Mortal

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

THE FORTRESS SPRAWLED along the edge of the forest, her turrets sunk deep into the earth like the talons of a steel-footed throne.

From here among the twisted pines, one might monitor the hills of Byzantium, the world capital, twenty miles away. Might gaze at the roiling sky and devour its ominous poetry-might shun the diffused light of the sun.

The thin strain of violins filled the master chamber, pumped in through the vents like air. They lingered like shadows in Saric’s private chamber, now bared of the gold silks that had recently hung in the corners.

A knock at the door.

“Come.”

Corban entered and sank to a knee. A second figure stepped in behind the Master Alchemist and followed suit. A simple Corpse, as they were called.

“My liege.” Corban’s head was bowed, his long hair unbound over his shoulder.

Behind the ebony desk, Feyn Cerelia, Sovereign of the world, laid down her silver knife beside an unfinished meal. The glow of the tabletop candelabra glinted off the ring of Office on her hand.

So much had changed.

Eighteen. It was the number of days since she had woken to new life at the hands of her Master, Saric.

Seventeen. It was the number of days since she had first realized that love was born of loyalty. Maker to creation. Master to servant. In it, she had found a measure of peace. She was more than a thing reborn. She was a thing perfected.

Eleven. It was the number of days since she’d realized that she was a creature destined for more power than her Maker and succumbed to the demands of her own destiny.

Saric’s downfall had been his own arrogance, of course. She, not he, had been made the superior vessel, having been trained for Sovereignty her entire life. She, not he, was the greater ruler, and now mastered the Dark Blood with more power and authority than he ever had.

This was her destiny, not Saric’s.

Nine. It was the number of days since Saric had disappeared into the wasteland beyond the Seyala Valley, after losing the men she had dispatched to follow him.

“Rise.”

Corban stood, stepped aside, and nodded at the leader of the senate, who was trembling with palpable fear.

“Hello, Dominic,” Feyn said.

“My Lady,” he said, head bowed, eyes fixed somewhere on the lion rug before him.

Feyn pushed the carved chair back and rose. To Corban: “Have you found my brother?”

“No, liege,” the alchemist said. “I’ve dispatched four hundred to search him out, but there is no sign of him.”

She slid her gaze along the table, past the glow of the candelabra to the empty glass sarcophagus.

“Keep looking.”

Feyn glided around the table, the hem of her red velvet gown trailing along the floor behind her. The beads on her sleeve caught the dim light, throwing fire against the walls.

Behind him, Dominic looked up as though searching for the source of the violins, his eyes stark at what could only be the realization that it was not the staid music of Order, but something far more emotive and ancient.

“By week’s end, I want the appropriate traces of my blood in every Dark Blood. Like you, their allegiance will be to me alone.”

Corban inclined his head. “And if we find Saric?”

“Then you will kill him on sight and bring his body back to me intact,” Feyn said.

“Yes, my liege.”

It was only a beginning. She would go much further than Saric had ever dreamed.

She moved toward Dominic, laid a hand along the side of his head, cupped his cheek. Did he tremble?

Yes.

“You will be my firstborn. Soon all the world will follow in your footsteps.”

“What is your wish concerning the Mortals?” Corban said.

“We will extinguish them,” she said, her attention fixed on Dominic. “We will wipe their names from history.”

She smiled then, lowered her hand. “Are you ready, Dominic?”

The senate leader lifted his head and silently nodded.

“Corban,” Feyn said.

“Yes?”

“Turn the music off.”