Page 3 of A Dawn of Gods & Fury

“Is that typical for it to be so bright on the water?” Tyree asks, noticing it as well.

“Aye, I don’t spend much time ponderin’ that moon. It’s never brought me any good,” Captain Aron mutters, but he studies it with a perplexed look.

Either way, it is a beautiful view.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the warm sea air as the silver globe begins to dim, passing the height of Hudem—another that will surely make its way into Islor’s history books, with my family’s slow demise.

But …

I frown.

Something has changed.

I whip around.

Tyree is still there, still breathing.

Still watching me like a predator waiting patiently for an opportunity with its prey. I move toward him, toward the scent of his tempting Ybarisan blood.

“Is something the matter, Annika?” He eyes me warily.

“No. I just …” I inhale again. I can still catch the scent of his blood, of all the mortals’ blood around me.

But the unmistakable craving that plagued me only moments ago is suddenly gone.

In the far distance, an unearthly screech fills the night.

2

Sofie

“Watch yourself, my love.” Elijah’s grip on my hand tightens as I step over a corpse.

“I am watching.” But even with my keen eyesight and the rays of light from the silver moon above, it is a challenge to avoid limbs as we move toward the castle. A grand path of destruction has been carved through the royal garden, the ashy remains of trees still smoldering. Statues that were likely once grand have crumbled. “What manner of creature caused such carnage?” Surely, it was no mortal being. The manicured lawn wears gouges from a beast’s claws.

“A powerful one who will bow to me before long.”

I steal a glance up at my husband, still in disbelief that after almost three centuries, I am walking alongside him again, in flesh and blood, his hand within mine.

He feels different. Those endless years in the Nulling have hardened him. I suppose it is to be expected that he would not be the same.

“What sparked this battle, I wonder.” I have seen the aftermath of war before—cities toppled, bodies left to claim or rot.

“Weak kings.” Elijah’s jaw is firm, resolute.

I open my mouth to ask him what he means—and how he knows—when a cluster of blood-streaked elven soldiers rushes through the castle doors.

“Ah, good, you’ve found us.” Elijah’s voice is cordial—dare I say, cheerful.

“Declare yourselves!” a burly soldier demands, moving ahead of the others, gripping the pommel of his sword as if prepared to attack.

But Elijah remains composed, unruffled. “I am your king.”

The male chuckles, stirring amusement from the others. “Our king is in the east, fighting Islor’s traitors.”

“That king is no longer the ruler of anything but his own failures. I rule here now.”

The soldier’s eyes flare with new understanding. “You have proclaimed treason against the crown. The penalty for that is death.” He raises his sword point toward Elijah’s chest.

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