The rush of cold wind against his body gave Imril little relief from his seething lust as he flew into the setting sun. He crossed mountains and rivers and streams, passing over decaying relics and abandoned cities and the occasional lone eyrie with narrow spires stretching high into the sky, some of them cracked and crumbling.

Abandoned, all of it.

What have you done?

His empire, gone.

It was so long ago, but Imril could still remember Nykithus’s calm, smiling face as he raised the metal canister and released the Deathkiss virus… only at that time, Imril hadn’t known what it was.

“It’s already too late,” he’d whispered, retreating quickly as Imril rose off his throne, power crackling from his hands. “I have immunity, but even you won’t escape this, Overlord.”

“What is this?” Imril thundered, striding toward Nykithus with blazing hands, ready to wring the whelp’s neck if he refused to explain.

“You will see.” Nykithus unfurled his black wings as he strode toward an open balcony. Outside, the stars glittered in the endless sky. “You’re too old and too powerful, Overlord. You can’t see what is right in front of your face.”

Nykithus’s expression changed, and for the first time, Imril saw his true heart.

It was full of venom.

Nykithus, the golden child, the favored one, the brilliant scholar, the innovator, the almost-son that Imril had taken under his wing…

His silver eyes burned with pure hatred.

Why?

“You thought to deceive me, Nykithus?” Imril’s voice was deceptively quiet.

Nykithus gave him a dark look. Then he turned and jumped, snapping his wings open as he caught a fierce gust of wind.

Instantly, Imril followed, but Nykithus had already disappeared into a thick bank of cloud. Consumed with anger, Imril fired a massive blast of power in his direction. It ripped through the clouds, leaving nothing in its wake. Imril flew on and on, searching for Nykithus, but the bastard had disappeared.

He could have gone in any direction.

Clearly, he’d planned this attack well.

“I’ll kill him,” Imril growled, coming back into real-time. The depth of Nykithus’s betrayal stung more now than ever, now that he’d lost his people, his empire, his identity. He drew some comfort from knowing that at least some of his people had made it off Khira alive, but hundreds of revolutions had passed, and he had no way of finding them now.

But he’d found life in the form of a sweet, soft-skinned female, a human called Esania.

And he would lay down his life for her.

He stared down at the world below, watching the landscape fade to grey, the gentle swells of mountains and valleys limned by the silvery moon. Imril tracked north, navigating by memory and instinct rather than sight. After thousands of revolutions, he knew the lay of these lands like the back of his hand.

He flew until he reached the Vakarin Plains, which marked the very edge of the Mountain Kingdom, Ton Malhur.

Here the darkness deepened, snatches and reflections of light disappearing as he reached Mael’s shadowveil. A strange tingle rippled over his entire body, the effect of flying so close to a structure that was composed entirely of nothingness.

A sense of urgency rose up inside him. He had to kill Nykithus before the shadowveil collapsed completely, before the horrors of this dread kingdom were released to the outside world.

Mael’s structure was crumbling. Soon it would be no more. As Imril flew, great patches opened up in the darkness, and now and then he would catch sight of a cluster of golden lights far below.

There were settlements down there. If there was one thing Nykithus had always been good at, it was building his kingdom. An obsessive scholar of the Auka manuals and a master planner, Nykithus had seized Ton Malhur from its previous owner, a lazy upstart called Khel. The two Drakhin had engaged in a vicious death-battle from which Nykithus had emerged the victor.

That’s when he’d first caught Imril’s attention.

And when he received Imril’s blessing to keep the lands he’d won, he’d constructed a great civilization on the rolling hills, his new eyrie almost tall and grand enough to match Imril’s own.

Back then, Imril had been impressed. He hadn’t seen the growing danger.

Cocky. That’s what Nykithus was. In all his brilliance, he’d grown arrogant, forgetting who and what Imril really was.

Imril swooped through a large hole in the shadowveil, staring straight down. A faint glow crested the horizon, becoming stronger and stronger as he neared.

He realized what it was.

Civilization.

A vast city stretched out before him, hugging imposing hills and deep valleys, networks of blue and white lights glittering in the darkness. The uniform buildings of the low-lying outskirts quickly gave way to a manufacturing zone, where tall towers belched dirty smoke and grey-robed Naaga scurried about in the throughways.

The air here was toxic. His armor shifted and became airtight, protecting him from the noxious vapors. He flew over vast lakes of poisoned water, some glowing in various shades of blue, green, and lurid yellow.

A desolate feeling crept over him.

This is…

This reminded him of his father’s way of doing things.

Acheros the scientist.

The explorer.

The creator.

Imril remembered how the Auka would creep into his chamber on the Hythra, materializing out of thin air, millions of tiny shadowparticles coalescing into his menacing form.

Acheros took delight in causing fear.

The most frustrating thing about Acheros was his face. One never saw it clearly. It was always changing, always obscured behind a veil of shadow that writhed and shifted, revealing only what he wanted to show.

His sire was dead now, and Imril had never even seen his true face.

