Page 147 of What Lies Within Blood & Heirs

The male barked a dark laugh and smirked. He dipped his chin before that casual nature merged into a face of carved stone and backed into the shadows, simplyfadingfrom view as if he, too, commanded darkness to carry him like air in the wind.

Fading.

If his upper left arm were exposed, a death mark would disclose the male’s curse that solidified him as the perfect surveillant. Able to roam the median of space and time. Veiled within the in-between—the Middleworld—as an entity. There, but not seen until the moment pleased him. Surely something most Bloodlusteds would envy. Able to fade into existence when it pleased them. Especially if overcome by thirst, to manifest in front of a warm High Fae vein …

Garrik rubbed the pulse on his wrist and watched ash dance away in the wind, wondering if the male still lingered or had simply walked through the stone behind him. He closed his eyes and listened. Breathed in the fresh lilac and rose bushes. Then there was the familiar settling scent of pearlseas his mother had gifted Kadamar’s late queen, her closest friend, MiraBelle.

These gardens were named after her. After her wondrous beauty. He pictured them there. Mira’s long, moon-white hair and stunning ice-blue eyes. How Airathel embodied the sea under the summer sun, but Queen Mira mirrored the winter she was born from.

Pushing away from the wall, he revealed a path from darkness to sunlight—a path to the castle—and passed courtiers who trembled in fear. Some tripped over their hideous skirts orclung to their male’s arms. Garrik paid them no mind. His face was a work of hewn marble, uncaring and dismissive, flashing his sharpened teeth as a pleasing threat.

Silence veiled the courtyard. Even the steps leading into the castle where soldiers were normally stationed were entirely empty. No sooner did Garrik drop his hand to the sword sheathed at his side did High Guardsmen swarm from the outer cloisters and burst through the doors.

Garrik drew his sword, forcing a murderous glare into his swirling abyss for eyes.

Every soldier stepped back.

Until one on trembling knees dared to step from the swarm, voice cracking in fear as he said, “Your Highness. His Majest—” Those terrified eyes flicked to the tip of Garrik’s sword. To the Smokeshadows tendriling around their legs and necks before he corrected, “Thekingrequires your attention,” and swallowed as if he had signed his death missive.

The entire court had gathered.

Garrik made a spectacle of sitting on the throne. Instead of last evening’s dinner chair, he now reclined on an onyx dragon. A symbol of his Order, his legion. If the High Prince was to preside over the dealings of a foreign court, then he would do so on his own throne, not the High King’s.

But if someone did not speak soon, he would not only start redecorating the room but the way certain necks appeared too.

Ladomyr strode through the newly crafted doors wearing a golden circlet of rubies on his sweaty head. Not a crown, but even so, Garrik entertained the idea of misting it to dust with the kingling’s every step. It would certainly amuse the boredom of being kept waiting.

Behind Ladomyr, walking shoulder to shoulder, two males stepped onto the crimson rugs that replaced Magnelis’s gaudy purple. Silas, Kadamar’s spymaster, kept his tattooed neck straight and chin high, displaying those useless runes stark against the side of his face.

Prowling beside him, adorned in autumn-colored armor, Garrik speculated that this was the High Guard’s general, Kyrell—as old, plump, and bald as Ladomyr. Only Kyrell’s face repulsed him. Thanks to the High King delivering punishment that ended in the removal of his tongue centuries past, he was grotesque.

The king acted as if his back would break if he bent even slightly. The bow was barely noticeable, but Garrik’s rumbling growl was not. Wisely, Ladomyr bent forward. The golden circlet on his head shifted as if unable to withstand the motion. After all, since when did kings bow?

In one rippling wave, Silas, Kyrell, and the court mirrored the king until every knee touched rugs and polished stone.

The only ones who did no such thing were Garrik’s Shadow Order, perfectly scattered and poised at the bottom of his dais. Thalon’s golden sword pierced the floor, both hands draped on the pommel while Jade cocked her hip and twirled a dagger between her fingers. To their right, Alora crossed her arms with a look of ruthless indifference as Aiden draped himself over six steps and cleaned his nails with a dagger.

Garrik gave Aiden a curt nod.

“Rise,” Aiden announced with a lazy gesture, sounding as annoyed as Garrik felt.

Ladomyr grunted as he straightened and adjusted his circlet.

A growl reverberated deep in Garrik’s chest as he reclined on his throne and dawned a glass of amber liquid into his palm.

Still. Silence.

“Are you going to make me wait all fucking day, Ladomyr?” It was enough of a threat that the king turned to Kyrell and Silas, and he whispered something before the general and spymaster parted the blanched faces and finery.

That threat of snapping necks lingered in the air until the doors to the left of the throne burst open and flooded with guardsmen. When the autumn-storm lined the walls, three figures crowded the doorway. One waited on their knees.

Kyrell stepped into the light, drawing a rope taut. He ripped it forward with a harsh tug?—

Garrik glimpsed Alora stiffening as that figure entered the light. As that female tied by her neck was forced to crawl through the crowd with Silas casually strolling behind her back.

Everything in Garrik’s body tightened.

He knew these types of dealings. Had watched from a marble floor as Magnelis pointed his finger and ordered Garrik to lay ruin to imprisoned and tortured Mystics after the High King had thieved power from their souls.

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