Page 184 of Vasmora

Dolion paused his search, flipping only a few short pages to the Rydainn family, and traced his finger across the page to Branimir’s name. “Metal forging.”

“Like our father. And Zevander?”

Dolion shifted his finger lower and frowned. “Unknown.”

“Unknown?” Rykaia reared back, frowning. “But that could be due to the Emberforge ritual, yes? His bloodline magic was stripped.”

Dolion stroked his jaw, scanning over a few names in search of any others labeled unknown. He flipped a few pages forward, a few back. Every child had been assigned a bloodline, aside from spindlings, who were labeled as such in the book. “No. Bloodline magic is determined at birth.”

“How?” Rykaia slouched back in her chair, arms crossed. “We don’t ascend into our power until later.”

“Very skilled haemsects attend every birth. They would’ve recorded Zevander’s blood magic prior to the ritual.”

“My parents did tell Zevander that he was a spindling when he was a child.”

Dolion chuckled, shaking his head as he perused the Rydainn bloodline in search of any unknown magic. “Haemsects analyze blood. There is no hiding. And spindling would’ve been noted in the records, if that were true.”

Her eyes narrowed on the mage. “So, you’re saying Zevander’s blood magic was unknown at the time of his birth?”

“It would seem so.”

“That’s strange.” She swiped up the bottle of wine, taking another long swig. “Well, good luck finding any bastard children of Sagaerin’s. As I understand, he loved his queen very much. The only one who rivaled that love was my mother.”

Dolion chewed on that thought, staring down at Zevander’s name on the page. He forced himself to entertain the possibility that Lady Rydainn could’ve become pregnant with the king’s child. Had it not been for the Emberforge ritual, Zevander would’ve ascended into his magic, and there would’ve been no question of lineage. Infidelity had often been determined that way.

“You’re pondering something. I can see it swirling in your eyeballs.” Rykaia took another swill of the wine. “I don’t think this is the way to tackle this.”

“Might you have a better suggestion?”

She sighed and kicked her feet up onto the table. “Get him drunk.”

“Who?”

“Cadavros. Get him shit-faced drunk. Who isn’t merry when they’re drunk?” She raised the bottle. “The gods used to drink wine all the time. Remember the many paintings of them carousing in massive halls with naked women and food?”

Dolion pressed his lips to contain his laughter. A part of him wanted to believe it could possibly be that simple. “I don’t think the god of pestilence is interested in joining us for wine.”

“Then, we bring the wine to him. I’m telling you. A few bottles in, he’ll be draping that amulet over your head and calling you his best friend.”

Dolion did chuckle that time. “Well, if the search for a bastard proves fruitless, I’ll consider that.”

Rykaia smiled. “Good. The end of the world shouldn’t be so fucking miserable.”

Torryn slammed into the doorway, and as Dolion’s muscles jerked, wine dribbled over Rykaia’s glass with her abrupt twitch. Bent over, Torryn fought to catch his breath. “Dragons approaching.”

“Dragons?” Dolion shot up from his chair and peered out the window, where three dark figures flew toward Eidolon, too far away to decipher the breed. “Unless those are Corvugons, we’re in a quagmire of shit.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

MAEVYTH

The three Corvugons landed on Eidolon’s sweeping property, their talons raking up bits of grass as they hopped. Just a few meters off, the fyredrakes prowled, not daring to come close to the exceptionally larger predators.

I stared back at the castle I hadn’t seen since the night of The Becoming Ceremony, where a few stubborn purple flowers had grown out through the thin, brown vines, in spite of the chilly air and dark skies. Fog had settled around the place like slumbering ghosts, and flames illuminated where the gargoyles perched at either side of the staircase, guarding the castle with the same rigid focus, as always. Eidolon felt like the only constant in the world, the only variable that hadn’t been skewed by chaos, and warmth settled in my bones as the familiarity wrapped around me like an old blanket.

“Maevyth! Oh, gods, Maevyth!” Rykaia tore through the iron-embellished doors and down the staircase in her emerald-green dress, her long, silver locks flying out of a loose braid.

Smiling, I climbed down the length of Raivox’s foreleg in time to catch the brunt of her hit, as she tackled me to the ground. My bottom smacked the dirt, and I tumbled backward in a tangle of arms.