“She knows things she shouldn’t,” Malekith said. “And she’s not afraid to use that knowledge as a weapon.”

“Is she working for Zaxos, then?” Aric asked, his earlier suspicions resurfacing.

“I doubt she answers to anyone but herself. But if Zaxos thinks she can be of use to him, then she’ll do what she must to stay in his good graces.”

“And your family? What secrets was she hinting at?” Aric asked.

Malekith’s expression darkened, shadows gathering around him, and Aric feared he’d pushed too far. But then Malekith sighed, and the shadows dissipated.

“House Ixion has a . . . complicated history,” he said carefully. “One that’s best left in the past.” His eyes met Aric’s, filled with an intensity that made Aric’s breath catch. “What matters is the present, and the future we’re fighting for.”

Aric nodded slowly, recognizing the deflection but choosing not to push further. Malekith had hinted at that complicated history before—a great-great-grandmother who once led the demon army, yet fought for peace above excess bloodshed. And then there was the question of just what had happened to prune the Ixion family tree down to nothing but Malekith and his stubborn roots. He’d once been intended to claim the title of Sovereign, Aric had heard, but now it seemed he had to fight and scrape and claw for every last bit of respect he could be afforded.

So instead, Aric asked, “Can we trust her?”

Malekith’s laugh was sharp and without humor. “Trust Sylthris? Never. But she can be useful, in her own way. Just remember, every word from her lips comes with a price.”

Aric nodded. He wished he could say he had never known such people in the human realms, but that, too, would be a lie.

“Come.” Malekith strode towards the door, his earlier tension seeming to fade away. “I believe we have much work to do, but you should rest first.”

Aric followed him, his mind still spinning from the encounter with Sylthris. And the secrets she had alluded to—the shadows of House Ixion, stretching out in all directions. What would it mean for their mission if those secrets came to light? What dangers might lie in wait for them?

With a shiver, Aric realized he wasn’t just thinking about the threats from the human realm.

As they prepared to leave the parlor, Malekith paused, his hand on the door.

“Aric,” he said, turning back with an uncharacteristic softness to his voice. “Be careful around Sylthris. She’s dangerous in ways you can’t imagine.”

And then he was gone, leaving Aric alone in the corridor, the cool words echoing in his ears.

A warning, or a confession of vulnerability? Aric chewed on his lower lip as he headed back to his chambers, his mind racing with thoughts of shadowy demons and unspeakable secrets. He’d had his suspicions that there was more to the Malekith than met the eye, but the truth was turning out to be far more complicated than he could have ever imagined.

As he reached his chambers, the faint moonlight filtering in through the narrow window, Aric paused, the last echoes of the encounter with Sylthris still lingering. Malekith’s warning to be careful around her—he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued by her, by the possibilities of the secrets she alluded to. But he had already seen the danger of the demon realm’s political games, the treacherous line Malekith had to walk between loyalty and survival.

He wasn’t sure he was cut out for that kind of life, and even if he was, the last thing he wanted was to become like the demons who had ravaged his home. But finding the right path, the one that let him be true to himself, while also protecting his people, felt like an impossible riddle.

With a sigh, he pushed the thoughts aside and set about his nighttime routine. He didn’t have the luxury of getting lost in the labyrinth of demon politics, not when the fate of both realms might hang in the balance. Malekith needed his help, his insight and knowledge, and Aric was determined to give it to him.

But as he settled into bed, sleep proving elusive, Aric couldn’t dispel the unsettling feeling that he was being watched. Shadows gathered in the corners of his room, and he was almost certain he heard a soft, taunting whisper on the night breeze. He sat up, heart pounding, but when he glanced out the window, there was nothing there.

Nothing but the darkness, stretching out into the night.

Three

Aric shifted from one boot-encased foot to the other, adjusting the high neckline of the dark, gossamer tunic Malekith had sent for him. The thin, filmy fabric rippled with the movement of his arms, and the strange sensation of bare, chilled flesh on those parts not covered by the tunic’s generous folds was as disconcerting as it was alluring. He’d rarely worn anything but his mage robes and armor before he came here, and the dense weave of cotton and silk designed for comfort and protection, so to don such an intimate garment was . . . a lot.

He picked at the intricate clasp cinching the tunic closed, its curved design too alien for him to grasp at first. But with a muted huff to steady his hands, Aric carefully slipped the clasp into place, the circular piece clicking shut.

Straightening, Aric smoothed down the tunic’s front—though given the filmy fabric’s cling, it was a largely unnecessary gesture. Or perhaps all the more necessary. Aric’s mouth went dry as he took in his reflection. Was he supposed to be so plainly visible beneath the gauzy layers?

A deep breath filled Aric’s chest, the cologne Malekith had gifted him for the occasion—something dark and spicy and far more exotic than his usual concoctions—steaming his nostrils. His skin was flushed, and his eyes were far too wide, the icy, heart-thudding realization of just where he was and what the coming days called for leaving him light-headed.

