Page 30 of Vasmora

“Yes. It will be the end of this conversation and future conversations, if Loyce has any say in the matter.”

Zevander groaned, doing his best to ignore the mage’s argument, and dug around the trunk for his cloak. Nudged from behind, he swung around to find Rykaia holding it out to him, and he swiped it out of her hands.

“You can’t just waltz into a general’s lair uninvited and expect to meander about unnoticed,” Dolion prattled on.

The insult to his skill would’ve annoyed Zevander, if he weren’t so focused on the stabbing pain in his flank. He growled and winced, pressing his palm into the ache. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve spent the better part of a century training as a king’s assassin. Tasked to hunt aristocracy, no matter their level of protection.”

“Zevander …” Dolion’s voice hesitated. “There is one other, rather significant concern. It’s not only the general and her army you stand to face. The Magestroli have all six of the stones.”

He’d figured as much, the moment Dolion had mentioned Akmyrios. “All the more reason to leave now.”

Hands on her hips, Rykaia shifted on her feet. “And they threw us into a godsdamned sarcophagus in the middle of the ocean!”

Zevander frowned, briefly curious how they’d managed to escape such a thing, but his mind snapped back into focus as he held up one of his blades, plucking his finger along the edge of it.

“You will incite a war,” Dolion urged.

“She incited war when she took my mate!” Zevander snapped, and turned back to his blades, strapping them to his chest.

“Mates! I knew it!” The barely contained smile on Rykaia’s face twisted to a scowl. “Which makes this even more enraging.”

“Look,” Dolion said behind him, the relentless argument grating on Zevander’s patience. “I don’t know if you’ve been made aware, but Prince Dorjan was kidnapped by the Solassions. King Jeret has the prince as we speak. They’ll be expecting our assassins.”

Fuck. Zevander shoved the last of his daggers into its sheath. Jeret won’t kill Dorjan, his mind argued. He’d use him for leverage, just as Zevander had been used to mount an army all those years ago.

Stay focused.

“Killing the prince won’t win him favor.” Zevander spun around, spying his boots at the foot of his bed.

“The Solassion king would love the opportunity to rally against all of Nyxteros,” Dolion warned. “We wouldn’t stand a chance, what with the uprising in Costelwick, and the upcoming merging of moons. Who knows what fuckery fate might play.”

Strange occurrences had been known to happen on the merging of moons, a night when the gods were thought to awaken, dipping their fingers in fate. A myth, as far as Zevander was concerned.

“Jeret would be a fool to go to war with the Lunasier.” Torryn leaned against the doorframe, carving a piece of wood with his blade. “He needs the Imperial Army to fight Kael Vexmoor.”

Zevander hadn’t heard that name in well over a century. The brother of the slave he’d tried to save from the charnelyths all those years ago.

Loyce’s charnelyths.

He flexed his hands at his sides, his mind tormenting him with visions of Maevyth being subjected to the ruthless beasts. The very thought had his scorpions stirring across his skin.

“Zevander would force his hand!” Dolion waved his own hand, frantically emphasizing his point. “Jeret would have no choice! How could he trust the Lunasier if Sagaerin’s own assassin killed his general?”

“He already looks incompetent in the eyes of his people.” Zevander swiped up his boots and plopped into a chair beside the table, the jostling of his ribs forcing a grunt out of him. “Centuries, he’s been fighting against a band of mercenaries that gets stronger every day. Going to war with the Lunasier would be a mistake.” Pain tightened his voice, and wincing, he carefully bent forward to yank on his boots.

“You know the general’s palace better than anyone.” Dolion pointed a finger at him and stepped closer. “Do you think she’d make herself accessible? Even to you?”

Elbows resting against the tops of his thighs, Zevander lowered his head and sighed, weary of the argument, their voices nothing but noise in his head. “You told me once that you feared what I’d become without her. That she gives me purpose. Direction.” He lifted his gaze and frowned at the old mage. “Now you question it?”

Dolion exhaled a groan and rubbed a hand down his face. “No. Of course I don’t question it. I’m simply questioning your methods, is all.”

“She is my mate. I remember everything. Every detail that was stolen from me all those years ago.” A deeper pain throbbed in his chest at the thought of her. “I will not allow her to suffer at the hands of my one true enemy.”

“I understand, but your haste feels reckless. I’m only suggesting a little caution might be in order, given your condition. A bit more time might reduce your chances of death.”

Dolion was a fool to imagine that Zevander would yield to caution. When it came to Maevyth, neither time, nor death, would stop him. He’d suffer the wrath of the gods themselves, and once when the last star faded to oblivion, he’d drag his rotting corpse through the void to find her. Avenge her.

No matter his condition.