Son? King Griorgi—River’s father—is here. Working with . . . with Emperor Jawrar? Is that how the qoru are here, beyond the wards meant to keep them in Mors?

Lies. Qoru lies. They have to be. I look at River, my throat closing as I see Jawrar’s words drain all the blood from the commander’s beautiful face. Not a lie. Truth. Stars. I long to reach out to the warrior. But there is no reaching out. There is nothing.

I am too dry-mouthed to scream as two sets of Night Guard hands grab me, dropping me hard to my knees. My bones yell at the abuse and my body fights to react, Tye’s power still bubbling in my veins. Fire. I could—

I catch Tye’s head-shake as he too is forced to the ground. An order to stay put.

He’s right. I would only set the cellar aflame and cook us all like so much steamed meat. Plus, he’d have already done something if he thought it would work. Instead, Tye kneels on the ground just as River and Coal do. Shade’s wolf is held at bay with a crossbow, a guard’s belt wrapped around his black muzzle. I draw a ragged breath, the sight of my males not fighting sending the coldest chill yet down my spine.

The emperor turns to the pair of guards holding Coal. “Chain that one up. I’ve a few who would be pleased to reunite with the buck . . . personally.”

The deafening sound of shackles closing around Coal’s wrists echoes through the room. Coal’s face is stone, his blue eyes an unbreakable mask that gives away nothing of the nightmare he’s living through.

Jawrar surveys our quint, hesitating on me and stepping closer. Bile rises up my throat as he approaches, filling my mouth. A hand so gray it reeks of rot reaches for my face, and I pull uselessly against the night guardsmen holding me in place. No. No.

“No!” Coal roars. Not at Jawrar, I realize, but at River.

Too late. A shock of power booms through the room, shaking the ground so hard that it’s a wonder the walls still stand.

Jawrar pulls back from my face, a shield as black as darkest night flashing around him. Whatever burst of power River launched is swallowed silently into darkness.

Slowly, carefully, the qoru twists toward River. Jawrar’s leathery gray hand rises. Slashes down.

River doesn’t scream, but I do as I see the skin on his cheek pull away from his flesh, splitting into a whip-like gash. River jerks against his guards’ hold, his jaw tight. Another stripe appears, this one on his neck, spraying his shirt with blood. A third, on his back. A fourth. The fifth strike of Jawrar’s invisible whip finally draws a grunt of pain from River’s shaking form.

“Muffle it,” Jawrar orders the night guardsmen holding River. “I can’t hear above the noise.”

Turning his attention right back to me, the qoru’s slitted nostrils expand. “The female smells wrong,” he calls to someone in the cellar behind him. “This little filly has no blood of yours, Griorgi. Not even of fae.”

“Of course not,” answers a low voice, its deep sophistication hauntingly familiar. A corruption of a voice that I know and hold dear. Its owner enters the room a few heartbeats later. As large and dark-haired as River, with shoulders wide enough for two males, King Griorgi wears an intricate tunic of brown leather studded with rubies. Harsh and gaudy. Like River, Griorgi steals all the air from the room, but through a toxic presence rather than a commanding one. The strong planes of his face echo River’s, but his nose comes to a hook that turns him from handsome to hawkish. Eerily familiar gray eyes skip over River—who’s biting back screams through the gag stuffed into his mouth—to rest on Jawrar. “Autumn is not part of this little nonsense. Let me speak to my pup.”

The night guardsmen holding River pull the gag from his mouth, though the invisible lashes continue to mark his shirt with blood.

River gasps for breath, spitting blood to the floor as he straightens his back. His chin rises, pain hidden behind his blazing gray eyes. “What are you about, Father? Working with Jawrar? Have you lost all sense?”

“And you wondered why I didn’t choose him as my emissary,” Griorgi calls over his shoulder to Jawrar, before returning his gaze to River. “Is this truly what you’ve come to, son? Scurrying about the Gloom like a foot soldier? Mingling with sniveling mortals? Tell me, does Klarissa clip a leash on you when you are back at the Citadel? Do you still enjoy following after her like a lost pup, pissing on walls at her command?”

My breath catches, River’s utter lack of emotion burning my heart. He knew. Not that Griorgi was here, working with Jawrar, but what his father was. Is. What Griorgi thinks of his son. A critical, soul-wrenching piece of River’s world that he’s kept from me. Just like he once tried to conceal his royal lineage from me altogether.

The knowledge that River never truly trusted me hurts as badly as watching him bleed.

Griorgi strides forward and squats before his son, his strong features twisted into a cold frown. “The world is changing, River. Lunos is changing. This reveal might be a bit ahead of schedule, but truth is truth. The qoru are coming out of Mors into a new world. One where Lunos and Mors are allies. Trading partners.”

“With you in charge of Lunos?” River says, viscous blood now dripping to the floor beneath him, the new wounds not even appearing through his soaked shirt.

“Of course,” Griorgi says simply.

“And when Jawrar decides to drain you and leave your husk to rot?” River says. “What happens then?”

Griorgi sighs, shaking his head. “Stop letting your own fear cloud your senses, boy. A good alliance isn’t built on trust; it is built on checks and balances and contingencies. My death would stop the good emperor here from being able to travel to Lunos, and that is something neither of us would find convenient.” Griorgi’s voice changes. Becomes deeper, more dominating than even Jawrar’s. “You are still my blood, River. My flesh. Join me, and I will welcome you back.”

“Go to hell,” River growls.

Griorgi rises, shaking his head. “Idiot, but still mine,” he tells Jawrar over his shoulder. “I want to keep him. If nothing else, it will bring the other one trotting in. Sooner than I’d have liked, but flexibility is a virtue.”

The other one. Autumn, who’s in charge of Slait Court’s Gloom patrols.

“Do you truly need the girl’s assistance?” Jawrar asks, a hint of exasperation entering his voice. “If those patrols are so bloody loyal to her, just scorch the Gloom and be done with it. I little like the extra moving parts.”

Griorgi crosses his arms and shrugs, his ruby-studded armor moving gracefully. “I could. I choose not to.” A hint of a smile. “My intent is not to let you roam free throughout Slait, Jawrar, which is what your request would accomplish, but to bring the rogue elements under my control. Dead warriors do very little for me.”

“I’ll get you new warriors,” Jawrar says with a snort.

“No doubt.” Griorgi smiles in earnest, the intelligent glint in his gray eyes so like Autumn’s that my breath catches. “However, I will make the decisions about my court. I’m certain you understand.” Not an idiot. Whatever else the bastard is, he unfortunately is not an idiot. “River lives,” Griorgi continues. “You may kill the others. Feed on them if you wish, or have them disposed of outright. I little need the extra bodies around. This isn’t a—”

“Meat market?” Jawrar’s lipless face twitches in what I can only assume is a smirk. “Debatable. However, yes, I do take your meaning. There has been too much playing with food as it is. The mortal and that buck over there, I want to speak with personally. The rest, we’ll have taken care of in a few hours.”