His expression is difficult to read. I can’t see his eyes behind the dark glasses, but I can hear the rawness in his voice.
“Because you transformed, or because you changed your mind?”
He stops and looks down at me. “Both. You see, Finley, the mountains contain magic, and father has suppressed magic because he fears it. All his life, he’s desperately tried to understand it so he can control it. It’s the one thing he sees as the most direct threat to his power. But the Khaturian tribes we fought… they wield magic. Their magic practices have been passed down through generations. He underestimated them because the Rahavan Court has this misguided idea that the Khaturians are uncivilized barbarians. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth, as my men and I found out—the hard way. It was a war of attrition, Finley. I will never put my people through that again.”
His voice grows distant. His presence feels cold. It’s as if he’s hundreds of leagues away.
The wind whispers through the trees. I’m imagining things; in my mind, I hear a word.
Danger.
I unlink my arm from his and put my fingers to his cheek, gently caressing his warm, smooth skin. He looks like a statue, but he’s warm, not cold.
It’s an instinctive gesture. I can almost feel his pain; icy and sharp, laced with cold fury.
“So, you’ve been cursed with the very magic your father tried to suppress,” I say softly, suddenly enveloped by a great sadness. “And yet, because of his laws against magic, you can’t find the knowledge you seek—about what you are.”
“It is a great irony, isn’t it?”
How can he smile bittersweetly like this when he’s lost so much?
And yet… Tyron has become so strong under his watch.
“Have you ever met another… like you?”
“No. There are records of vampires, but not in Rahava. Across the mountains, perhaps. In lands beyond the borders of our maps. If they ever existed in the empire, father would have found out a way of driving them out or destroying them long ago. He wouldn’t allow someone like me to exist alongside him.”
“And yet, you live.”
“Because I have shown myself to be quite sane on the surface, and he’s confident I won’t go against him. The very fact that I’ve sworn to protect my people is evidence enough that I’m no threat to him. Besides… he still wants me to become emperor. I’m the son he’s invested all his time and energy in. He didn’t plan for Ansar to become emperor, which is stupid, really, because firstborn heirs are always at risk of assassination.”
“Your younger brother is going to succeed him now?” Skepticism must’ve entered my voice, because Corvan chuckles. I’ve heard the rumors. That Ansar Duthriss is a flamboyant character; a womanizer, the type that openly flaunts his power.
“Half-brother, I correct. He was immature, but I’m sure he’s grown since I last saw him. The Knights’ Academy would have sorted him out.”
“You don’t sound entirely convinced.”
“When my father is gone, the Rahavan Court will regulate itself. I’ve no appetite for it. I never did. And if Ansar oversteps or becomes corrupt, I will pull him back into line.” Corvan goes still, holding up a hand. He cocks his head to one side. “Finley. Wait here. I’ll be back very soon. I need to go and check on something.”
And just like that, he becomes a blur and disappears, leaving a rush of cold wind in his wake.
One moment, we’re talking about the deep secrets of the Rahavan Empire. The next, I’m standing alone in the wintry forest, surrounded by trees and silence, with disquiet brewing in my heart.
Disquiet quickly gives way to a gaping chasm.
What if this is all a ploy, and he just planned to leave me here? What if he isn’t coming back?
Deep inside me is a great fear of being abandoned by this man, and I despise myself for it.
If he left me, I’d find a way to survive.
But he isn’t going to do that. I force the dark voices in my head to shut the hell up. I’m not in my father’s castle anymore.
This is Corvan. He looks like a beautiful monster, but he’s got more honor in his little finger than my father and Dorava combined.
33
CORVAN
I keep one ear attuned to Finley as I dart between the trees, heading for a familiar place—a small clearing where I’ve placed a lycan trap.
She’s safe for now, but the moment I hear anything untoward, I’ll be back by her side.
A foul stench fills my nose, making me wish for a dose of Ciel’s astringent antiseptic. I know that smell—putrescence and decay. It’s the same smell that comes when a rotting corpse has been sitting under the hot sun for days on end.
It makes me want to retch.
Dread courses through me. Even if there’s a dead body nearby, it shouldn’t smell this bad in the middle of winter.
There’s no lycan-stench here. Just foulness.
I reach the trap; a large iron cage that would accommodate a dozen men. That’s what it might have been used for in another time, but I’ve had these specifically made to entrap the magical wolven beasts that come down from the mountains.
At first, they were quite effective. I trapped and killed dozens simply by hanging a few dead hares inside the traps.
But the lycan appear to have become wise to my tricks.
Now, it matters not, because there are no lycan inside the cage.
There’s only a man.
At least, what used to be a man.
I stop breathing as I near, because the stench has become unbearable. The man—thing—stands, but he isn’t breathing either. He’s grasping the bars of the cage, staring at me with unblinking blue eyes. The whites of his eyes have turned cloudy grey. His golden hair is matted and falling out in places. His skin is dull and grey. In some places, it’s bruised and ulcerated, festering.
I recognize his tattered uniform. It’s the standard kit of an Imperial Military soldier.
“You’re undead,” I murmur, horror and revulsion welling up inside me.
This poor, wretched soul. He was a man, once. Now he’s just an animated corpse. There’s no life or intelligence behind those dull blue eyes.
He probably has a family somewhere. Do they even know he’s dead?
I’ve read about this phenomenon, but I’ve never seen it in real life.
As the undead catches sight of me, a low moan issues from his throat. He pulls his weapon—a crude broadsword—from its sheath and tries to impale me through the bars.
I dance backward, easily avoiding his blade. The creature roars and pitches the damn sword at me, point-first.
The blade sails through the air at considerable speed. I dodge. It lands in the snow with a dull thud.
That was some serious strength. To an ordinary soldier, these things could pose a serious threat. And an army of them…
Would mean serious trouble.
The only reason a corpse would be able to reanimate like this is through necromancy.
Where did it come from? More importantly, who’s behind this?
Someone is responsible for this.
I add them to the list of people I need to kill.
“Stay there,” I growl. The undead gnashes its teeth and rattles the bars, but it can’t do anything.