to have to teach her how to survive all of this.”

Serena straightened. “Yes.”

Lord Severn opened the door. “Then I suggest we become very good at our jobs.”

Thorn Aelvaraen was sitting on a low wall overlooking one of Roseheart Manor’s gardens when Carfaxx found him.

The Elf looked far healthier than the last time Carfaxx had seen him. His shoulder-length black hair was still damp from bathing, silver eyes alert again beneath sharp brows, and colour had returned to skin that had been grey with poison only hours before. The small scar beneath his lower lip made his habitual smirk look even more untrustworthy.

Carfaxx stopped in front of him.

Thorn looked up.

For several seconds neither spoke.

Then Thorn’s expression changed.

“Carfaxx?”

“Yes.”

“You’re here!”

“So are you and alive!”

Thorn looked down at his hands and slowly flexed his fingers. “That remains rather surprising.”

Carfaxx knew what had happened to him. Lethalorn. The Silent Thorn. Progressive paralysis until the lungs and heart stopped. Franzi’s Healing had kept repairing the damage, but it had not removed the poison. Somehow, sometime after the second rescue, Thorn and the other three poisoned prisoners had suddenly recovered completely.

Carfaxx had asked questions. Lord Severn had answered none of them. That alone had told him the matter was probably better left alone.

Thorn looked towards the Manor. “I’m told the Princess who rescued us is your Patroness.”

Carfaxx inclined his head.

“Mistress of your hareem?”

“Yes.”

Thorn’s eyes returned to the enormous red building.

“Interesting.”

“No!”

Thorn glanced back. “I said one word.”

“I know you.”

“That seems unfair.”

Carfaxx ignored him and studied the Elf more carefully.

Thorn noticed.

“What?”

“My Patroness is in need of a bodyguard.”

Thorn stared at him, then laughed.

Carfaxx waited.

Thorn laughed harder. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

“I am.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“A bodyguard?”

“Yes.”

Thorn looked around as though expecting someone else to appear and explain the joke.

“Carfaxx, I'm hardly that.”

“No.”

Thorn blinked.

“That was remarkably quick.”

Thorn blinked. “Excellent recruitment technique.”

“You are not a conventional guard.”

“I am not any kind of guard.”

“You know enough of being on the other side to recognise dangers to her.”

That wiped some of the amusement from Thorn’s face.

Carfaxx continued, “You know how contractual blades work. You know how information is bought, how servants are approached, how nobles arrange violence while keeping their own hands clean. You know how assassins choose entrances, routines and weaknesses.”

Thorn folded his arms. “You are describing why nobody sensible should allow me near an Imperial Princess.”

“I am describing why you could protect one.”

“I kill people, Carfaxx. Occasionally those activities produce the same outcome. That doesn't make me a guardian.”

“Yes.”

“I have taken contracts.”

“I know.”

“I am hardly the shining image of loyal service.”

Carfaxx looked at him.

“You are protesting a great deal for someone who is not interested.”

“I am not interested!”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

“Then stop asking questions.”

Thorn frowned. “I haven’t asked any.”

“Not yet.”

Thorn gave him a rude gesture.

Carfaxx almost smiled.

“She needs someone who can accompany her into places where an obvious military guard would be a disadvantage. Someone who understands courts as well as blades. She needs someone who understands dangers the people around her do not.”

“She has General Michael or the Demon Emperor or even her brothers, they are noble warriors!”

“General Michael commands an army , the Demon Emperor cannot stand behind her every hour, her brothers have their own responsibilities.”

“The terrifying midnight-blue Fairy?”

“Is not a bodyguard.”

Thorn's silver eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’ve thought about this.”

“Yes.”

“And somehow you arrived at me?”

“Yes.”

“Your standards have deteriorated.”

“No.”

Thorn stood, stretching carefully as though still expecting his muscles to betray him.

“I have spent enough of my life working for nobles.”

“She is unusual.”

Thorn laughed.

“They always are when somebody is trying to recruit you.”

“You have seen enough to know this one is.”

That stopped him. Thorn’s expression tightened. “I saw very little.”

“You saw her refuse to let you die.”

“I was unconscious for most of it.”

“You were one of four men poisoned beyond the ability of ordinary Healing to cure.”

Thorn’s jaw flexed.

“She kept all four of you alive.”

Silence.

“She had prisoners still trapped inside the Facility and continued checking on you anyway.”

Thorn shook his head and began walking. Carfaxx followed.

“I said I'm not interested.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why are you following me?”

“You are walking towards the Manor.”

Thorn stopped, first looked at the enormous red building, then at Carfaxx. “I require breakfast.”

“Of course!”

“I am not going to see her! I don’t need some princess to redeem me or give me a second chance or whatever nonsense you’ve concocted in your mind!”

“I did not suggest you did!”

“Good!”

They resumed walking. After perhaps twenty paces, Thorn asked casually, “What is she like?”

Carfaxx did not smile.

“My Patroness?”

“No, the gardener. Yes, your Patroness.”

“She is generous and kind!”

“So are many foolish, rich people.”

“No, she’s intelligent.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow.

Carfaxx frowned. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“Nothing.”

Carfaxx waited.

Thorn lasted perhaps five seconds. “Is she demanding, cruel, arrogant or difficult?”

Carfaxx’s expression changed immediately. Thorn watched him. The answers mattered.

“No.”

Carfaxx paused.

“Although she has strong opinions.”

“There it is.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No?”

“No.”

Thorn tilted his head. “What does she expect from people serving her?”

Carfaxx thought about it and remembered Helen.

They had spoken only briefly, but Helen Roseheart had possessed the effortless certainty of someone explaining an obvious truth to a man who should have known better.

Franzi was new. Franzi did not yet understand what she needed.

A proper Succubus required loyalty and obedience around her. Men who challenged her would only make things more difficult. What Franzi needed were people willing to bend, to anticipate, to reassure her that she remained in control.

Helen had smiled sweetly when she said it. Carfaxx believed every one of her words. They made sense to him.

“She likes submissive men.”

Thorn stared at him. “What?”

“She prefers men who yield to her.”

A very long silence followed. Thorn looked towards the Manor again. Carfaxx narrowed his eyes.

“You said you weren’t interested.”

“I am not.”

“You looked.”

Thorn ignored that.

“Submissive in what sense?”

Carfaxx’s suspicion deepened. “Why?”

“If you are suggesting I protect her, knowing how she expects members of her household to behave seems relevant.”

Reasonable! Carfaxx nodded. “You should not stand up to her.” Thorn stared. Carfaxx continued seriously, “If she tells you what she wants, follow her lead.”

“Even when she’s wrong?”

“She is your Princess.”

“That was not my question.”

“You should not argue unnecessarily.”

Thorn’s mouth twitched. “Unnecessarily.”

“Yes.”

“So I may argue when necessary?”

“That is not what I said.”

“It is rather close.”

Carfaxx frowned.

Thorn folded his arms again. “If someone is manipulating her?”

“You protect her.”

“If she orders me to leave the manipulator alone?”

Carfaxx hesitated.

Thorn immediately noticed. “And if she walks into danger?”

“You follow her.”

“Good.”

“And do what she says.”

Thorn’s eyebrows rose. “Less good.”

“She does not need men constantly questioning her decisions.”

“Does she make poor decisions?”

“No.”

“You answered very quickly. Rumour has it you’ve only been here for two days. How do you know her so well?”

“I have empathy, as you know. That is enough and her sisters Helen told me about her!”

Thorn nodded that he’d heard and then the Elf smiled. “Oh, I am going to enjoy meeting her.”

Carfaxx went still. Thorn realised what he had said. “I meant if.”

“No, you did not!”

“I did.”

“You said meeting her.”

“Grammatical error.”

“You do not make grammatical errors.”

“I nearly died recently.”

“Convenient!” The Stallion smirked.

Thorn resumed walking towards the Manor. “I am not taking the position.”

Carfaxx followed at an easy pace. “I have not offered you the position.”

“You have spent this entire conversation recruiting me.”

“I suggested you consider presenting yourself as a candidate.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“I mean it.”

“I know and you might not be accepted even if you did. She does get the last say in it!”

Thorn looked at Carfaxx suspiciously. “Are you now trying to target my pride, old friend?”

“Would it work?”

Thorn looked down at himself, “Truth be told, I’m not sure, there is much left!” Then made it another six steps before glancing sideways. “Where is she now?”

Carfaxx looked at him.

Thorn's expression immediately became defensive. “Your Patroness. Where is she?”

“In Ebon.”

Thorn stopped.

“The forest?”

“Yes.”

“The sentient Demonic forest?”

“Yes.”

Thorn stared at him. “Why?”

Carfaxx considered the question. “The explanation is complicated.”

“Is she in danger?”

There it was again. Carfaxx's mouth twitched.

Thorn saw it. “Do not.”

“Do not what?”

“Make that face.”

“What face?”

“The one suggesting that my asking whether the woman who kept me alive is currently being eaten by a Demonic forest constitutes personal interest.”

“I said nothing.”

“You didn't need to!”

Carfaxx continued towards the Manor. “She went into Ebon willingly.”

Thorn caught up. “That does not answer whether she is in danger.”

“Probably!”

Thorn stared at him. “Probably?”

“We’re talking about a forest that regularly eats intruders and spits out their bones as a form of communication.”

“And everyone simply allowed an Imperial Princess to walk into it?”

Carfaxx stopped and looked at him. Thorn's expression shifted. “Right.”

“You are beginning to understand the difficulty.”

Thorn looked towards the distant tree line as though he might somehow be able to see the Demonic forest from where they stood.

“She does this often?”

