Page 99 of Vasmora

Every step forward put distance between him and Maevyth, though. His chest tightened, the fire in him simmering beneath his skin. Torches flickered around him, casting shadows that had his eyes constantly scanning.

On the outside, he remained calm.

Inside, he was calculating, plotting traps, a means of escape, if necessary.

And if all that failed, a pyre, the likes of which that stretch of forest had probably never seen.

At the entrance of the tent, Zevander hesitated and gave one more glance toward the far end of the camp, where Maevyth waited.

Muscles tense, he stepped inside, his gaze clocking two razorwolves that flanked a man sitting on an elaborate wooden chair, weaved together by twine and branches into a makeshift throne.

His skin was a dark umber, eyes a pale blue that matched the turquoise stones of the jewelry he wore at his neck. His blond hair was cropped short to his skull, and what looked like tribal symbols had been tattooed to his temples. Adorned in gold and fur, he carried himself in a regal manner not entirely fitting for a man with so many scars etched into his skin. One particularly brutal scar stretched across his chest–five deep claw marks that Zevander had little doubt had been put there by a razorwolf.

Posted about the space were more of the men, dressed exactly the same as those outside.

“Lothare,” the man who’d escorted Zevander said from behind. “This is–”

“Zevander Rydainn …” The blond spoke in a thick Northern Solassion accent. “The Scorpion of Nyxteros.”

“Lothare?” Zevander asked. “I was under the impression you were Kael.”

“Kael was a name given to me by a man I did not know. My mother named me Lothare.”

Zevander understood enough Eremician, thanks to Ravezio, to know it meant conqueror.

“Seemed more fitting.” A smile pulled at the corner of Lothare’s lips, and he pushed up from his chair, pressing a hand to his scar. His slow and deliberate movements reminded Zevander of cat, as he trailed his gaze toward the entrance and back. “Where’s his woman?”

“She’s mortal,” said the man who’d presented him. “Didn’t want to risk the spread of disease through the camp.”

Lothare prodded a finger and shook his head. “See, that’s a myth perpetuated by a long and ancient line of powerful men, to keep mancers separated from what they felt was beneath them. A means to uphold the purity of bloodlines. A mortal is no more a threat to your health than that godsforsaken tunic you refuse to wash.”

The other man snorted. “Apologies, Sir. As for the tunic?” He shrugged. “Figure it keeps the biting critters away.”

“And the women, no doubt.” The smirk on Lothare’s face faded as he shifted his attention. “Zevander Rydainn …. When I heard you were prowling my camp, well, I just didn’t know what to do with myself.” The theatrics in his voice put Zevander on edge. “What an honor to have King Sagaerin’s most prized assassin at my door.” Beside his throne sat a platter mounted on a tree stump, from where he plucked a few grapes and popped one into his mouth. “Why are you prowling my camp?” he asked around the food.

“You have someone I’m after.”

“And who might that be?”

“General Loyce’s bloodbinder.”

Brows pinched together, Lothare nodded. “Purple monocle on his eye? A hunk of silver mounted to his face?” he asked.

“That’s him.”

Lothare sighed, popped another grape into his mouth, and chewed slowly. As much as his behavior annoyed Zevander, he reminded himself that the greatest army in Solassios had failed to destroy the man. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“I’m not asking for your help. He’s coming with me. Whether I have to kill one, or all, of you.” After all, Lothare was merely a man, and all men could die in one form, or another.

Mid-chew, Lothare glanced back at one of the men posted behind him and let out a chuckle. “You hear this, Makhai?” He snorted and shook his head. “Fuck balls of Castero, you have balls of iron forged in sablefyre, my friend. To threaten me, when all I have to do is say the word, and these two wolves would make ribbons out of your flesh. Your scorpion magic wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Well, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. See, I’m not handing over the bloodbinder. And as sure as Nethyria is cold, I won’t be doing any favors for the man whose father murdered my mother.”

Zevander clenched his jaw behind the mask, to steady his reaction. The scorpions crawled over his skin, the flame licking his muscles and begging to be unleashed. Hands balled into fists, he refused to summon it.

“You’ve nothing to say about that? One last word before I cut your throat?” His brows shot up as he stared back as though expectantly awaiting an answer, but Zevander didn’t say a word.