by Anna Carven
The way he felt right now… it scared her.
He felt like he wanted to kill someone… or worse.
What are you doing, Imril?
He was probably a thousand miles away or more, and there was nothing she could do. The delicate markings on her hand started to throb again, and a strange feeling spread through her body—fear, desire, frustration.
The frustration of not knowing, of not being in control, of trusting her fate to a higher power…
It was maddening.
And all she could do was wait.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
With the vault’s three massive seals completely burned through, Imril strode down the corridor, his incandescent aura lighting up the cavernous space. Still there was no sign of Nykithus, and not a single Naaga in sight. The stillness was unnerving, even for him.
In other circumstances, the silence might have given him pause, but he had no choice now.
Keep moving. Finish this.
The shadowveil was failing, Mael was going mad, and he had to destroy this abomination of a city before its inhabitants ventured into the outside world and ruined everything, before they went after the vir-rich humans.
Nykithus thought he was the Overlord now?
Imril growled, and the walls around him cracked as his aura flared.
Enough.
He would kill the bastard.
This ended now.
“Nykithus!” he roared, losing patience. “Show yourself, or I will burn your fucking eyrie to the ground.”
He didn’t want to kill the Naaga servants if he could avoid it—they were innocents, after all—but if he had to, he would.
As he rounded a corner, reaching a pair of wide double doors that were decorated with ornate but meaningless stars—hundreds of them, polished so brightly they glittered as if they were in the night sky—he felt a tug at the edge of his consciousness.
Esania.
Her pull was intoxicating, as always. Although their link was faint, she reached out to him, seeking him out with an intensity that made him want to go to her immediately, drop to his knees, and give her his world.
She was his lukara, truly.
If only they could do mindspeech.
But that would come later, when their bond was stronger.
Her presence gave him strength. He was doing this not just for revenge, but for Esania and her people… even for the surly Vradhu, who had good reason to despise him.
For the first time in a very long time, Imril wanted to protect his tribe.
Esania had put him to shame, had shown him what loyalty meant. Against impossible odds, she’d never given up. Even when he’d offered her sanctuary and safety, she’d never forgotten about her people.
Brave, wily Esania. How had she even convinced him to take her back to the forest?
I’m going to finish this, Esania, for you.
This was a remnant of his old life; a consequence of the corruption that lay beneath the deceptively grand surface of his empire. A terrible, familiar emptiness crept into his soul. The Drakhin were an abomination, and this world of theirs… it never should have existed.
He would destroy it before its dark tentacles had a chance to touch her.
He, the tyrant; brutal, all-powerful, despised by his own people… betrayed by the one closest to him.
And now beholden to another.
You are not going to fuck this one up.
Imril slammed his palm against the doors, channelling his power, superheating the metal until it glowed white-hot.
Unexpectedly, they swung open.
Without hesitation, he stepped inside.
And froze.
Chapter Forty
An army of Naaga stared back at him, their pale, pearlescent eyes glowing in the dim light.
They had weapons.
Behind him, the doors slammed shut with a resounding thud.
Imril became furious. “What is the point of this?” he thundered, staring at the strange triangular devices in their hands. “Stand down, or I will burn you all to ashes.”
Some of the Naaga stepped back immediately, responding to the command in his voice. Others refused. He was starting to get used to that.
The servant race was diverging; thanks to Nykithus’s genes, they had discovered free will.
This world was changing; always changing.
Imril walked forward, the halo of power around him flaring. “You know I can kill all of you right now if I want. Your master knows that. Is he the sort of Drakhin who would needlessly sacrifice you for the sake of his misguided ambition?”
Imril thought about releasing all of his power in a single devastating blast. It thrummed through his veins like a wild creature, pummeling at the walls of his self-control, taking all of his energy just to keep it at bay.
He had never felt this powerful, ever. Esania’s vir was just that incredible, and impossibly, the longer she was with him, the more potent her energy became, especially when she was aroused. It would take at least a hundred feedings from a hundred different Naaga to try and even touch this level of power.
How utterly humbling. After so many hundreds of revolutions of fighting his way through life, of trying to understand what exactly he was, he came to realize that he knew so little about the Universe. How could a creature like Esania contain so much untapped power within her fragile, slender frame? How did she seduce him, challenge him, vex him, all at the same time?
He, who had once been the strongest thing on this planet, so full of cynicism and ennui that he could kill on a whim.
Not anymore.
One of the Naaga lobbed something toward him; a round, circular device that looked like a bomb. Imril pushed his power outwards as the thing exploded, releasing noxious grey gas. His aura burned away the grey cloud before its plumes could reach him. Nothing could touch him now.
The Naaga chattered amongst themselves, clearly agitated.
“Is Nykithus a coward?” Imril asked, raising his wings menacingly as he stalked forward. Unable to stand the heat of his aura, the Naaga scuttled backward. “This confrontation is going to happen sooner or later. Whether it be the next revolution, or in a hundred, I am going to find him, and no virus or poison or weapon is going to be able to touch me. I can kill all of you in a heartbeat.” He had Esania now, and she made him invincible. “So I will ask you again. What is the point?”