“I believe, she has been in the Demon Empire less than a week.”

“That’s not reassuring!”

“It was not intended to be.”

Thorn folded his arms. “And you want me to guard her?”

“I believe you could be useful.”

“Because I know how assassins think?”

“Among other things.”

“And because apparently every conventional guard she acquires is incapable of stopping her from entering sentient forests.”

Carfaxx thought about that and shrugged. “Also that. If she had a bodyguard.”

Thorn made a quiet sound of disbelief. “She has no bodyguards?”

Carfaxx started walking again. “Not at present, no! Hence, the interviews in two days.”

Thorn frowned. “What interviews?”

Carfaxx did not look at him. “For the bodyguard position.”

“I told you I am not applying.”

“After lunch.”

“Carfaxx! I am not coming!”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

Thorn followed him for another few steps. “Who else is being interviewed?”

Carfaxx stopped.

Thorn closed his eyes. “That was professional curiosity.”

“Of course.”

“It was.”

“Naturally.”

Thorn glared.

Carfaxx's smile widened. “Two days from now. After lunch.”

“I heard you.”

“Good.”

“I will not be there.”

“Of course not. Although it seems to me, you might be protesting too much!”

Thorn sputtered, but Carfaxx turned and began walking away.

Thorn called after him. “I mean it.”

Carfaxx lifted one hand without looking back.

“Two days. After lunch.”

“Carfaxx!”

He kept walking. Behind him came several seconds of silence.

Then, inevitably: “Where are the interviews being held?”

Carfaxx smirked, he wisely did not turn around. “Ask Lord Severn.”

And he walked away, smiling.

Six days.

They had been hareem-bonded to Princess Franziska for six days, and not one of them had been summoned to feed her. Under ordinary circumstances that might merely have been unusual. Under the present circumstances, it had become alarming.

Malrik the Infernal Warden stood at the end of the table, towering over almost everyone there, his scarred face set hard while one enormous fist slowly clenched and released. “She was Angelstruck by General Michael. She helped interrogate the Court Mage. She disappeared into Ebon for three days—”

“To meditate and communicate with nature,” Serith Voidthorn supplied carefully.

Trazel the Bound Tyrant snorted so loudly it bordered on unhygienic. “I have read the official account. I am merely expressing my admiration for the phrasing.”

“Regardless of what precisely occurred in Ebon,” Velkris Nightgloom said, the scout sitting unnaturally still as he watched the others, “she returned exhausted. She has repeatedly expended significant amounts of energy, and she has still not established a feeding schedule.”

“Neither has Carfaxx,” Rashoon Oyal added.

That produced a collection of irritated expressions. They had asked the Stallion. Repeatedly. Carfaxx had proven completely useless.

Sythira Bloodveil folded her arms, her glowing feline-red eyes narrowing above the blood-red veil that obscured the lower half of her sharp face. “He says he must remain subservient to his Patroness’s wishes and that she knows what she is doing.”

Trazel snorted again.

“He’s not been getting enough sex,” Sythira declared. “All that frustration is keeping him from thinking clearly!”

Several heads nodded with complete seriousness.

“So what do we do?” Malrik demanded, the ember-like markings across his bald scalp seeming almost brighter as his frustration rose.

Silence answered him.

Between them, they had centuries of experience commanding soldiers, judging threats, surviving wars, sieges, assassinations and political disasters. None of it appeared particularly useful when faced with a baby Succubus who had acquired eleven hareem members and then apparently forgotten to make use of any of them.

Velkris’s attention settled on Sythira. “She found you alluring during the rescue missions. She likes the sway of your hips when you walk.”

One of Sythira’s dark eyebrows rose above the veil. “You notice the sway of my hips?”

“No. I noticed her noticing,” Velkris corrected patiently.

Rashoon covered a laugh.

Sythira considered him for a moment before giving a graceful shrug. “She loves the idea of being with me, but what she needs at the moment is a very male form.”

Loryth Venombane pouted. “She’d like my form!”

“Definitely,” Sythira agreed. “But we two can’t give her the, uhm, physical stimulus her body is craving at the moment.”

Loryth and Rashoon sighed together. “True.”

Malrik straightened to his already formidable full height. “Then I’ll camp in front of her bedroom door until she notices me and takes me inside!”

Silence.

Then Draeven Hellmaw laughed. “Draeven likes that idea!”

Every gaze in the room moved towards him.

The black-eyed scout considered the situation. “Maybe someone less intense.”

More silence followed while gazes travelled slowly around the room.

Serith finally cleared his throat. “Uhm, Velkris, I very much value you as a colleague, but if you’re trying to imply that you’re the least intense of us, I’ll have to respectfully tell you that you’re not fooling anyone here. Respectfully.”

Velkris nodded as though that had never been his intention. “I meant perhaps we should start with someone less sexually deviant.”

“Deviant?” Trazel laughed and looked around the room. “Yes, good luck with that!”

Again, gazes travelled.

Nobody volunteered.

Apparently, centuries of command experience had created a collection of people exceptionally well suited to warfare and rather poorly suited to gently introducing an inexperienced Succubus to the practical use of her hareem.

Malrik’s glowing crimson eyes eventually settled on Xorath the Undying Flame. “I will take that recruit of yours who has been bothering you for the last two weeks if you let me go first.”

Xorath looked at him. “You would?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Two weeks.”

“A month.”

“Three weeks.”

Azrith Doomspire leaned forward, the mechanical fingers of his demonic left arm clicking softly against the tabletop. “I will take your inspection duty at the eastern garrison.”

Malrik turned on him. “Stay out of this.”

“You opened negotiations.”

“I did not open negotiations.”

Serith’s expression became far too innocent. “You offered consideration in exchange for preferential access to our Patroness.”

Malrik stared at him. “When you phrase it like that—”

“How else would you phrase it?” Rashoon asked.

Draeven raised one hand. “Draeven will take two night watches.”

“No.”

“Three.”

“No.”

“Three and the recruit.”

“The recruit is mine to trade!” Xorath objected.

“I’ll take the recruit,” Azrith offered.

Xorath stared at him. “You don’t even know which recruit we’re discussing.”

The stocky Siege Commander shrugged, orange eyes glowing with quiet focus. “I don’t need to.”

“You absolutely do.”

Loryth leaned towards Sythira. “Should we be stopping this?”

Sythira watched four highly decorated commanders begin bargaining duties, difficult recruits and favours for the privilege of being first to approach the woman to whom all of them were already bonded. “No.”

Rashoon nodded. “I want to see where it goes.”

“I will take the recruit for a month and cover two inspections,” Malrik announced.

“Add one night watch,” Xorath countered.

“You are extorting me.”

“Yes.”

“Done.”

“Wait,” Azrith objected.

“Enough!” Malrik’s roar cut through the room. The Infernal Warden inhaled slowly and forced his huge hands open. “I apologise. I had no intention of this escalating.”

Trazel’s expression was delighted. “You attempted to purchase first access.”

“I was solving a problem.”

“By haggling.”

Malrik ignored him. “Xorath, Azrith, Draeven and I will throw dice. We can at least pretend at being non-dominant in bed.” His scarred brow furrowed. “I mean, we actually like not having to be dominant in bed.”

“That is not fair!” Trazel interrupted.

Velkris turned towards him. “We know your proclivities. I’m sure she’ll get there, but maybe let Serith and me warm her up to you?”

Trazel studied him for several seconds before shrugging. “Fair.”

Serith slowly turned his head. “Why have I just been included in this?”

“You are comparatively reassuring.”

“I am an infiltration and sabotage Commander.”

“Yes.”

“I have done things that would make several people in this room uncomfortable.”

“Yes.”

“You still think I am reassuring?”

“You say please.”

Serith stopped.

Rashoon laughed.

Velkris continued with complete seriousness. “You also have excellent manners, considerable self-control and are unlikely to frighten her deliberately.”

Serith considered that. “Those are surprisingly reasonable criteria.”

“They are.”

Sythira’s red eyes glittered above her veil. “And you, Velkris? What makes you suitable for warming her up?”

Every gaze turned towards him.

“I can behave.”

Trazel laughed first. Draeven followed, and even Serith looked doubtful.

Velkris waited patiently. “I said I can. I did not say it was my natural state.”

That, apparently, they accepted.

Malrik reached for the dice. “Fine. Xorath, Azrith, Draeven and me. Highest roll gets the first opportunity.”

“Assuming she wants you,” Rashoon reminded him.

Malrik’s hand stopped.

The humour faded just enough to expose the serious point beneath all of it.

They were bonded to her. They wanted her. They were increasingly concerned by how much energy she appeared to spend without making use of the feeding network she had been given.

But none of that entitled them to her.

The Infernal Warden slowly lowered his hand. “Assuming she wants me.”

Velkris gave one approving nod.

Sythira tilted her head. “And if she doesn’t choose any of you?”

“Then we find another way to make certain she feeds,” Malrik said.

“Without pressuring her,” Serith added.

“Without pressuring her.”

Trazel sighed. “This was much simpler when Malrik was going to sit outside her bedroom.”

Draeven nodded solemnly. “Draeven still likes that plan.”

This time, even Malrik laughed.

Grey knew he had been ambushed the moment Cassian stepped out of an alcove ahead of him and Vyreth appeared behind.

He stopped in the middle of the upper hallway, his tawny ears twitching once before his long tail curled lazily around his leg. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the faintly smug expression on Cassian’s face and doing absolutely nothing to improve Grey’s opinion of the situation.

“Gentlemen.”

“Grey.” Vyreth’s deep voice came from behind him.

Grey glanced over his shoulder at the Demon footman, then back to Cassian. “Am I meant to believe this is accidental?”

