That was what she was waiting for. The catch.
Before Quinn could say anything, Mazzulah brushed the back of her knuckles to Quinn’s cheek.
“Good luck, my beauty. I hope this is goodbye, for both our sakes. I fear I now understand the king. To love you is to love destruction. But I cannot have you and my kingdom. Just as you do not have it in you to love me while he still exists. Return to him, Quinn. Return, and set us both free.”
Darkness closed in around her. Black spots in her visions.
Tendrils of power that were not her own wrapped around Quinn.
But they were loving and cold all the same.
As she lost consciousness for the first and last time in her dead immortality, Quinn didn’t think of Risk. She didn’t think of the coming war she would face. She didn’t even think of the king she’d be returning to, though it was not far in her mind.
She thought of Mazzulah’s parting words.
And vowed to set them both free.
Chapter 4
Shattered Cage
“Grief and revenge are not so different. For they both bring out the worst in a man.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, the mad King of Norcasta
Lazarus lifted his head. The fogginess that had filled his mind slowly drained away as he focused on his surroundings. His quarters were decrepit. The bed posts were broken. The windows shattered. The table had been overturned. Bits of feathers and fabric and wood and glass littered the floor.
He sat in the only wingback chair that was still usable. Before him, Leviticus’ eye was setting, making room for Leviathan to rise.
Blood painted the horizon.
And for the first time in he wasn’t sure how long, whispers from the palace reached him.
He heard music and laughter and joy.
Lazarus spent so long in the dark confines of his quarters that silence began to scream. He hadn’t heard true sound. Only them.
The souls within.
All his life they’d been at war. Him and his monsters. The master and the beasts.
Not anymore.
When he’d remembered the truth of that night, it hadn’t merely broken him; it had shattered him. The man that used his body as a cage lost all control.
But in doing so, Lazarus learned that he and his beasts were not all that different.
Lazarus wasn’t sure if this was simply another trick of his mind, or reality as it was.
The scent of fresh snow and midnight weeds hit him.
Her magic. Her fear. He wasn’t sure if it was trying to pull him under once more or urging him on. To do as she would bid of him.
While he didn’t know how long had passed, what he did know was that it was time. The game had begun. The game to end all games.
Lazarus stood and stared at the dying sun.
For what had been done, he didn’t simply intend to go to war.
He planned to cleave this continent in two.
He’d done things the nice way. The way his left-hand had wanted.
And it cost him his right.
It cost him saevyana.
She’d gone to a place where not even death would allow him to follow. It was a cruel end. The gods had brought him the one woman that could make him feel—that could make him live. And then they stole her away again.
Part of him still couldn’t believe it. Every now and then he scented damp petals in the breeze. He felt some echo of fear calling out to him like a beacon.
It was there now.
Everywhere and nowhere at once.
But Lazarus knew it wasn’t possible. It was simply his memories. Those sharp fragments of life that could not be contained. So vibrant compared to what he lived now. Past and present mixed together. He felt as if he were living in a pocket of time where everything existed at once and not at all.
Those parallels shook him to his core. He knew that he wasn’t simply dancing with Mazzulah. He’d lost the fight against his inner madness.
But even a mad king was still a king.
And there was work to be done.
He’d mourned for her, and he would continue to until the day that he truly ceased to exist. But the Quinn he knew, she wouldn’t simply want him to mourn.
No. She’d want revenge.
His cruel woman . . . she couldn’t take it for herself.
But he and the souls, they could. They would.
Lazarus turned his back on the place of his vigil. It pained him in a way that he couldn’t have understood before. He’d exiled himself to this place because she was the only one he’d shared it with. He stayed there because the anger was too great to contain, and he needed to hone it to a fine point that would be used when the time came.
Lazarus hated this place for what it represented, and yet he coveted it all the same.
But it was time to move on.
He walked out of his quarters and didn’t turn back.
The souls within urged him onward as he trailed down the halls of his palace, following the sounds of music. People passed him by, but he paid them no mind. Lazarus was done concerning himself with the desires of lesser men.
Something had called him from the fog, and he was going to find out what.
Lazarus stopped at the double doors that opened up to his throne room.
Inside it was filled with lords and ladies, though he was certain Quinn had killed them all. The scents of roasted meats and rare fruit and sweet delicacies washed over him . . . and something else.
Something rotten.
He stepped through the entrance and approached his throne. Unoccupied, it loomed above them all.
The music trilled out as people took notice. There were whispered words. They talked of him as if they hadn’t seen him in a very long time, which meant that this wasn’t simply in his head.
He’d wondered, though he’d never admit it.
At the base of his throne, his left-hand, stewardess, and sword master all stood.
Their eyes locked on him as he continued walking past. He didn’t stop, though the music and the murmurs did.
Silence greeted him once more by the time he reached the top.
He turned to his people and seated himself on the throne of oak and iron.
They kneeled at once, and he liked that. The souls liked that. Subservience was all he would tolerate now.
The clomp of hooves drew his attention. He appreciated the quiet. It made it easier to hear that which was important. Without turning to the souls within, he knew that this was what had called him.
The rotten scent grew.
There was a ruckus at the door. It didn’t last but a moment, and Draeven had only been able to take two steps when a boy appeared in the doorway. Two of his own guards stood on either side.
Dressed in purple and silver.
He wore Trienian colors and carried a box.
“Your Grace,” one of the soldiers began.
Lazarus lifted a hand to silence him and then beckoned the boy forward.
“Come to me,” he ordered. The child bordered on becoming a man, but his lips still quivered, and his hands shook as he approached the steps.
His court had the good sense to not speak as the messenger climbed the stairs. Beneath his skin, the souls started to stir.
Lazarus held up a hand to stop him only three steps from the raised dais.
Sweat gathered on the boy’s brow as he halted where he stood.
“I come bearing a message and a gift for King Lazarus Fierté.”