Cowed by his voice, several of the Naaga had dropped to their knees. The others glared at him defiantly, but he could read fear in their silvery vir. The closer he got to them, the more he could taste their energy. It was so different to hers; faint, metallic, joyless.
As if they were the twilight, and she, the sunrise.
“Are you going to obey your master? Do you really think you can kill me, samare?”
He stepped forward again, lighting up the darkness.
They shrank back.
Fearful eyes.
Indecision.
Silence.
“The Lightbringer is right.” A voice rang out in the cavernous chamber, and he recognized it instantly. Nykithus. “You are no match for him when he is in this state.” A sigh. “There is almost nothing that can kill him, and I won’t send you to a pointless death. Stand down.”
Quickly, almost eagerly, the Naaga fell back, clearing a path toward the center of the room, where a massive throne sat in the center, its carved obsidian wings soaring up toward the roof.
In the throne sat a familiar figure. This was the very being that had almost destroyed Imril’s entire existence, and he still didn’t understand why.
And this was definitely a trap.
A growl rose from deep within Imril’s throat.
Regardless of the reason, he was going to kill the bastard.
Chapter Forty-One
“Nykithus,” he said softly, staring at the Drakhin sitting in the massive throne. “What have you done?”
Three hundred revolutions had passed since disaster came
down upon his world, but it could have been yesterday.
Only Nykithus appeared… different.
The dim light reflected off Nykithus’s smooth silver skin, burnishing his elegant features—a perfect combination of his Vradhu mother’s and Imril’s own.
Unable to have offspring of his own, Imril was the prototype, the progenitor, his genetic material harvested by the Ancestor and multiplied a thousand times over in a terrible experiment.
“Imril,” Nykithus replied slowly, his voice empty, hollow, a pale imitation of what it had once been. “You think I’m afraid of you, but there are far worse things in the Universe than even you, Lightbringer.”
Imril looked into his subject’s black eyes and found nothing.
No spark, no emotion, not even anger…
Nothing.
“Are you sure, Nyk?” Imril used the diminutive form of his name on purpose, a reminder that Nykithus had once been nothing but a common Drakhin without a title.
His voice reverberated with power. Energy rose off his body in waves, turning the air around him into a shimmering inferno.
He was ready to shoot a bolt of pure energy right through Nykithus’s heart and be done with it… but he hesitated. As he looked closely, he could see that there was something… odd about the other Drakhin. Nykithus’s features were unchanged, his sleek black hair arranged in its customary high topknot. He wore a suit of pristine white scale-armor, which contrasted perfectly with his silver skin.
White was such an ostentatious color for a Drakhin. In Imril’s court, none had dared wear white for fear of offending him—because of his almost-white skin.
But Nykithus had always been a little bit vain.
“Yes, Imril, I’m sure,” he drawled. “You see, I have also seen the face of our Ancestor.” Slowly, he stood, unfurling his black wings. Being of the second line, Nykithus possessed the classic coloring of a second gen Drakhin—silver skin, dark hair, black wings.
And yet there was that sense of wrongness again—Imril couldn’t quite put ins finger on it. “What are you talking about?” he snapped. The Ancestor was dead. Mael had killed him with his bare hands and wrapped him in shadow, thrusting his ephemeral body deep into the belly of the mysterious Hythra.
The sentient ship had consumed their father, merging him into her vast consciousness, but now she was melting inside Za’s core, and Imril had a strange feeling about Nykithus that he just couldn’t shake off.
“He hasn’t really seen my face,” Acheros said suddenly. “He just enjoys taunting you, son. An ambitious one, this youngling.”
That voice… it was the sound of his deepest nightmares.
I am not your son! Imril stiffened, resisting the urge to look around. How… how are you even alive, bastard?
How was the monster even here? Had he been released during the destruction of the Hythra?
Because of course, the Auka’s voice came from Nykithus’s mouth.
“Acheros,” he said quietly, and his voice was ice-cold, without a shred of emotion in it.
Even though he was seething inside.
Even though a sudden panic came over him, because his mate was far, far away, and the source of all evil was here, inside Nykithus’s body.
“Is that surprise I detect in your expression, my child? You think I am so easy to kill?” The Auka chuckled, a humorless, bone-chilling sound. “I existed long before this planet was even a speck in the Universe. Time is irrelevant to us. You are still young, but you will learn. The Hythra was merely a container, and now this child has agreed to become my vessel.”
Imril stared at Nykithus’s face as it changed, becoming smooth and eerie and ageless. He said nothing, anger and helplessness building up inside him.
Acheros was supposed to be dead.
Foolish Nykithus. Do you even understand what you’ve agreed to? Were you so desperate to escape Mael’s shadowveil that you did a deal with the scourge of the Universe?
The thought of Acheros even existing in this world… in Esania’s world…
It was unacceptable.
The Auka could not be here. Not now, when Imril had found his lukara, when he finally had a true sense of purpose in this life.