“No.”

“Appreciate the honesty.”

Cassian folded his arms. “We have questions.”

“Ye usually do.”

“About Her Imperial Highness.”

Grey’s mouth curved.

There it was! He’d been waiting for this. Ever since the household had discovered that Grey had spent the night in Franzi’s bed, people had been looking at him differently. Some were curious, some envious, and a few had developed an almost scholarly interest in precisely what had happened behind the closed doors. Cassian appeared to belong firmly in the final category. Vyreth, however, had spent most of the conversation looking at Grey.

Grey had noticed that too. “What would ye like to know?”

Cassian brightened.

Grey raised one finger. “That wasn't an invitation.”

Cassian’s expression fell. Vyreth chuckled behind him.

“You could simply tell us,” Cassian said.

“I could.”

“What is she like?”

“Imperial.”

Cassian stared.

Grey smiled.

“In bed?”

“Still Imperial.”

“Grey!”

“Cassian!”

Vyreth moved closer.

Grey’s ears swivelled towards him before Grey himself bothered looking around.

The Demon was smiling. That was interesting.

“What?”

“You’re enjoying this!”

“Being interrogated?”

“Making him suffer.” Vyreth scoffed.

Grey considered Cassian’s increasingly frustrated expression. “A little.”

Cassian pointed at him. “You have spent considerably more time alone with her than almost anyone in this household.”

“Aye.”

“You slept with her.”

“Aye.”

“All night.”

Grey’s smile became distinctly feline. “Mostly.”

Cassian's eyes widened. “There! What does mostly mean?”

“It means ye should mind yer own business.”

Cassian stared at him for several seconds. Then his expression changed. “Fine.”

Grey immediately became suspicious. “Fine?”

“If you will not answer voluntarily, we need another method.”

Grey glanced towards Vyreth. Vyreth appeared entirely too pleased.

“What method?”

Cassian stepped closer. “Either you tell us what happened…” He paused deliberately. “…or we find another use for your mouth.”

Grey’s eyes flared with unmistakable interest. Cassian stopped, but Vyreth laughed. Grey’s tail gave one sharp flick.

“Well,” Grey murmured. “That threat went badly for ye.”

Cassian recovered remarkably quickly. “It wasn't a threat.”

Grey studied him. Then stepped closer until there was barely any space left between them.

“So ye'd use me mouth?”

Cassian’s attention dropped to his lips. It did not immediately return to Grey’s eyes. Grey noticed. Vyreth definitely noticed.

Cassian swallowed. “Yes.”

Grey's grin widened. Cassian now seemed considerably less interested in extracting information about Franzi than he had been thirty seconds earlier.

“And,” Cassian continued, clearing his throat, “Vyreth would be using your ass.”

Grey looked over his shoulder. Vyreth raised an eyebrow.

“Lube?” Grey asked seriously.

Vyreth reached into his clothing and produced a small bottle.

Silence.

Grey stared at it.

Cassian stared at it.

Then both looked at Vyreth.

“You just carry that around?” Cassian asked.

Vyreth’s expression remained perfectly composed. “I believe in preparedness.”

Grey laughed. “I'm beginning to like ye.”

“I was hoping you might.”

That changed the atmosphere considerably. Grey looked from one man to the other, then leaned towards Cassian and inhaled deliberately. Cassian froze. Grey's nostrils flared.

His grin returned. “So Vyreth is willing to share ye?”

Cassian opened his mouth.

Vyreth answered first. “We're willing to share each other with you, yes, tomcat.”

Grey's tail went rigid. “Oh.”

Vyreth's smile deepened. “Problem?”

“Nay.”

“Good.”

Cassian reached for the fastening of Grey’s shirt. Grey caught his wrist. For approximately two seconds, the supposed resistance looked convincing. Cassian raised an eyebrow.Grey looked at his hand around Cassian’s wrist, then at Cassian.

“Ye're very forward.”

“You can stop me.”

Grey considered that.

Then deliberately released him. “Didn't say I wanted to.”

Cassian opened the first fastening. Vyreth stepped in behind Grey. The Cat Changeling’s ears twitched as the Demon’s hands settled at his waist.

“Still time to answer the questions,” Cassian murmured.

Grey laughed softly. “Ye're going to have to do considerably better than that.”

Cassian opened another fastening. Grey's tail curled around Vyreth’s leg. Vyreth looked down.

Then back at Grey. “Interesting.”

“Don't get ideas.”

“Too late.”

By the time Cassian pushed Grey’s shirt from his shoulders, the fiction that Grey was being subjected to anything had become impossible to maintain.

Cassian stopped. His gaze travelled downward. Then further. His eyebrows rose.

Vyreth looked over Grey’s shoulder. “Impressive.”

Grey preened.

Cassian stared at him. “Didn't you have sex with Her Imperial Highness all night long?”

“Aye.”

“And you are still …”

“Aye.”

“This morning as well?”

“Aye.”

Cassian stared.

Grey shrugged. “I like sex.”

Vyreth’s laugh was deep enough that Grey felt it against his back.

“That,” Vyreth said, “is becoming apparent.”

Grey turned his head. “Still want me to answer yer questions?”

Cassian’s attention was very clearly elsewhere now. “What questions?”

Grey laughed. “Thought so.”

What followed was considerably less an interrogation than three men enthusiastically discovering that the proposed alternative to answering questions suited all of them rather well.

The upper hallway was, admittedly, not an ideal location. That did not stop them. It merely made discretion advisable. Some time later, Vyreth’s low voice cut through a particularly dangerous loss of restraint.

“Quiet.”

Grey bit back a laugh. Cassian looked thoroughly unconcerned.

Vyreth glared at both of them. “We are in the upper hallway.”

“That was yer idea,” Grey whispered.

“It was not.”

“Ye brought the lube.”

“I bring lube everywhere.”

“That does not improve your defence,” Cassian murmured.

Grey’s shoulders shook.

“Quiet,” Vyreth repeated.

His hand slid soothingly along Grey’s tail, stroking the sensitive fur in a way that immediately destroyed Grey’s ability to make any sarcastic reply.

Grey’s eyes closed. “That's cheating.”

“Effective, though.”

“Bastard.”

Cassian muffled another laugh. Then all three men went still. Something had changed. It was subtle at first. Warmth. A pressure against the senses that had nothing to do with the three bodies crowded together in the hallway. Grey recognised it first. His ears turned. His pupils widened. Vyreth’s hand stopped halfway down his cock. Cassian inhaled sharply. Succubus allure. Grey knew that particular allure well, he’d rubbed himself against it all night and this morning. It was amazing! Very slowly, he opened his eyes. Neither of the other men looked towards the far end of the corridor. Neither did Grey! Nobody moved. Cassian’s mouth twitched.

Vyreth resumed stroking Grey’s tail with exaggerated casualness. Grey bit the inside of his cheek. They were being watched. And judging by the sudden increase in the allure washing over them, their observer was enjoying herself immensely. Vyreth rocked into him harder and Grey didn’t hold back his moan of pleasure at being filled so completely.

Cassian whispered, “Do we acknowledge her?”

“Nay.”

Vyreth’s deep voice dropped even lower. “Absolutely not!”

Grey's grin became wicked.“Agreed.”

Nobody looked. Nobody said Your Imperial Highness. And nobody made even the slightest attempt to restore their clothing. The allure intensified. Grey’s ears twitched.

Cassian finally had to turn his face into Grey’s shoulder to hide his laughter.

Vyreth muttered, “Do not ruin this.”

“I’m trying.”

Grey's tail curled around Vyreth again. “She likes watching.”

Cassian whispered, “How do you know?”

Grey looked at him. Cassian realised. His eyes widened. “You could have answered my questions the entire time.”

“Aye.”

“You bastard!”

Grey smiled. “Ye should have asked more nicely.” Which was the last thing he said because Cassian found an entirely different use for his mouth. Grey decided he liked the way Cassian tasted and as he was his first Dragonkin, he would savour it. In fact being used by the two footmen was probably going to be one of his favourite responsibilites in his new job.

Erica closed the door behind her.

Simon looked up immediately.

Cassandra lowered the book in her lap.

Elizabeth glanced over from the tea service.

“Well?” Simon asked.

Erica smiled.

“I investigated Velkris.”

Cassandra’s book closed completely.

Simon sat forward.

Elizabeth stared at her.

“You did what?”

“I investigated Velkris.”

“Yes, I heard you. Why did you investigate him?”

Erica looked genuinely surprised by the question.

“He’s a Nocturna.”

Three faces stared back at her.

Erica waited.

Elizabeth made a small gesture with one hand. “And?”

“They obsess.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows rose.

Simon’s mouth twitched.

Erica crossed the room and sat down.

“I needed to find out what he obsesses about.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Erica—”

“If there is another woman, Franzi would be devastated.”

That stopped her.

Erica’s expression had lost its humour.

“She’s already slept with him. She likes him. More than she’s admitting, I think. And Nocturna don’t do anything by halves. If Velkris has spent the last hundred years obsessing over some mysterious woman somewhere and Franzi finds out after she’s fallen completely in love with him?”

She shook her head.

“No. I needed to know.”

Cassandra nodded slowly. “I can actually see the logic.”

“Thank you.”

“I did not say I approve.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

Simon leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“What did you find out?”

Erica’s smile returned.

“Almost nothing.”

Simon frowned.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“It was infuriating.”

She reached for the teapot.

“The other Commanders and people who have served under him seem to assume he must have casual flings.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows rose.

“Assume?”

“Exactly. Everyone assumes. Nobody knows.”

