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arius entered the Eyrie to find his father among his prefects. A rare sight for him outside of meetings of urgency. Most noticeable of all, however, was the absence of Dominus among them.

“Sit down.” Lanius gestured to the seat furthest from him on the table.

Darius pulled out the seat with a noisy groan of wood on stone, straining the sound for dramatic effect before he sat. “Good morning.”

“I’ve gathered you all here today to discuss important business.” Lanius stood tall, hands folded behind his back. “For millennia we have struggled against the precarious whims of nature, forced to submit to barren summers and famished winters. Well, to this I say no more. I see hope for a new kingdom on the horizon where we no longer have to beg from hags and borrow from foreigners. I see hope for a kingdom in which Mortos, and Mortos alone, takes charge of our own destiny. Where we will ascend to our rightful place as the world’s superior race, the way Our Papa Calante intended.”

Throughout the speech, his prefects murmured in intrigue amongst themselves while Darius paused in bated breath, praying against all odds this wasn’t going where he feared.

“This is why I called you here today, as a rallying cry. For I have set my sights upon this land of greener pasture.” He took out a scroll and unfurled it across the table, revealing a large map of Vysteria. “South of the land from us these star-creatures fatten themselves upon the well of riches of their continent. I say the time has come for a new order, where we take possession of the keys to their castle and help ourselves to all they have acquired.”

The rest, besides Darius, were all ears, their features grown crooked with their avarice.

“How do you suggest we proceed with this, Your Majesty?” questioned Prime Prefect Claudius.

“Soleterea is the beating heart of the continent.” Lanius slammed his fist down upon the country. “Rip it out and the rest will bleed into submission, unable to resist our command.”

The prefects murmured in agreement.

“And what of the solarites’ means of defence?” Claudius asked.

“What of it? These are pampered socialites who spend their days growing soft and lazy by the sun.” Delanus chuckled in derision. “What possible match could these delicate demoiselles be against us?”

“Quite a formidable one, Delanus,” Darius interjected, his throat bobbling. Then he outlined the exact same logistics he had to his father, pausing to assess the verdict among his prefects.

The once assured confidence was growing flimsier, he could see, but Darius knew it would take much more convincing to dispel them from the notion that Soletereans were meek-mannered merchants easily thwarted by their martial supremacy.

“Your Majesty, you cannot expect us to go up against such odds and prevail,” Claudius piped up once Darius had finished. “Surely, we ought to listen to Prefect Calantis and bide our time for a more advantageous standing.”

“I refuse to hold back any longer!” Lanius roared. His eyes were maniacal with conviction. “The longer it is we wait, the more time they have to learn more of us, our strengths and weaknesses. No. I say overwhelming odds are not the same as impossible. Have you forgotten the breadth of power Calante has given you? We can win this. And we will!”

His voice was booming so loudly it echoed, as though Calante himself spoke through him as a vessel of his divine will. He felt stronger than he ever had before, infused with deific might. He would not hear a refusal. He couldn’t.

“This is madness!” Claudius rose up from his seat. “Absolute madness. I apologise for speaking out of turn but you’re going to get us all killed. I refuse to listen to this any longer.” He pushed out his seat with a huff, tearing towards the door.

He barely made it a foot from the table before he was impaled on the end of Lanius’ closed fist.

The prefects all stood in alarm; a cacophony of hushed whispers and strenuous gasps.

Lanius sank deep into his prefect’s chest, clenching hard the muscle of his heart before he withdrew with it intact.

Claudius only had time to gurgle before he sank to his knees and slumped over, blood pulsating out onto the floor like a jug of wine spilled.

“No, my dear, Claudius,” Lanius spoke towards the throbbing heart in his hand. “I am afraid it is you who is going to get them all killed.” He let the organ slide from his hand and raised out his arms. “Anyone else care to defy me? I have no trouble at all slaughtering the lot of you and replacing you with sycophants more malleable to my whims. Well?”

The silence was so thick it was almost audible.

“Then you are dismissed.”

The prefects couldn’t leave fast enough, clambering over the body of their fallen comrade as they went.

“Not you, Darius,” Lanius ordered as he was about to join them.

He remained rooted where he stood. “Your Majesty?”

