Page 48 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating
I nodded. “We call them the Outer Court. The Great Hall is out on a separate isle, as you know, and it also houses the guest quarters. There are other isles for staff and kitchens, stables, and so on. Each platform is linked by those lightning bridges.”
“The entire fortress is incredible. But aren’t you worried it’ll one day just…” She fluttered her fingers in a downward gesture. “Fall out of the sky?”
“I have contingencies in place. I’ll share them when it suits me, or if we start plummeting.”
She faced the watery sunlight cutting through the clouds. “How many people stay here?”
“About five hundred on average,” I said. “Soldiers, staff, a few insane inventors… The number fluctuates whenever Griffin’s contraptions backfire.”
She glanced at me sharply. “People aren’t numbers.”
“That’s precisely what Vex keeps arguing,” I said drily. “We track them by name now, so I suppose that’s progress.”
She let out a short laugh but didn’t press. We continued along the walkway, heading for the High Gardens—a glass-enclosed conservatory nestled between the western and southwestern towers. Sunlight, filtered through rolling clouds, cast the greenhouse in ethereal light. Within, raised stone beds brimmed with bizarre flora, and thick vines curled along the pathway, swaying toward us as we passed.
“Don’t wander here alone at night,” I noted. “Some of these plants like to grab.”
Arabella took a pointed step back. “Let me guess—a team of terrified gardeners maintains all this?”
“Terrified or exasperated, depending on your perspective,” I replied. “They insist my very presence makes the plants anxious.”
She looked amused. “Plants don’t have emotions.”
“Try explaining that to the trembling ferns,” I retorted.
We exited at the far end, crossing a stone walkway that circled toward the gate tower. “Just like the bridges, the entire fortress can appear and disappear at will,” I explained. “At least that’s what the rumors say. In truth, we can move the citadel slowly and with great effort. It’s still enough to terrify superstitious villagers who think it hovers overhead waiting to devour them.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “My father tried to ban the servants from telling me stories about the Dark Lord, which guaranteed I heard every lurid detail.”
That sparked my interest. “And what delirious rumors were you fed?”
Arabella leaned against the stone battlement, wind tugging more hair loose from the braid. She’d already given up trying to contain it. “That you had every inch of skin covered in unholy tattoos.” She glanced at my chest. “But thanks to your extreme lack of modesty, I can confirm it’s scars instead of ink.”
That spark of wicked amusement in her eye was becoming dangerously addictive.
“Disappointed?” I asked, voice dropping suggestively.
She colored slightly but managed a wry smile. “Still withholding judgment.”
I chuckled. “What else have they said?”
She pursed her lips. “That you collect virgins from border villages.”
I blinked. “Collect them? To do what, exactly?”
“Sacrifice them during the full moon,” she answered, trying to keep a straight face.
I let out a genuine laugh. “If I needed blood, I wouldn’t go searching for the rarest subset of the population.”
She flashed a grin and pressed on. “Then there’s the rumor you can read minds.”
“That one I encourage,” I admitted. “It keeps people honest. But reading minds is simplistic. Readingpeople—their fears, their ambitions, their tells—that’s a far more useful skill.”
Arabella tilted her head. “Can you read me, then?”
The question was loaded with challenge. I made a show of studying her, though I’d been forming an answer since the day I captured her. “You’re a survivor who’s learned to turn society’s assumptions into tactics. You are far cleverer than you let on, and you know how to weaponize being underestimated. You’ll do anything—anything—when cornered. Including accidentally wielding volatile magic,” I added, unable to resist the dig.
A brief flicker in her eyes told me I’d struck close to truths she wasn’t used to exposing. She breathed out slowly. “I hate that I can’t deny it.”