Erica poured herself tea.

“He has never publicly acknowledged a serious relationship. Nobody could give me the name of a lover. Nobody remembered him courting anyone. Nobody knew of a mistress, a long-term companion, secret visits, gifts, letters, anything.”

Simon’s expression sharpened.

“And casual partners?”

“Rumours.”

“Names?”

“None I could verify.”

“Locations?”

“Nothing consistent.”

Simon nodded slowly.

Elizabeth looked between them.

“You two are enjoying this far too much.”

Neither denied it.

Erica took a sip.

“I was beginning to think I’d reached a dead end.”

“But?” Cassandra asked.

Erica smiled.

“But then I remembered the Gilded Garden.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes.

“Of course you did.”

“I had already been there.”

“Yes, Erica. I am unfortunately aware of that.”

Erica continued.

“While I was there, I met one of the courtesans.”

Simon’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“She remembered Velkris?”

“Not personally. But she remembered the story.”

Now Cassandra was paying very close attention.

“What story?”

“Apparently, about ten years ago, Velkris paid for the exclusive company of one of their more experienced courtesans for an entire week.”

Silence.

Simon’s expression changed.

Cassandra slowly lowered her cup.

Elizabeth sighed.

Erica nodded.

“Exactly.”

Simon spoke first.

“A week?”

“A full week.”

“And this was ten years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Before Franzi?”

“Long before Franzi.”

Cassandra leaned forward.

“Did anyone know why?”

“No.”

Erica smiled.

“So naturally, I requested an interview.”

Elizabeth stared at her.

“You requested an interview with a courtesan Velkris hired ten years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Erica.”

“What?”

Simon’s mouth twitched.

Elizabeth pointed at him. “Do not encourage her.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say it shows initiative.”

“Simon.”

Cassandra was grinning.

“Was the interview granted?”

Erica turned to her.

“It was.”

“And?”

Erica paused.

Just long enough to make all three of them wait.

Then she smiled.

“He didn’t sleep with her.”

Cassandra blinked.

Simon frowned.

Elizabeth looked confused.

“He paid one of the most experienced courtesans at the Gilded Garden for an entire week and didn’t sleep with her?” Cassandra asked.

“Not once.”

“What did he do for a week?” Simon asked.

“He learned.”

Silence.

Simon’s brow furrowed.

“Learned what?”

Erica’s smile became positively delighted.

“All the ways of pleasuring a woman.”

Cassandra’s mouth fell open.

Elizabeth stared.

Even Simon appeared to have temporarily run out of questions.

Erica took another sip of tea.

“The courtesan said he was very serious about it. Asked questions. Wanted explanations. Wanted to understand what women liked, what they didn’t, how to pay attention to a partner’s reactions, how different women might want different things.”

Cassandra was staring at her.

“For a week?”

“For a week.”

Simon slowly leaned back.

“Why?”

“That was my next question.”

Elizabeth muttered, “Naturally.”

Erica ignored her.

“She asked him the same thing.”

“And?” Cassandra demanded.

“He told her he wanted to know what he was doing…”

Erica paused.

“…should he ever find a woman he was interested in.”

Nobody spoke.

Cassandra’s expression softened first.

“Oh.”

Elizabeth’s followed.

Even Simon looked faintly impressed.

Erica nodded emphatically.

“Exactly.”

Cassandra sat back.

“Ten years ago?”

“Ten years.”

“And there was no woman?”

“None.”

“He wasn’t learning for someone?”

“No.”

“He just thought that if he ever met someone…”

“He wanted to be prepared.”

Cassandra put a hand over her heart.

“Oh, that is annoyingly sweet.”

“I know.”

Elizabeth looked at both of them.

“You are talking about a Nocturna Commander arranging a week of professional instruction in preparation for a hypothetical future lover.”

“Yes,” Erica said.

“And you find that romantic?”

“Very.”

Cassandra nodded. “Extremely.”

Elizabeth looked at Simon.

He shrugged.

“I find it strategically sound.”

“Of course you do.”

Erica put her cup down.

“But here’s the important part.”

Simon looked at her.

“There is no mysterious woman.”

“You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be without asking Velkris himself. And that rather defeats the purpose of investigating someone.”

Cassandra snorted.

“No long-term lover. No woman he keeps returning to. No great lost romance. No secret obsession I could find.”

Elizabeth studied her.

“And that was what you were worried about?”

Erica’s amusement disappeared.

“Franzi’s already slept with him. She likes him. More than she’s admitting, I think.”

Cassandra nodded slowly.

“And he’s Nocturna,” Erica continued. “They obsess. That isn’t gossip; it’s part of what they are. So before she gets any deeper, I wanted to know what Velkris Nightgloom has been obsessing over all these years.”

Simon’s expression sharpened.

“And?”

Erica smiled.

“Apparently nothing.”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow.

“Until now?”

A brief silence.

Erica’s smile grew.

“That would be my conclusion.”

Elizabeth sighed.

“Poor Franzi.”

“Poor Franzi?” Cassandra stared at her. “The man spent an entire week ten years ago learning how to pleasure a woman just in case he someday found one he actually wanted.”

“Precisely.”

Erica started laughing.

Simon looked between them.

“I’m missing something.”

Elizabeth reached for her tea.

“No, Simon. You really aren’t.”

Cassandra leaned back, grinning.

“Ten years of preparation, and then he met Franzi.”

Erica lifted her cup.

“No wonder the poor bastard is obsessed.”

Michael stopped in the doorway.

For several seconds, he simply stared at Erica.

Then his gaze moved to Cassandra.

Then back to Erica.

“Marquis Bowmont is hareem bonded to Franziska?”

Erica smiled.

That should probably have warned him.

“Yes.”

Michael’s wings shifted behind him.

“How?”

Cassandra took a slow sip of her tea, already looking far too entertained.

Erica patted the empty seat opposite them. “You might want to sit down.”

“I am perfectly capable of standing.”

“Suit yourself.”

Michael folded his arms. “How did Franziska even meet him?”

“At the Garden.”

His expression remained blank for perhaps half a heartbeat.

“The Garden?”

“The Gilded Garden.”

Still nothing.

Erica grinned. “The very luxurious pleasure house in Hellrath.”

Michael’s arms unfolded.

“She met Marquis Bowmont in a pleasure house?”

“I met him too,” Erica pointed out. “It was only Franzi and me.”

“That does not improve this story.”

“I think it does.”

Cassandra hid a smile behind her cup.

Michael looked between them. “What were the two of you doing in a pleasure house?”

“Having an evening out.”

“In a pleasure house.”

“Yes.”

“Franziska.”

“Yes.”

“My mate.”

Erica’s grin became positively wicked. “Still yes.”

Michael closed his eyes briefly.

“Continue.”

“Well, we weren’t exactly using our real names.”

His eyes opened again.

“Of course you weren’t.”

“I was Elise. Franzi was LouLou.”

“LouLou.”

Erica nodded solemnly. “Very convincing.”

Cassandra made a small choking sound into her tea.

Michael ignored her. “And Bowmont?”

“Was absolutely determined to have LouLou.”

Michael went very still.

Erica’s eyes sparkled.

“Careful,” Cassandra murmured. “I think you’ve broken him already.”

“I am not broken.”

“Good.” Erica settled more comfortably into the sofa. “Because we haven’t reached the interesting part.”

“There is a more interesting part than some Marquis attempting to buy sex with my mate?”

“Oh yes.”

Michael stared at her.

“Alec thought she worked at the Garden,” Erica explained. “And once he decided he wanted her, he was very, very determined.”

“How determined?”

“He offered one hundred thousand gold for five hours.”

Silence.

Michael blinked.

“One hundred thousand.”

“Yes.”

“For five hours.”

“Yes.”

“With Franziska.”

“LouLou,” Erica corrected.

Michael’s expression suggested that distinction was not currently helping.

Cassandra lowered her cup. “I would personally recommend not dwelling on the arithmetic.”

“I was not doing arithmetic.”

“You were.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

Michael glared at her.

Erica continued before he could respond. “He also offered to set her up properly.”

Michael turned back to her.

“What does properly mean?”

“A house. Servants. Money. Everything she needed.”

“He had known her for how long?”

“A few hours.”

Michael stared.

Erica shrugged. “He was smitten.”

“He was insane.”

“Franzi thought it was rather sweet.”

Michael’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Cassandra finally laughed.

Michael turned on her. “What?”

“Oh, it gets worse.”

His eyes narrowed. “How could it possibly get worse?”

“The mansion.”

Erica brightened. “Oh yes, the mansion.”

Michael looked from one woman to the other.

“What mansion?”

“The one Alec actually bought for her,” Cassandra explained.

“He bought it?”

“Yes.”

Michael stared at Erica. “After a few hours?”

Erica nodded.

“He bought a mansion for a woman called LouLou whom he believed to be a courtesan?”

“Yes.”

“In Hellrath?”

“Yes.”

Cassandra smiled into her tea. “Pannioc Hill.”

Michael slowly turned his head towards her.

“Pannioc Hill.”

“One of the most exclusive districts in the capital.”

His wings twitched.

“How large?”

“Twenty rooms.”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

“Ballroom,” Cassandra continued pleasantly.

His eyes narrowed.

“Stables.”

“Of course.”

“And everything expected of a residence in that district.”

Michael stared at the fireplace.

Erica was beginning to look delighted by the direction his thoughts had taken.

“But that isn’t the part Franzi really liked,” Cassandra added.

Michael looked at her suspiciously.

“What part did she really like?”

“The laboratory.”

He frowned.

“What laboratory?”

“An artificer’s laboratory.”

That silenced him.