Lanius cut the stub of his cigar and struck a match. “I’ve been giving some thought to your… tinkering as of late and I’ve decided I would like to see one of your weapons in action.”

“Under what condition?” Darius asked, sweat prickling on the nape of his neck. “I assume there must be one.”

“I happen to have a certain target for you in mind.” His father exhaled a ring of smoke. “Consider this your chance to impress me.”

Darius nodded, grateful for the challenge. “What would you like me to do?”

“Laila Rose has intentions of resigning her post as ambassador and returning back to Soleterea.” Lanius inhaled from his cigar. “I don’t intend for her to make it.”

Darius’ throat seized. “You want me to—”

“Dispose of her. Yes. That ought to send a rather salient message to that dimwitted wench for thinking she can insult me in my own castle and walk away unscathed.”

“Your Majesty, I understand your pride might be feeling wounded due to what occurred the other night—”

“I have no desire to discuss this with you, Darik. I have given you an order and I expect you to carry it out. Or perhaps you’d rather me send you down into the dungeon. Does that proposition lean more to your liking?”

Darius glanced towards the cooling body of Claudius and saw there was no reasoning with him. “No.”

“Very well. I have requested the princess attend our annual tarot tournament. You can perform the deed there. Let me know when it’s done.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Darius rose up from his seat.

“And Darius?”

“Yes?”

“Do not fail me.”

The evening had Darius drowning his sorrows in polugar.

He brought out his finest bottle of single malt rye he’d left reserved for a significant occasion. The bottle was a gift from an old lover and was one of only fifty, finely distilled in copper pots and left to age to maturation. He popped the cork, filled the glass near to overflowing, and slumped down on his divan to take a sip.

He closed his eyes, savouring the creaminess of the texture, when he heard a creak in the corridor, signalling someone on the way to his quarters.

He put down his glass, not expecting visitors and silently praying it wasn’t Dominus. He was unprepared to see Vasilisa appear in his doorway instead.

“Your Highness,” Darius exclaimed, not sure whether to be more alarmed by the sight of her face or the sight of her hair. It was court fashion for married occasselle to hide it unless they were alone or among relatives. “Is something the matter?”

Vasilisa smiled at him, though he could tell it was only for decorum. “I heard my husband made quite a stir at the council meeting today.”

“He’s gone stark-raving mad!” Darius gesticulated wildly. Then he scooped up his glass for a long sip. “He murdered Claudius. Then he declared war on the entirety of the Vysterian continent and threatened to execute us for refusing support.”

Vasilisa silently made her way over to the divan to sit.

“Poor Claudius.” Her lips sagged in thought. “It seems we may have to start pushing Dominus sooner than I’d hoped.”

Darius scoffed. “You think he’ll listen?”

“If the situation grows grave enough he won’t have a choice,” Vasilisa reminded him gently. “We just need for him to understand the danger his father poses.”

Darius pinched the corners of his eyes, realising the truth of her words. “Father asked me to eliminate Princess Laila.” He uncorked his bottle again and held out an extra glass to his guest.

Vasilisa dismissed him with a hand. “He did what?”

“He desires for me to kill her at the tarot tournament. I assume as an elaborate spectacle to declare war.” He emptied his glass only to fill it once more.

“Well, I suppose that could work,” Vasilisa said, catching her chin between her fingers. “Are you going to complete your mission?”

“Why do you ask?” He smiled into his glass.

“Because I can sense there’s turmoil in you, Darius.” Vasilisa shifted to one side, her face the picture of motherly concern. It shouldn’t have hit him the way it did, seeing that. But the minute shift in her tone was all it took for him to feel all his oceans rise up. “You’re not usually like this.”

He blinked back the saline burning his eyes. “Well, I do what I have to. I always have.”

“But you care for her, don’t you? This isn’t like the time your father asked you to seduce Drusilla.”

He wouldn’t bring himself to say it, couldn’t. The words were too vast and unfathomable for even him.

“And I know Dominus cares for her too.” Vasilisa sighed, gathering up her skirts to stand. “I can’t provide you with the answer you might be looking for, Darius. But I will say you’ve always been smart enough to figure out the path that’s right for you. I can tell this will be no different, whatever you choose.”

She gave him one final sad smile before she left.