He started to concentrate every single shed of power in his body, pulling the energy into his chest, building a single bolt of power that could wipe out half the planet if he unleashed it without caution.
Right now, he was dangerous, a live incendiary bomb about to explode. Any ordinary mortal who touched him would be killed instantly.
The desire to kill Acheros was so strong that he began to shake. This was the cruel, vicious alien who had subjected their mother to so many hundreds of revolutions of terrible torture, of cold words and physical pain and imprisonment and long, maddening silences.
And then the bastard would turn it all around and say he loved her.
Torturing her with the promise of kindness, never quite delivered.
Hot and cold.
Darkness and light.
Cruelty and a shred of tenderness, so rarely glimpsed…
But mostly, Acheros was an old, sadistic, cynical bastard who had lived too long for his own good, who knew how to manipulate with terrible skill, who tried to shape his own sons into his image and failed, terribly.
Kuleh.
Evil.
His mother had taught Imril that word, had taught him the meaning of such things. In Drakhin language—the tongue Acheros had invented—there were no words for good or evil.
As the heat inside Imril’s chest grew, he felt something stir.
You.
She was calling to him through their bond.
The female he missed so badly. Her touch, her scent, her sweet calm voice, her green eyes, as calm as a deep lake on a still day, the way she could quell the firestorm inside him with a single measured look.
He loved her.
The Drakhin language had no word for love, but the Vradhu did, and he spoke Vradhu just as well.
He was half-Vradhu, after all.
Through their bond, Esania reacted to his emotions, radiating concern. He wanted nothing more than to go to her, right now, but he couldn’t.
Not when Acheros was here. He would not lead the Dark One to his mate or her people. He would never put them in danger like that.
If his father got his hands on that much vir… Imril shuddered.
It occurred to him that Nykithus’s body didn’t radiate any power at all. Strange. But then again, Acheros never radiated power either. The Auka was darkness and light in perfect sync.
“I can see that you desire to kill me, son.” Nykithus’s silver face smiled, but it was Acheros’s smile entirely—never reaching the eyes. “You’re not thinking clearly. Even in this inferior body, I would destroy you.”
“You can try,” Imril grated, the energy inside him swelling until it hurt. But you’re weak right now, aren’t you, bastard? Mael damaged you. You can’t even hold your own form.
Imril got the feeling that Acheros was bluffing.
The Auka wouldn’t have tethered himself to Nykithus’s body unless he absolutely had to.
But one niggling doubt remained at the back of his mind. Esania had asked him to look for a missing human called Rachel. What if Nykithus and Acheros were holding the human somewhere and feeding off her?
What if Nykithus/Acheros were hiding some monstrous strength?
It didn’t matter. He had to get rid of Acheros before the monster grew even stronger.
One chance.
That’s all he had. He had to make this hit count.
Even if it meant destroying half the planet.
As long as he kept Esania safe. That was all that mattered.
“I know what you’re thinking, child of mine, but you can’t kill me.”
Imril said nothing. He closed his eyes and let the powerful wave of hatred wash over him, remembering the first time he’d ever rebelled against his sire.
Not his father—no, he would n
ever call Acheros that. Imril might have inherited Acheros’s DNA, power, whatever, but he was the Auka’s offspring in blood only.
When he’d first rebelled—the first of thousands of such incidents—Acheros had locked him in a lightless room, where no sound was able to penetrate. No interaction, no Naaga to feed from, no stimulation whatsoever.
Just Imril and his own silence. How long had he been there? Dozens of revolutions, perhaps.
“You should know this, child. I created you from my own flesh and blood. You are what I am.”
Imril sought the place in his mind that he kept so deeply locked away—the place he’d retreated into when he’d been locked inside Acheros’s sensory deprivation chamber. He clung to images of all that was good, remembering what his mother had taught him. There were rare occasions when Acheros had allowed him and Mael to see their mother, and Imril drank in every single moment of the time spent with her as if it were sweet, precious life-giving vir.
After a while, though, those visits stopped.
“Imril, stop this insanity and join me. You and Mael are the only Drakhin with enough power to rule this world. I gave Mael the skies, and you the lands. Is that not enough? Do you yearn for something more?”
For the first time ever, Imril heard a note of frustration in Acheros’s voice.
A crack in the impenetrable facade.
He gathered more power, and his scale-armor, made from an alloy that was supposed to be resistant to all temperatures…
It started to melt.
And Acheros chuckled, his voice filled with approval. “Finally, you start to fulfill your true potential. Join with me, Imril, and I will give you knowledge that will make you a God in this Universe. Our kind are rare amongst the stars. On some planets, we are even mistaken for Gods.”
Oh, it all sounded so seductive, but Acheros was just saying this because he was weak. He would find a way to use Imril, and as soon as he got what he wanted…
Shut up.
Imril thought of Esania.
He fixed her image in his mind as he became hotter than a thousand suns. His armor was gone, probably vaporized. Perhaps his flesh was burning. Perhaps his solid form was turning into something else…