Cassandra leaned back.

“Alec didn’t simply buy LouLou a mansion and assume expensive furnishings would be sufficient. After she disappeared, he made enquiries about her. Quietly.”

Michael’s expression changed.

“He researched her?”

“As much as he could,” Erica confirmed.

Cassandra nodded. “Enough to discover that LouLou was an artificer.”

Michael looked between them.

“And he had a laboratory installed for her?”

“Yes.”

“Before he even knew if she was coming back?”

“Yes.”

Erica’s voice softened slightly. “He wanted to set her up with everything she might need.”

Michael was silent for several moments.

Then he muttered, “That is actually rather thoughtful.”

Erica beamed.

Cassandra’s eyebrow rose.

Michael immediately frowned. “That was not an endorsement.”

“Of course not.”

“He still attempted to purchase five hours with her for an obscene amount of money.”

“Also true.”

“And bought her a twenty-room mansion after knowing her for mere hours.”

“Yes.”

“With a ballroom.”

“Yes.”

“Stables.”

“Yes.”

“And an artificer laboratory specifically because he went out and found out what she was interested in.”

Cassandra smiled.

“Yes.”

Michael stared at them both.

“And she finds this romantic?”

Erica’s lips twitched. “Very.”

Something in Michael’s expression became deeply offended.

Cassandra saw it first.

“Oh no.”

Erica looked at her. “What?”

Cassandra started laughing.

Michael pointed at her. “Do not.”

That immediately made Erica suspicious.

“What?”

Michael looked between them in genuine disbelief.

“How is it all right when he does it?”

Erica blinked.

Michael was gathering momentum now.

“He meets her in a pleasure house, offers enough gold to finance a minor military campaign, decides within hours that he wants to provide for her indefinitely, buys her a mansion in one of the most expensive districts in Hellrath and has an artificer laboratory installed because he has apparently conducted an investigation into the interests of a woman whose real name he does not even know.”

Neither woman interrupted.

“And she thinks it is romantic.”

Erica bit her lip.

Michael spread his hands.

“But I cannot even fly her home without her arguing every step of the way?”

Cassandra broke first.

Her laughter rang through the room.

Erica followed a second later.

Michael looked personally betrayed.

“It is not funny.”

That made it worse.

“She is exhausted,” he continued over their laughter. “I have wings. We are travelling in the same direction. Carrying her is objectively the most sensible solution.”

Erica wiped at her eyes. “And what does Franzi say?”

“No.”

Cassandra laughed harder.

Michael glared at her.

“And then what do you do?” Erica asked.

“I explain why her objection is irrational.”

Both women stopped laughing.

They looked at him.

Michael frowned.

“What?”

Erica glanced at Cassandra.

Cassandra looked at Erica.

Then both women began laughing again.

Michael’s wings flared.

“What?”

Erica struggled upright. “Michael, Alec offered.”

“So do I!”

“No.” Cassandra was still laughing. “You offer, she refuses, and then you begin presenting arguments.”

“Because she is tired!”

“That is not helping your case.”

Michael stared at her.

Cassandra managed to compose herself enough to set her cup down.

“Alec offered LouLou a fortune.”

Michael folded his arms.

“She could refuse.”

He said nothing.

“He offered her a house.”

Silence.

“She could refuse.”

Michael’s expression became increasingly sour.

“He offered servants, money, security and apparently every luxury he could think of.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

“And when she disappeared,” Cassandra continued, “he did not find her, throw her over his shoulder and install her in the mansion for her own good.”

Michael glared.

Erica made a strangled noise.

Cassandra smiled sweetly. “He waited.”

“That is entirely different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Michael opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it.

Erica patted his arm.

“Oh, Michael.”

“I dislike that tone.”

“Alec made her feel wanted without making her feel managed.”

Michael’s face went completely still.

Cassandra nodded. “There you are.”

Michael looked towards the ceiling as though appealing to the Halls of Light for divine assistance.

“So the Marquis can essentially say, ‘Here is a fortune, a mansion, servants, stables, a ballroom and a laboratory I had installed because I researched your interests,’ and she swoons.”

Erica smiled.

“But if I say, ‘You are exhausted, let me carry you home,’ I am overbearing.”

“Yes.”

Michael stared at her.

“That is ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

“Completely inconsistent.”

“Almost certainly.”

“And unfair.”

Erica considered.

“Maybe.”

Michael looked slightly vindicated.

Then Cassandra ruined it.

“But Alec apparently understood her faster.”

Michael turned towards her very slowly.

Cassandra smiled.

“He researched his target.”

“I am an Angel General.”

“Yes.”

“I command armies.”

“Yes.”

“I have planned campaigns spanning entire realms.”

“Yes.”

“I do not require romantic strategy lessons from Marquis Bowmont.”

Erica grinned. “You might.”

Michael looked horrified.

Cassandra picked up her tea again.

“You could always ask him how he did it.”

“No.”

“He seems approachable.”

“No.”

“He might have notes.”

“Cassandra.”

“Perhaps a diagram.”

“Cassandra.”

“Step one: identify interests. Step two: acquire mansion. Step three: install specialised workshop.”

Erica was laughing helplessly again.

Michael stood.

“I am leaving.”

Cassandra lifted her cup in farewell.

“Would you like us to tell Alec you want a consultation?”

Michael reached the doorway, stopped and looked back at them.

“No.”

Then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“Although…”

Erica went utterly still.

Cassandra’s smile became predatory.

Michael pointed at both of them.

“Not one word.”

He left.

There was a brief silence.

Erica turned to Cassandra.

“How long before he asks Alec?”

“Three days.”

“Two.”

“Five gold?”

“Done.”

Korvale was dead.

Mar could still feel it.

Not the Demon himself. That presence was gone, extinguished so thoroughly that even the land seemed to have exhaled after centuries of holding its breath.

The absence was what remained.

For a long while, Mar stood silently beneath Ebon’s trees.

His brother had brought him here after the killing, away from the city, away from the mortals who had stared at him as though an ancient nightmare had climbed out of their history books.

The forest was quiet around them.

Not empty.

Ebon was never empty.

Leaves whispered above their heads. Roots shifted beneath the soil. Somewhere in the distance, water ran over stone.

Mar closed his eyes.

“Better?”

He opened them again.

Ebon stood a few paces away, leaning against an ancient tree with his arms folded across his chest.

Mar considered the question.

“Yes.”

Ebon waited.

Mar sighed.

“No.”

“That sounds more truthful.”

“I am free.”

“Yes.”

“Korvale is dead.”

“Yes.”

“I have wanted him dead for a very long time.”

“I know.”

Mar looked down at his hands.

They were still thinner than they should have been. His power had begun returning almost immediately once the draining stopped, but a century could not be erased in an afternoon.

“She asked for nothing.”

Ebon went very still.

Mar looked at him.

“Nothing.”

“I heard you.”

“I do not think you understand.”

One of Ebon’s eyebrows rose.

Mar almost laughed.

Of all the beings in existence, Ebon probably understood better than anyone.

“She found me chained beneath a mortal’s estate,” Mar continued. “Drained. Weakened. Barely capable of manifesting properly.”

Ebon’s expression darkened.

“And she broke the chains.”

“Yes.”

“She does that.”

Mar frowned. “You say that as though it is an irritating habit.”

“It is.”

That earned him a stare.

Ebon pushed away from the tree.

“She sees something trapped, wounded or mistreated and immediately decides it is now her problem.”

Mar’s lips twitched.

“That sounds familiar.”

“It should.”

There was a pause.

Mar looked around at the forest.

“You were dying.”

“Yes.”

“And she saved you.”

“Yes.”

“What did she demand?”

Ebon’s expression became suspiciously neutral.

Mar narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Mar stared at him.

Ebon shrugged.

“She demanded nothing.”

“Not land?”

“No.”

“Service?”

“No.”

“Protection?”

“No.”

“An oath?”

“No.”

Mar folded his arms.

“That is foolish.”

“Yes.”

“You agree?”

“Completely.”

Mar blinked.

Ebon smiled.

“That is part of the problem.”

Mar looked away again.

The memory would not leave him.

Franziska standing before him.

Small.

Mortal-looking.

Absurdly young compared with either of them.

Yet she had looked at a being who could have devastated kingdoms once freed and calmly negotiated for everyone else.

Not herself.

Everyone else.

“Do not destroy the Demon Empire.”

“Do not hurt the farmers.”

“The merchants.”

“The children.”

Mar shook his head.

“She should have asked for something.”

Ebon laughed quietly.

“What?”

“A boon. My allegiance. My power. A favour. Protection. Anything.”

“She did.”

Mar frowned.

“She asked you not to slaughter innocent people.”

“That was not for her.”

“No.”

“That is precisely my point.”

Ebon’s smile widened.

“Oh.”

Mar turned towards him.

“Oh what?”

“You are in trouble.”

Mar stared.

“I have been imprisoned and drained for over a century. I am already aware that I have experienced some difficulties.”

“Not that kind.”

“Ebon.”

His brother’s grin became unbearable.

“You like her.”

Mar scoffed.

“She rescued me.”

“That was not a denial.”

“I met her today.”

“Yes.”

“She threatened to leave me chained underground if I refused her terms.”

Ebon’s grin widened further.

“Yes.”

Mar paused.

“That was rather impressive.”

Ebon laughed.

Mar glared at him.

“She was serious.”

“I know.”

“She would actually have left me there.”

“Yes.”

“For the sake of people she has never met.”

“Yes.”

Mar looked towards the trees.

“That is insane.”

“Yes.”

“Stop agreeing with me.”

“No.”

A branch overhead shook with Ebon’s amusement.