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Summer swept over the Citadel in the shape of a storm, staining the rain-soaked walls with a dense smear of black ivy. Even in summer, Mortesian weather remained merely tepid at best. The bone-rattling winter chill soon gave way to a stickier wetness; a density that hung in the air, heavy and ominous, like a noose with no neck.

Summer marked the rex’s annual tarot tournament where nobles poured in from far and wide to gamble riches, relics and even immortal souls on the tables of the royal gambling house.

The Siren, for such the house was named, was fronted by a facade of sea green marble adorned with chimerical grotesques and geometric ironwork lacquered in gold. It was both nauseatingly garish and darkly entrancing; the sort of eyesore that burrowed its way in through the socket until it was embedded in the soft cranial tissue beneath.

Tonight’s tournament was hosted personally by Dominus and Darius, both of whom arrived at the gambling house at the climax of the storm. Lightning plunged its fork into the earth as they entered, splintering the dimly lit interiors into shards of light and shadow.

Darius walked through the crowded hall, his blue kaftan mottled by the kaleidoscopic shards of stained chandelier glass from above. He scoped the room, marking its victims, deliberating on who would be the unfortunate soul he would inflict his diabolical skill upon.

He reached into his pocket for the deck of cards he kept on hand, preferring to use his own. They were antiques, hand-painted and faded with age, and he liked to think they brought him luck. Though it was rare that he would submit himself fully to the raw chaotic magic of chance, he liked a challenge from time to time; to see if he could get the hands of fate to rest warmly on his shoulders.

He scented Laila beneath the smog of sweat and smoke. She wore midnight velvet with a satin bertha, the frock embroidered with climbing roses made from cannetilles and hand-cut organza. Beside her was Dominus, dressed in pale gold, but most notable of all happened to be the vacuum of space between them that ached to be filled.

Darius quickly took the initiative. “Your Radiance,” he greeted, smooth as chenille, “fancy seeing you tonight.”

“Hm,” she hummed in response, her cherry-lacquered lips wrapped around a diamond tulip glass. “I wasn’t intending to, but all the stories Dominus was telling me made me horribly curious. And so I decided I would venture out, see where luck takes me.”

He grinned in response, thinking how much the hare she looked in this den full of foxes. Not far behind did he spy the silhouettes of Lyra and Léandre amongst the crowd. She’d taken extra precautions. “Does that imply you intend to play?”

“We were,” Dominus interjected in brusque annoyance, “before you so rudely interrupted.”

“I haven’t decided yet in truth,” she corrected, her chin dipped low. “You see, I happen to rather like having possession of my soul and wouldn’t quite want to part with it.”

“There are a vast number of other things you may part with in its stead.” Darius chuckled. He spied the choker of rubies glinting around her neck. “Your jewels, for instance.”

“Oh no, certainly not.” Laila’s hand flew towards them protectively. “But well, there is one thing I can think of to place on the table. If you’re interested. Dominus refuses to be anything but a dullard about the stakes.”

Amused as Darius was by the continued barbs against his brother, he was not fooled by the charmingly unassuming way she tilted her head. “I might be.”

“Tell me a truth,” she posited, “to any question that I put forth.”

Darius inhaled sharply. “She drives a hard bargain doesn’t she, brother?”

It was a price far more precious than a soul, more valuable than riches. The truth, under the right circumstances, could easily be more lethal than a blade.

“If you are willing then I am more than happy to accept,” Dominus replied with a shrug, “should be interesting to see you be forced to tell the truth for once.”

“I accept.” Darius’ lips coiled up like smoke. “But if I win I expect the favour to be returned.”

Laila smiled. “Alright.”

He handed the croupier his cards. The ghoul looked sceptically at them before replacing his deck and dealing their hands.

Darius was careful to give nothing away as he lifted his, appropriating a tumbler of whiskey that was hovering about on a tray.

He kept stealing glances at Laila to find her staring at her hand intently, her brow delicately crinkled. Whether it was in dismay or confusion he could not yet tell. She was just innocent enough to be illegible.