Bastard.

Disgust roiled through him. Able to disappear and materialize at will, the Auka were truly terrifying beings. He hoped he would never encounter another in his lifetime.

At last, Imril caught sight of Nykithus’s eyrie in the distance.

Built from pale grey stone, it was constructed in the classic style, with four outer spires and a large central spire that rose high above the rest.

This was probably a trap, but Imril didn’t care. If things went wrong, he had enough power in his body to raze this entire place off the face of the planet.

As a last resort, he would simply destroy everything.

He pushed on, filled with anger and seething frustration, feeling stronger than he had in a long time.

This level of power… it was dangerous. Nykithus and the other Drakhin had never seen him like this, so full to the brim with power that his eyes turned incandescent white.

Esania’s vir was so pure and potent that it almost made him drunk, and to his delight, it became even richer when she was aroused. When he’d pleasured her, taking in her sweet nectar for the very first time, following some mysterious instinct that told him where and how she’d be most sensitive, she’d responded beautifully, surpassing even his wildest dreams.

Imagine what she’d be like when he completed his mark; when she was truly his.

Nykithus, you insolent little shit. You do not understand what you have done.

Imril flew toward the central spire, spotting a large window. His entry point. Was Nykithus arrogant enough to be there waiting for him? It didn’t matter. One way or another, Imril would kill him.

He dropped silently onto the ledge of the window, his scale-covered feet soundless on the cold stone as he angled his wings, controlling his descent. The window was covered by a thick glass surface. Imril simply pressed his palms against it and channelled power through his hands, melting the surface. He pressed hard and the barrier shattered.

He stepped inside.

Darkness greeted him, so Imril just released a bit more of his power, obliterating the shadows. He was ablaze in the darkness, a pillar of incandescent light.

Her light.

He felt her in the depths of his soul. She bore his mark now. The song of his power was inscribed into her skin, connecting her to him, connecting them both to the vast energy that flowed between worlds.

Impossibly, at that moment, she reached for him, and he felt her concern radiating through the bond.

Sweet thing. Do not fret. Thanks to you, I am far, far stronger than anything Nykithus can throw at me.

“Show yourself, Nykithus,” he thundered, and power flowed through his voice, changing it; making it deeper, more resonant.

More like an Auka’s voice.

In response to his command, a Naaga appeared from the shadows. With silent, graceful footsteps, she walked fearlessly into his radius. “The Overlord will see you, but on his terms.”

The Naaga possessed the blue skin, pleasing features, and white feathered head-plumage that were typical of her kind. 4507 was the servant-number tattooed into her forehead.

Imril stiffened as her silvery vir drifted toward him. Compared to Esania’s energy, it was dull, faint, laced with fear and misery, and there was no way for him to stop absorbing it.

“Overlord?” he said softly, one corner of his mouth quirking upward in amusement. “So Nykithus styles himself as my replacement now, does he?” Was it possible to be both irritated and furious at the same time?

The Naaga stared at him blankly, her pale eyes glowing white with the reflection of his power. Her face was expressionless, but her vir told him everything.

She was terrified.

Despite his growing irritation, Imril felt a pang of sympathy for the servant, who was utterly defenseless against him. Maybe the time he’d spent with Esania had sensitized him to such things. “He’s a coward for sending you up here to face me alone. Where is he?”

Silence.

“Where is he?” Imril thundered. Was this Naaga resistant to his commands too?

“He…” A pained look crossed her face, as if she were torn between two masters.

Imril took a step forward, drawing in more of her vir, and not in a pleasant way. The energy he took from her was just a tiny drop to add to the torrent of his power. “You are going to disobey your master, Naaga, because if you don’t, I will send my power through the walls and floors of this spire, right down into the heart of the eyrie, and everything will be obliterated in an instant, even you. I will ask you one last time. Where is he?”

A pause.

A great tremor coursed through the Naaga’s body. Her expression grew pained. “U-underground,” she whispered at last. “In the vault.”

When Imril sounded like this, with the cursed power distorting his voice—more Auka than Drakhin, more like his infernal father than ever—no Naaga could resist his commands.

“Hiding already?” Imril scoffed, well aware that this was probably a trap, but not caring in the slightest. Nykithus had gotten the better of him last time, because he’d had the element of surprise, but he was too young to understand what Imril was truly capable of.

“You will take me to him, now.” He tapped into his power, releasing his tight control just a fraction more… until he was surrounded by a halo of white-hot energy. No disease or plague or poison could breach this barrier. Nykithus’s old tactics wouldn’t work now.

He silently thanked Esania for her generosity, for her willingness, for the exceptional vir she’d given him, enabling him to carry out such an impossible feat.

Alarmed, the Naaga stepped back, escaping his radius. “I can’t disobey…” Again that pained expression flitted across her elegant blue face.

“You can. You just did.” Who are you more afraid of, Naaga? “Don’t test me, Naaga. I will not ask again.”

The servant nodded glumly and headed for the door.

Imril followed.