Mar sighed.

Then his expression hardened.

“But she is a Roseheart.”

The forest stilled.

“Our enemy.”

Ebon looked at him.

“I know.”

Mar frowned.

Ebon’s voice turned completely dry.

“Do you not think that was the first thing I thought?”

Mar stared at him.

Ebon gestured vaguely at himself, then at the forest surrounding them.

“I woke to find a Roseheart standing in my heartwood, pouring her power into me while I was dying. Believe me, brother, the family name did not escape my attention.”

“And yet you trusted her?”

“No.”

The answer came immediately.

Mar’s brows rose.

“I watched her.”

Ebon’s expression had lost its humour now.

“I waited for the demand. The claim. The bargain hidden behind the kindness.”

“And?”

“It never came.”

Mar said nothing.

“She could have taken what remained of me,” Ebon continued. “She could have taken my power, my land, my loyalty. A Roseheart standing over a dying enemy with every advantage.”

His gaze moved towards the deeper forest.

“She healed me instead.”

Mar’s jaw tightened.

“That does not erase what their House did.”

“No.”

“You remember.”

“Every death.”

There was no hesitation in Ebon’s answer.

Mar studied him.

“And you still chose her.”

Ebon looked back at him.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she is not her ancestors.”

The words were simple.

Mar looked away.

Ebon continued more quietly.

“And because if I judged every child by every crime committed by their bloodline, neither of us would have many people left in this world worth speaking to.”

Mar gave him a dark look.

“That sounded suspiciously reasonable.”

“I regret it already.”

Mar huffed a laugh.

Then something occurred to him.

“Why did she trust me?”

Ebon’s expression changed.

“She did not.”

Mar looked back sharply.

“She freed me.”

“She made terms with you.”

“That still required trust.”

“No. It required judgement.”

Ebon walked closer.

“She believed you when you promised not to destroy the Three Empires.”

“She knew I was telling the truth?”

“She is very difficult to deceive.”

Mar considered that.

“Useful.”

“Extremely.”

“And dangerous.”

“Very.”

There was something in Ebon’s voice.

Mar studied him.

“You are proud of her.”

Ebon did not answer immediately.

The forest did.

Leaves stirred despite the lack of wind. Flowers opened among the roots. Somewhere nearby, something enormous moved through the undergrowth and then settled again.

Mar smiled.

“Oh.”

“Do not.”

“You love her.”

Ebon gave him a flat look.

Mar’s smile widened.

“You do.”

“She is my Sacrifice.”

“That was not what I said.”

Ebon’s eyes narrowed.

Mar laughed.

It felt strange.

His body was still weak. His magic was still recovering. For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, laughter did not hurt.

“She is strange,” Mar murmured.

“You have no idea.”

“She argued with me.”

“That will continue.”

“She argued with the Demon Emperor.”

“That will also continue.”

“She told him he could not kill Korvale because Korvale was mine.”

Ebon’s mouth twitched.

Mar looked at him.

“She protected my revenge.”

“Yes.”

The amusement faded.

Neither of them spoke for several breaths.

“She understood,” Mar said quietly.

Ebon nodded.

“She had every reason to hate what Korvale had done. Especially after learning what happened to Cassandra.”

“Yes.”

“And yet she still stopped her own Emperor from taking him from me.”

“Yes.”

Mar looked down again.

“No one has done that for me in a very long time.”

Ebon’s voice softened.

“I know.”

Mar swallowed.

A century beneath Korvale.

A century of being treated as a source of power.

A thing.

A resource.

A god when useful.

A prisoner when inconvenient.

Then Franziska Roseheart had walked in, looked at his chains, become furious on his behalf and simply decided they were coming off.

No worship.

No bargaining for miracles.

No kneeling.

No price.

“She did not even seem impressed by what I am.”

Ebon snorted.

“She probably was.”

“She hid it well.”

“She does that badly.”

Mar smiled.

“She called me a god.”

“She calls me a forest.”

“You are a forest.”

“I am also standing here.”

“You are a very argumentative forest.”

Ebon gave him a look.

Mar’s smile grew.

Then he hesitated.

“What is she to you?”

The humour vanished.

Ebon became very still.

“My Sacrifice.”

“You already said that.”

“Yes.”

Mar waited.

Ebon looked into the depths of his forest.

“She came to me when I was dying.”

Mar said nothing.

“She could have taken what remained of my power. Others would have.”

“Yes.”

“She could have claimed my lands.”

“Yes.”

“She could have walked away.”

Mar nodded.

“She did none of those things.”

Ebon’s gaze returned to him.

“She stayed.”

Something inside Mar shifted.

It was a small thing.

Dangerously small.

“And now?”

“Now she argues with me about whether I am allowed to eat trespassers.”

Mar blinked.

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“She says eating people creates paperwork.”

For one heartbeat Mar simply stared at him.

Then he laughed.

The sound rolled through the clearing.

Ebon joined him.

It took a while before either of them stopped.

Mar wiped at his eyes.

“I think I like her.”

“I know.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I am a forest.”

“That explains nothing.”

“It explains most things.”

Mar shook his head.

Then his expression sobered.

“She truly asked for nothing?”

Ebon looked at him.

“No.”

Mar waited.

Ebon smiled slowly.

“She will eventually ask you to help someone.”

“That is different.”

“She will insist it is.”

“And if I say no?”

“She will argue.”

Mar laughed softly.

“And if I still say no?”

“She will probably ask why.”

“And if my reason is good?”

“Then she will accept it.”

Mar stared at him.

“That simple?”

“No.”

Ebon’s smile became wicked.

“She will make your existence extraordinarily complicated.”

Mar looked towards the place where Franziska had disappeared earlier.

He thought about the tiny Succubus standing beneath Korvale.

About her fury.

Her ridiculous courage.

Her refusal to demand anything for herself.

Her absolute certainty that a Titan deserved the right to kill his own tormentor.

Then he smiled.

“I think I can live with complicated.”

Ebon groaned.

Mar turned back to him.

“What?”

His brother rubbed both hands over his face.

“I knew this would happen.”

“What would?”

Ebon lowered his hands.

“You met her.”

“Yes?”

“And now you are looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like everyone else.”

Mar frowned.

“Everyone else?”

Ebon stared at him for a long moment.

Then sighed.

“Oh, brother.”

Mar’s eyes narrowed.

“How many?”

Ebon began walking away.

“Ebon.”

The forest shifted around him.

“Ebon!”

His brother’s laughter followed him between the trees.

Mar stared after him.

“How many?”

No answer came.

Only laughter.

Mar folded his arms.

Then, despite himself, smiled.

This Franziska Roseheart was going to be interesting.

Marquess Valerius Lucien Vellanor did not look up from the ledger on his desk when his son entered the Solar.

“Good morning.”

“Father.”

Lucien crossed the room with his usual measured composure and took the chair opposite him.

Valerius turned a page.

Lucien waited.

Another page.

He should have known better.

“I attended the Blackthorn ball last night.”

“I am aware.”

Of course he was.

Lucien rested one ankle over his opposite knee with deliberate casualness.

“The Sceletar Royals put considerable effort into it.”

“So I understand.”

“The orchestra was good.”

“How gratifying.”

“The wine was passable.”

Valerius finally looked up.

Lucien met his father’s gaze.

Silence.

His father returned to the ledger.

Lucien almost sighed.

“I met Princess Franziska Roseheart.”

The ledger stopped moving.

There it was.

Lucien looked towards the window as though the weather had suddenly become fascinating.

His father slowly lowered the page.

“You met her?”

“Yes.”

“Last night?”

“Yes.”

“At the ball the Sceletar Royal Family held in her honour?”

“That would be the one.”

Valerius leaned back in his chair.

Lucien immediately disliked the faint change in his expression.

Interest.

Far too much interest.

“So.”

Lucien waited.

His father waited.

Lucien refused to fill the silence.

Valerius’s lips curved slightly.

“You were there with your two friends, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“The Blackthorn heir, naturally. It was his family’s event?”

“Greyscale.”

“Lord Greyscale Blackthorn. Yes.”

Valerius tapped one finger against the arm of his chair.

“And the other one?”

Lucien knew exactly where this was going.

“Father.”

“The Earl of Night’s son. What is his name?”

“You know his name.”

“I know a great many names.”

Lucien stared at him.

Valerius looked entirely innocent.

“The one you have complained about?”

“I do not complain.”

“Repeatedly?”

“I make observations.”

“About how he always gets the women?”

Lucien’s jaw tightened.

His father’s eyes gleamed.

“Alistair Dawnhold.”

“Ah, yes. Lord Alistair.”

Valerius settled more comfortably into his chair.

“The handsome one?”

Lucien stared.

“He thinks so.”

“The charming one?”

“He thinks that too.”

“The one who apparently considers every ballroom his personal hunting preserve?”

“That description is somewhat more accurate.”

“And you have complained for years that women notice him first?”

“I have never used those words.”

“Not those exact words.”

Lucien looked towards the door.

Leaving was becoming increasingly attractive.

Valerius smiled.

“So the three of you approached Princess Franziska?”

“Alistair approached Princess Franziska.”

“You and Greyscale merely happened to be travelling in his wake?”

“We were attempting to prevent an international incident.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Barely.”

Valerius chuckled.

Lucien regretted mentioning any of this.

His father had been insufferable about Franziska Roseheart since her introduction ball.

Not openly, naturally.

Marquess Vellanor did very little openly.

But Lucien had noticed.

Everyone who knew Valerius well enough had noticed.