Laila, on the other hand, was trying to make sense of the cards she’d been dealt. She was no newborn to the art of tarot-playing though the cards here were unlike anything she’d seen. The numbers seemed to jumble around, leaping from face to face, the illustrations coming to life in ways that deliberately seemed to discomfit her. The fool pulled cruel, mocking faces; death brandished his bleeding flagpole with a sneer.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head in the hopes this topsy-turvy switch might cease. She looked to both Darius and Dominus and found them glancing at their cards serenely.

Dominus set down his cards, playing to the first trick. They each continued their hand until the round was complete.

The croupier announced Darius the winner.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Darius said, noticing Laila’s pout, “it’s a treacherous game, tarot, you might consider the cards to have a life of their own.” As he said this, the cards before him fluctuated and shifted like a mirage, a soft sound dispersing into the room that sounded a lot like laughter. “But it appears you owe me a truth.”

“What would you like to ask?”

He bit down on his lip, considering. “I couldn’t help but notice there appears to be a bit of tension between you and Dominus tonight.” He took a sip of his whiskey, savouring the residue on his mouth. “Why is that?”

“None of your business,” Dominus snarled.

“Uh uh.” Darius tsked in disapproval. “I am afraid rules are rules, brother.”

Laila’s own expression remained perfectly docile. “He and I are… having a little disagreement, shall we say? A little lover’s spat.”

“Regarding what?”

She smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You only earned one truth, Prefect. You’ll have to work a little harder for others.”

They go another round, this time with Laila coming away the victor.

The switch in her attitude was immediate; every inch of her body erupting into a pageantry of synaptic sparks in elation.

Darius watched this scene with an amalgam of amusement and incredulity which settled involuntarily into a bloom of endearment in his chest. It was times like this he forgot how young at heart she still was. She had not yet aged into apathy. She had not yet hollowed into indifference. She was still living the feverish highs of her summer years in contrast to the barren autumn of him.

“I believe I owe you an answer,” he said, polishing the dregs of whiskey from his glass.

She scrunched her lips to one side. “Tell me about the Culling.”

His hand stiffened at his glass. “An unexpected request.”

“And yet you promised me truths, Prefect. So let’s hear it.”

He glanced over at Dominus whose expression had considerably darkened, rage smudged like coal across his features.

“Alright,” Darius said, for a deal was a deal. “We do one every lustrum. Qarna tribes mark their doors with pig’s blood to signal they have an offering to make. Each family that makes a tribute that season gets spared the next, though only three cycles may be skipped before the next visit has the local enforcer come knocking. They give over the ugly, the sick, the deviant. Any qarna they happen to be willing to spare, the ones that won’t be missed. It doesn’t matter what afflictions they come with in life for they all end up the same when undead. Save the damaged or crippled of course, we require the bodies fully intact. Can’t put a corpse to work when it’s missing an eye or limb, after all.”

“That’s barbaric!” Laila exclaimed in disgust.

“That’s Mortos,” Darius replied, with a lethargic lift of one shoulder. “I feel I am beginning to understand what your lover’s spat might have entailed.” He traced his finger over the rim of his glass. “You have got to improve on your tour skills, brother.”

Dominus’ eyes flashed with anger. “You think I brought her there on purpose?”

“Don’t fight,” Laila scolded, hand rising to rub at her temple.

“Onto more mannerly subjects then.” Darius switched gears with ease, holding out his arm for her to take. “Join me for a dance?”

“Shouldn’t you be on your way—” Dominus began to protest.

“Actually, yes,” Laila interrupted, seizing hold of Darius’ arm at once. “Yes, I think I will.” She flashed a smile at Dominus over her shoulder —a sharp, supercilious thing.

Dominus’ expression fluctuated from red to black to red again. He was a balloon filled to bursting and Darius didn’t wish to be around when he eventually popped.

He led her towards the dancing area where a live ensemble played melodies designed for a slow, intimate mood. He spun Laila underneath his arm before pulling her close to lock their bodies together with his hand at her waist.

“You shouldn’t tease my brother so,” Darius murmured lowly in her ear once their fingers had intertwined.

“What makes you think I’m teasing?” Laila asked, resting her hand on the crook of his shoulder.

“Because if I was with you and I had to witness you two going off to dance together I’d be furious too.”

She lifted her chin to look at him as they bobbed in well-timed circles, expecting smugness in his expression. And there was that in spades, for certain. But there was something a little more earnest too, swimming underneath the surface.