He was getting ahead of himself, he knew. This was just a celebration, as Malekith had promised, a final send-off before their army’s departure. But even so, his thoughts insisted on pulling him back to the memory of the few fleeting nights he and Malekith had managed to spend together amidst all the turmoil. Recollections fluttered around him like moths: Malekith’s thick arousal against his leg, the prince’s urgent cries as they’d both spilled over in the privacy of his chambers, the whispered assurances that maybe, just maybe, Aric’s hopes and dreams weren’t so impossible . . .

Perhaps Aric was a fool to indulge Malekith’s suggestions of what this might mean between them, but what was he to do? As a prisoner, he’d had no choice but to endure whatever torment was visited upon him. But Malekith, he’d chosen for himself. Malekith, he wanted, despite who he was, what he was. This might be their last night together before the ravages of war made everything so much worse.

And then there was the matter of his own traitorous body. Whether Aric wanted it or not, his thoughts raced back to the heat of Malekith’s skin, the lean cords of muscle shifting with each of Malekith’s moves. The way he’d growled Aric’s name, a dangerous and seductive promise. The scorching heat of his breath and the slide of his tongue as he tasted Aric, claiming him⁠—

By the First Flame, he was a mess, and the festivities hadn’t even started.

When he emerged from his chambers and began the long descent down the grand staircase to the Ebon Spire’s main entrance, the view awaiting him at the bottom nearly stole the remainder of his breath.

The ornate crystal chandeliers flared with the magic of colored flames, vivid and dancing. Tables were groaning beneath the weight of exotic delicacies, foodstuffs he’d never seen before or even dared to imagine. The sharp scents of roasting meat, heady spices, and something almost sweet lingered in the air, and Aric’s stomach growled despite himself.

But it was the demons gathered in their finery that most captured Aric’s attention, dressed in garments that ranged from the opulent and ridiculous to the seductively sparse. Their scales, their skin, their horns glimmered with powders and oils, their eyes painted and lined, and their expressions ranged from smiles to sneers to wicked grins.

And, all around him, they were looking at him.

A pair of female demons whispered to one another, their forked tongues flicking out as they both turned away. A group of men eyed him speculatively as they drank from cut crystal goblets, their laughter a harsh rattle. One of the servers, a sinuous, red-skinned being with a tray of spiced meats, stumbled past him, and Aric caught the look of hunger in their eyes before they straightened and moved on.

He forced himself to stand tall, to not falter under their stares. They believed him to be one of their own now, and he refused to be cowed by the foes who were, in theory, his allies tonight. Malekith had assured him of his safety, and Aric was determined to believe him.

“Excuse me, milord.”

A servant appeared at Aric’s elbow, their head lowered respectfully. Aric forced himself to relax, the confrontation at the gates with the sentries already weighing on him. He couldn’t afford to draw any more attention than he already had, and that meant blending in, at least for now.

The servant lifted a cut crystal goblet brimming with a shimmering, dark liquid. Aric’s mouth watered at the sight, and he realized with a start just how long it had been since he’d eaten. Aric took the goblet with a nod of thanks, careful to keep his movements slow and deliberate, and waited until the servant had disappeared into the crowd before he brought it to his lips.

The first sip was like liquid fire, burning a path down his throat and spreading warmth through his chest. The flavors were unlike anything he’d ever tasted—rich, complex, and with an underlying note of danger that made his pulse quicken. Aric took another sip, savoring the sweetness that lingered on his tongue, and closed his eyes.

It was far too easy to imagine he was back in his chambers, back in Malekith’s embrace, and not surrounded by enemies on all sides. He let out a soft exhale, his mind already beginning to cloud with the drink’s potent magic, and the tenseness in his shoulders started to unravel. Malekith had wanted him to relax, to enjoy himself, and Aric would be a fool to deny the prince’s wishes.

With each swallow, the magic of the drink worked its way through him, loosening the tight bands of worry and guilt that had plagued him since their meeting with the council. The demons around him blurred and softened, their harsh edges melting away. Aric’s senses sharpened, the perfume of spice and exotic fruits dancing in his nostrils, the rich strains of music and lewd laughter caressing his ears. The cool tile floor shifted under his boots, and he swayed slightly, his head dizzy.

Aric tried to refocus. He had agreed to this, all of this—had wanted it, at least in part. Malekith had promised him that no harm would come to him tonight, not on this night of celebration. Aric was safer here, arguably, than he was in his own suite. He just needed to remember that, to keep his wits about him.

Aric’s head felt light as he wove through the crowd, the gauzy layers of his tunic and the intoxicating magic of the drink propelling him forward. He caught snippets of hushed conversations, his hearing honing with every step.

The demon prince’s new pet.

I heard he went to Malekith willingly.

A bold move, taking him in full view of the council like that. I think it’s a distraction, one he can ill afford.

Malekith will get careless, mark my words4.

Aric’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep moving. If his presence here could unnerve the other demons, could plant the seed of doubt in their minds, then he would consider it a success. They didn’t know the truth of what had passed between him and Malekith, and Aric was more than happy to let them speculate.