The sudden increase in reports from his agents concerning House Roseheart. The discreet enquiries about her new March. The messages arriving through the mirror network whenever she crossed another political boundary, attended another major event or somehow managed to leave another portion of the aristocracy talking about her.

Valerius always seemed to know where she had been, whom she had met and what she had done there.

Officially, it was intelligence gathering.

Lucien had privately begun to suspect his father was simply obsessed.

“So?” Valerius prompted.

“So what?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

His father’s eyebrow rose.

“We spoke.”

“Marvelous. I had assumed you communicated through interpretive dance.”

Lucien gave him a flat look.

Valerius waved one hand.

“Continue.”

“Alistair introduced himself.”

“I imagine he did.”

“At length.”

“Naturally.”

“He asked her to dance.”

Valerius’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.

“And?”

Lucien shrugged.

“She declined.”

His father’s smile appeared.

It was slow.

Very satisfied.

Lucien narrowed his eyes.

“You appear unusually pleased by that.”

“I have never met the young man.”

“You have.”

“Have I?”

“Twice.”

“Then clearly he made a tremendous impression.”

Lucien snorted.

Valerius steepled his fingers.

“So Dawnhold failed?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

Lucien should stop.

He knew he should stop.

Instead he heard himself say, “She asked me whether I danced.”

Valerius became completely still.

Lucien cursed internally.

“She asked you?”

“Yes.”

“Princess Franziska Roseheart?”

“Yes, Father.”

“The newest Imperial Princess?”

“Yes.”

“The woman half the nobility has spent the last several weeks trying to arrange introductions to?”

“I am aware of who she is.”

“Apparently so.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed.

Valerius leaned forwards.

“What did you say?”

“Does it matter?”

“Immensely.”

Lucien rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“I told her I only danced when the company was remarkable.”

There was silence.

Then Valerius sat back.

“Oh, very good.”

Lucien stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Very good.”

“I was not seeking your approval.”

“You have it nonetheless.”

“Thank you. I shall treasure it.”

Valerius ignored the sarcasm.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did she dance with you?”

“Yes.”

The satisfaction disappeared from his father’s face.

Not jealousy exactly.

Something stranger.

Assessment.

Lucien recognised it immediately.

His father was recalculating.

“How long?”

“One dance.”

“Only one?”

Lucien hesitated.

Valerius caught it instantly.

“Lucien?”

“We spoke afterwards.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

“How long is a while?”

“I did not time it.”

“You time negotiations.”

“This was not a negotiation.”

“Exactly.”

Lucien sighed.

His father was enjoying this far too much.

Valerius studied him.

“And?”

“There is no and.”

“Did you like her?”

Lucien answered too quickly.

“She is interesting.”

Valerius smiled.

Damn.

“Interesting?”

“Yes.”

“A word men have been using for centuries when they do not wish to admit that a woman has disrupted their ability to think.”

“My ability to think remains intact.”

“Of course.”

“She is intelligent.”

“I know.”

Lucien paused.

That answer had come rather quickly.

“She is funny.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“She is not remotely what I expected.”

“I know.”

Lucien stared at him.

Valerius realised his error perhaps half a second too late.

Lucien slowly lowered his foot to the floor.

“How exactly do you know?”

His father reached for the ledger.

Too late.

“No.”

Valerius glanced up.

Lucien pointed at him.

“You are not hiding behind accounting.”

“I have work.”

“You have been obsessed with her since her introduction ball.”

“Obsessed is an unnecessarily emotional word.”

“It is also accurate.”

“I have taken an interest.”

“You have spies following half the Empire.”

“That is called intelligence gathering.”

“And every time one of them learns something about Princess Franziska, somehow the report reaches you through the mirror network before breakfast.”

“Efficiency is not a character flaw.”

“You knew she had left for the Grand Tour before half the court did.”

“That information was politically relevant.”

“You knew what she wore to her introduction ball.”

Valerius went silent.

Lucien stared at him.

“Politically relevant?”

“Potentially.”

Lucien began to laugh.

“This is amusing?”

“Very.”

“I fail to see why.”

“You are interrogating me because I danced with a woman you have been quietly tracking through spies and mirror messages.”

“I have tracked no one.”

“Observed, then.”

“Better.”

“Obsessively observed.”

“Worse.”

Lucien grinned.

Valerius regarded him for several seconds.

Then his eyes narrowed.

“Did she flirt with you?”

Lucien’s amusement vanished.

That was apparently answer enough.

Valerius leaned forwards again.

“She did?”

“I did not say that.”

“You did not have to.”

Lucien cursed his own face.

“She was friendly.”

“Friendly?”

“Yes.”

“Did she look at Dawnhold the way she looked at you?”

Lucien remembered.

Alistair talking.

Franziska politely enduring him.

Then those extraordinary green eyes sliding past Alistair.

Finding Lucien.

Taking him in slowly enough that there had been absolutely no possibility of misunderstanding what she was doing.

His stomach tightened at the memory.

“No.”

Valerius saw everything.

“Oh.”

“Do not.”

“Oh, this is much better than I expected.”

“Father.”

“Dawnhold approached her first?”

“Yes.”

“Made his grand entrance?”

“Yes.”

“Asked for the dance?”

“Yes.”

“And she chose you?”

Lucien shifted.

His father’s smile became positively wicked.

“The quiet banker.”

“I am not merely a banker.”

“You have spent most of your adult life complaining that women choose the peacock.”

“I do not complain.”

“And the most sought-after woman in the Empire looked past him?”

Lucien’s jaw tightened.

Valerius was now openly enjoying himself.

“She looked past Alistair Dawnhold and chose my son.”

“Please stop saying it like that.”

“Why?”

“Because you sound proud.”

“I am proud.”

“That is deeply unsettling.”

“It should not be. I have always considered you the better man.”

Lucien’s irritation faltered.

Valerius’s expression softened for only a moment.

Then, unfortunately, the amusement returned.

“Did you at least remember how to speak?”

Lucien glared.

“I managed.”

“Remarkable.”

“She liked me.”

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Silence.

Lucien closed his eyes.

Wonderful.

When he opened them, his father’s face was completely unreadable.

That was worse than laughter.

Valerius leaned back very slowly.

“She liked you?”

Lucien stood.

“I have work.”

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Lucien.”

“Absolutely not.”

Valerius’s mouth twitched.

“Did she say so?”

Lucien walked towards the door.

“Goodbye, Father.”

“Did she ask to see you again?”

Lucien kept walking.

“Lucien?”

His hand reached the door.

“Did you kiss her?”

Lucien stopped.

Behind him, complete silence.

He should keep walking.

He absolutely should.

Instead, his father’s voice came, suddenly much quieter.

“You did?”

Lucien turned his head.

Valerius was staring at him.

Not laughing now.

Lucien smiled faintly.

“Good morning, Father.”

He opened the door.

“Lucien.”

“Yes?”

Valerius hesitated.

For once, the formidable Marquess Vellanor looked almost uncertain.

“What is she like?”

Lucien paused.

That question was different.

He thought about Franziska laughing at Alistair.

Her open appraisal.

The complete absence of coyness when she wanted something.

The intelligence beneath the humour.

The strange combination of Imperial Princess and woman who looked as though she would happily escape her own reception through a kitchen window if given the opportunity.

Lucien smiled.

“Nothing like what your spies report.”

Valerius’s gaze sharpened.

“No?”

“No.”

Lucien considered it.

“They make her sound impressive.”

“She is.”

“They make her sound powerful.”

“She is.”

“Beautiful?”

Lucien’s smile grew.

“Yes.”

Valerius waited.

Lucien opened the door wider.

“But they miss the best parts.”

He left.

Behind him came his father’s irritated voice.

“Lucien!”

For the first time in years, Lucien walked away from his father’s Solar feeling very, very pleased with himself.

The four councillors were already seated when Damian entered the Imperial Council Chamber.

High Councillor Bael’Zharon rose first.

Matron Councillor Xalithra Veinwrithe followed, then Vorthag Ironscourge and Eluriah Nyxveil.

“Your Imperial Majesty.”

Damian closed the doors behind him.

“Sit.”

One word.

Quiet.

Polite.

All four obeyed.

Damian crossed the chamber without hurry and took his usual place at the head of the table.

For several moments, he said nothing.

That was worse.

Bael’Zharon finally broke the silence.

“Your Majesty, I understand the selection of the Nocturna guards was successful?”

“It was.”

Damian folded his hands upon the table.

Silence returned.

Eluriah watched him carefully.

Xalithra’s posture had become very still.

Vorthag looked merely impatient.

Bael’Zharon inclined his head. “Then what matter requires the Council?”

Damian looked at him.

“My mate.”

The room changed.

Barely.

But it changed.

Xalithra’s fingers tightened once against the arm of her chair.

Eluriah’s shadows drew closer to her body.

Vorthag’s glowing seams dimmed.

Bael’Zharon remained motionless.

Damian’s voice was perfectly calm.

“I recently learned something interesting about Princess Franziska’s visit to this Council before my birthday.”

Nobody spoke.

“That silence suggests you know precisely what I mean.”

Bael’Zharon inclined his head.

“We informed Your Majesty of the planned Portal because it affected palace security.”

“I am aware.”

“And because Her Imperial Highness had not expressly ordered secrecy.”

“I am aware of that too.”

Damian’s gaze travelled slowly across all four councillors.

“I have read the minutes.”

That landed harder.

Xalithra looked away first.

Damian continued.

“She asked you whether you could keep her birthday present for me a secret?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Xalithra answered quietly.

“And you told her that you could?”

“Yes.”

“She therefore believed she had entrusted you with a secret?”

Xalithra hesitated.

“Yes.”

Damian turned towards Bael’Zharon.