“Perhaps what makes him so angry is that you persist in making comments of such nature.”

Darius chuckled, unable to refute her words. “I suppose you have a point.”

He soon fell silent, allowing the conversation between their bodies to take precedence. He was surprised by the affinity in which they moved together and against all odds he found himself enjoying this. Perhaps too much. The warmth and vigour of her live body against his own was almost too much for him to bear.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry you had to encounter the Culling in such a manner,” he said, eager to break the silence.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything different,” Laila replied wryly, “I have long come to know your land to be home to many horrors. What’s one more in the grand scheme?”

“Spoken like a true Mortesian.”

Laila scoffed in amusement. “I don’t think I’ll ever belong to this place.”

“Yes, I heard you had decided to resign your post.”

“A rather spur of the moment decision but I’ve come to recognise when I should admit defeat,” Laila sighed.

“You don’t sound too pleased about the fact.”

“Well,” Laila said, “I don’t believe my conscience could allow me to stomach shaking hands with a father who beats his child so savagely. I believe that is what truly disturbed me the most of Dominus. I could understand well enough being indifferent to the plight of a stranger. But the plight of a brother? That I could not accept.”

He was so surprised he almost missed a step. “You don’t have to feel scandalised on my part, princess. I am long used to my father’s dour moods.”

“But do you not ever wish for things to be different?” Laila asked, “why submit to such mistreatment?”

“Well, it is as you said. Mortos is a cruel land home to many horrors. Perhaps if I were mortal I would feel more immediacy in detaching myself from my predicament. There’s nothing like limited time to give you some perspective. But I am not mortal. I am a mere bastard of a king who cannot die. There is no corner of the isle I could seek refuge untouched by his authority. Where do you suppose I could turn to in order to escape in such an event? Better to remain close at hand to feed from the scraps of his table. Or at least that’s how I’ve come to see it.”

“That is too cruel for me to accept,” Laila said, “living one’s life eternally shadowed by an oppressor isn’t a life worth living to me at all. What is the use of having forever if not to use that time to access higher planes of joy? Tranquility?” She came to rest her hand against his cheek. “Love?”

Darius swallowed thickly, caught in the deep haze provided by her stare. He was to be a deep-rooted glacier of direction and purpose. Frozen, deadlocked. But she was the equator striking through him, matching his ice with her fire and it’s too much, too hot, the scorching white heat of her tongue. He steeled himself against the impulse to step back.

He dipped her down low, their sight not once breaking as he lifted her up again. “I suppose I’ve never come to look at it that way.” As much a proclamation to him as it was to her. He suddenly wanted to draw her near, taste the cherry lacquer on her lips. Red and full, like the berries famine often denied them. “Thank you, princess. The world could do with more souls like you.”

She received the compliment with the gentlest of smiles. “Thank you for the dance, Prefect.” She gestured for Léandre to bring her shawl. “But I feel I must go.”

Darius swallowed again, loosening the noose of his collar. He didn’t understand why his throat constricted so much upon seeing her escorted away.

“Wait,” Darius called. He couldn’t let her leave. Not yet. He realised this might be the last time he’d ever see her. Talk to her. He wanted to cling onto it a little longer. “Princess, wait.”

He followed her out into the unslaked bite of the night air before he caught her arm, swivelling her around to face him.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“At least stay a little longer.”

“For what possible reason?”

His mouth floundered. He was a fish without water. And how was it that she reduced him to this stuttering fool trying to scrape words off the ground like stray pennies when he’d had centuries of poetry and prose; of oratory prowess under his belt?

She turned back on her heel in disinterest, marching towards her carriage. Her chauffeur saw her approach and with a smile began to open the door for her.

“No, wait, please don’t—”

When the grenade launched and the chasm tore open Darius lost all sense of reasoning, all sense of self. He flung himself on top of her, shielding her even as stray bits of debris flew off wildly from all corners, striking his back and shredding his clothes.

He felt her squirm in panic beneath him as she clutched his shoulders but he didn’t rise from her, he didn’t lessen his grip, he didn’t spring upwards in shame or anguish. He just kept holding her as the air’s new ungodly mouth mercilessly engulfed the carriage into blackness.