“And after she left, you decided that because she had not used sufficiently precise wording, you were under no obligation to respect what every person in that room understood she intended?”

Bael’Zharon’s expression remained controlled.

“Your Majesty, an heir must understand that intention and instruction are not always the same thing.”

Damian’s eyes went cold.

“I know what an heir must understand.”

The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop despite the faint heat radiating from Vorthag.

Bael’Zharon fell silent.

Damian looked at each of them again.

“You thought you were teaching her a lesson.”

Vorthag answered this time.

“Yes.”

His heavy voice carried the conviction of someone who still believed the decision defensible.

“A misplaced word in battle creates an opening. A careless instruction in diplomacy may create a war. She must learn precision.”

Damian nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

Vorthag appeared almost surprised.

Damian leaned back.

“She did learn a lesson.”

Nobody moved.

Damian’s voice became softer.

Icy.

“You taught her not to trust you.”

Xalithra flinched.

Bael’Zharon’s face tightened.

Damian looked at them.

“You think you taught her to choose her words more carefully?”

No answer.

“You think you taught her that an Imperial Princess must speak with greater precision?”

Still nothing.

“You should know that what she actually learned was that when she shares something personal with the four people appointed to advise her, you will exploit a technicality in her wording and betray her confidence.”

“Your Majesty,” Xalithra began.

“No.”

She stopped.

Damian had not raised his voice.

He did not need to.

“You knew what she meant?”

Xalithra swallowed.

“Yes.”

“You knew she believed you had agreed to secrecy?”

“Yes.”

“You knew it mattered to her?”

“Yes.”

“And you told me anyway.”

The Matron lowered her gaze.

Damian turned towards Eluriah.

“You advised her regarding Helen’s placement in the sculpture?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You helped her?”

“Yes.”

“She trusted your judgement?”

Eluriah was silent for a moment.

“Yes.”

“And then you participated in the decision to betray that trust?”

The Shadowmistress’s expression tightened.

“Yes.”

Damian nodded once.

“Thank you for at least answering plainly.”

His gaze moved to Vorthag.

“You compared her to a recruit leaving an opening.”

Vorthag’s jaw set.

“I did.”

“My mate is not one of your recruits.”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“She is your Empress.”

Silence.

“She is my heir.”

No one moved.

“She is the woman who will one day sit where I sit.”

Damian’s voice dropped further.

“And you decided that the appropriate way to prepare her for that responsibility was to demonstrate that her own Council cannot be trusted with a birthday present.”

Vorthag looked away.

Damian let the silence stretch.

Then he looked at Bael’Zharon.

“And your brother.”

Bael’Zharon’s eyes sharpened.

“The Earl of Night?”

“Yes.”

Damian’s expression changed very slightly.

Not anger.

Something colder.

“Do you know what he did to her?”

Bael’Zharon hesitated.

“He tested her.”

Damian stared at him.

“Tested her?”

“It is a tradition of Nightfall Bastion.”

“I am familiar with the tradition.”

Bael’Zharon went silent.

Damian leaned forward.

“He subjected her to the poetry trial because he thought she needed to prove what she was made of.”

Nobody spoke.

“He thought she was soft.”

Damian’s hands remained perfectly still on the table.

“He thought she was weak.”

A faint crack sounded from one of Vorthag’s metal fingers as his fist tightened.

Damian ignored it.

“Franziska.”

His voice finally carried something beneath the ice.

Disbelief.

“My mate.”

He looked at all four of them.

“The woman who spent three days inside Ebon.”

Xalithra’s face changed.

Damian noticed.

“Yes.”

His smile contained no warmth.

“Apparently that detail did not reach Nightfall Bastion.”

Bael’Zharon inhaled slowly.

“Your Majesty—”

“She sacrificed herself to a sentient Demonic forest for three days.”

Damian’s voice sharpened.

“She endured Ebon when beings far older and stronger than your brother would not survive three minutes.”

The chamber was absolutely still.

“And after that, your brother looked at her and decided she required a test of endurance?”

Bael’Zharon lowered his head.

Damian continued.

“She has been abducted.”

One finger touched the table.

“She has been imprisoned.”

Another.

“She has walked through three Facilities.”

Another.

“She has rebuilt mutilated bodies with her own magic.”

Another.

“She has fought assassins.”

Another.

“She has stood between kingdoms and stopped wars before breakfast.”

His hand flattened against the table.

“And your brother decided she needed a poetry trial to determine whether she possessed sufficient character.”

Eluriah closed her eyes briefly.

Damian’s gaze returned to the four councillors.

“What were you thinking?”

Nobody answered.

This time his voice did rise slightly.

Not much.

It made it worse.

“What were any of you thinking?”

Bael’Zharon finally replied.

“We believed she required preparation for the realities of rulership.”

Damian’s expression became incredulous.

“Preparation?”

The High Councillor held his gaze.

“She must learn precision, Your Majesty. Particularly in matters of diplomacy and command.”

Damian stared at him for a long moment.

Then he laughed once.

There was no humour in it.

“You believe Franziska’s problem is imprecise communication?”

Bael’Zharon hesitated.

Damian leaned forward.

“This is a woman who has already made a genuine friend of the Queen Consort of the Ashen Court.”

No one answered.

“A woman who walked into a foreign royal household and somehow came away with Queen Ashara not merely as an ally, but as a woman who trusts her.”

His gaze moved across the table.

“She has three Angels pledged to her personal service for ten years.”

Xalithra’s expression tightened.

“Three.”

Damian held up one finger.

“Lirael.”

A second.

“Caelion.”

Then a third.

“General Michael.”

His voice became dangerously soft.

“An ancient Angel General gave her ten years of his service willingly.”

Silence.

“And you think her wording is imprecise?”

Bael’Zharon said nothing.

Damian’s eyes hardened.

“She speaks to kings, queens, generals, assassins, soldiers, refugees and creatures older than your bloodline, and somehow they understand her perfectly well.”

He sat back.

“The difficulty appears to arise only when four Demon councillors decide they would prefer not to understand her.”

That landed.

Hard.

Damian continued before any of them could answer.

“She requires advisers.”

The High Councillor went still.

“Not adversaries.”

Silence.

“She requires people willing to tell her when she is wrong.”

Damian’s eyes moved to Xalithra.

“She requires people willing to correct her wording.”

To Vorthag.

“She requires people who will explain the military implications of placing a permanent Portal in the Imperial Palace.”

To Eluriah.

“She requires people who understand secrets.”

Then back to Bael’Zharon.

“What she does not require is four experienced councillors setting traps for a woman who has been an Imperial Princess for a matter of weeks and congratulating themselves when she steps into one.”

Nobody looked at him now.

Damian sat back.

“You called it a lesson.”

His voice was quiet again.

“So tell me?”

He waited until Bael’Zharon finally lifted his eyes.

“What lesson were you trying to teach her?”

Bael’Zharon said nothing.

Damian’s gaze hardened.

“Because the lesson she learned was not precision.”

His next words were almost gentle.

“She learned not to trust you.”

Xalithra visibly winced.

Damian did not spare her.

“Was that the lesson you intended?”

“No, Your Majesty,” she whispered.

“Then you failed.”

Silence.

“You failed her as advisers.”

His gaze moved across all four.

“And you failed me as my Council.”

Vorthag straightened.

“Your Majesty, none of us intended harm.”

Damian’s expression turned cold enough to cut.

“Intent.”

Vorthag stopped.

Damian almost smiled.

“How interesting.”

Nobody missed the irony.

“You were quite insistent that Franziska’s intent did not matter when she asked you to keep my present secret.”

Not one councillor moved.

“You insisted that only the precise words mattered.”

Damian leaned towards them.

“Shall I apply your own lesson now?”

Vorthag’s glowing eyes dropped.

Damian let that sit for several seconds.

Then he exhaled.

“My mate trusted you.”

The anger was gone from his voice now.

That somehow made it more painful.

“She liked you.”

Xalithra looked stricken.

“She respected you.”

Eluriah’s shadows stilled.

“She sought your advice willingly.”

Damian shook his head.

“And you were so concerned with proving that she needed to become more sophisticated that none of you stopped to consider what you were destroying.”

Bael’Zharon finally spoke.

“What would you have had us do, Your Majesty?”

Damian looked at him as though the answer should have been obvious.

“Teach her.”

Bael’Zharon frowned.

Damian’s voice sharpened again.

“When she asks a badly worded question, tell her it is badly worded.”

Silence.

“When she overlooks a security consequence, explain the consequence.”

Vorthag’s shoulders lowered slightly.

“When she misunderstands protocol, correct her.”

Xalithra nodded faintly.

“When she entrusts you with something because she does not yet understand that she should demand an oath from her own advisers…”

Damian paused.

“…do not teach her that she should have.”

That silenced them completely.

Damian rose.

All four councillors immediately stood.

He looked at them one last time.

“She is my mate.”

His blue eyes darkened.

“Your Empress.”

Then colder still.

“And you betrayed her.”

No one attempted to defend themselves now.

“Repair it.”

Bael’Zharon bowed deeply.

“How?”

Damian looked at him.

“For councillors who pride themselves on teaching lessons, I should think discovering that would be educational.”

He turned towards the door.

Behind him, Xalithra spoke softly.

“Your Majesty?”

Damian stopped.

“What if she does not trust us again?”

For the first time since entering the chamber, Damian’s expression softened.

Not towards them.

Towards the thought of Franzi.

“Then you will have learned something too.”

He opened the door.

“Trust is considerably easier to break than to earn.”

Then the Demon Emperor left his Council to consider exactly what they had taught their future Empress.