“How are we going to make the Shadow do that?” Clythia drawled out the words.

Kay met her gaze. “You made a covenant with the Shadow,” he leaned forward, and some kind of understanding passed between them. “That’s where you will find your answer.”

“I am not going back to DavinSaw,” she huffed, “not yet.” She said the last part softly, remembering Tiyus’ coercion.

“You don’t have to.” The human king’s gaze shifted to Modyr. “The Shadow is in every corner of Zyvern.” Some shuffled in their seats, terror and curiosity splashed on their features as the truth of the Shadow and the Sovereign unveiled before them. “Where did you make your sacrifice?”

“Somewhere in the castle,” the faerie king leaned back, fiddling with his ring.

That took the air out of Clythia’s lungs. A disruption rippled through the room. Some gawked at the walls as if the Shadow was going to loll out and drag them in. The werewolves were muttering something under their breaths that sounded like prayers.

“All this time?” Morven began, disbelief and rage swamping his features. “It was here?” The last question seemed to be directed toward himself rather than the faerie.

“Do you know of it?” Modyr asked softly.

“That bitch lied to me, then,” the vampire muttered, unaware that everyone had stilled at his out-of-the-blue revelation. It took him a few seconds to realize all eyes were pressed on him. “It’s a long story. And no, it wasn’t during the Sovereign’s era; I haven’t broken any forged rules,” he spat.

“We can also summon the strange creatures you spoke of,” the human king started, “if they meant no harm, or if we can handle them.”

If Clythia was fate, what the human king suggested sounded like the turning point of bad things morphing into the worst.

“What are these strange creatures?” Glythia asked, wariness in his tone.

“The Evils,” the vampire and the faerie said in unison.

Clythia’s heart danced on its tiptoes before sinking down to her stomach.

“And the Beasts of Surial,” Clythia stuttered out, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Those beasts are confined only in Surial,” Kay said. “That’s what history says.” He looked at Morven for confirmation; the vampire nodded.

Here Clythia thought she was well-versed about the two profound eras that hammered out Zyvern to its current form. Yet, she knew so little. Even the human king’s knowledge put hers to shame.

She had scoured every piece of literature there was to know about the stark differences between the two eras—or what was available in DavinSaw. If she hadn’t read it herself, scholars had read it for her; Wigmond had taught them to her.

Her mother grilling her on the Lore of the Eras was one of her earliest memories. Nonetheless, she knew so little. She boasted about knowing better than her subjects because she was a royal, and yet now she felt very stupid, and the desire to shrink away grew in her.

A sudden brush on her knuckle spewed her out of the self-shaming thought. Modyr was shuffling his arms. It seemed an unintentional action, yet when she met his eyes, a reassuring gaze pinned her in surprise before it was gone in a blink.

“Summoning the creatures is a very dangerous thing,” Modyr turned his attention to the human king. “There is nothing they will do without their own twisted motivation. They are Children of the Shadow; you can’t expect them to do anything out of the kindness of their hearts. We are already in enough of a pit because of the Shadow as it is.”

Clythia wanted to probe further about their origins of the Children of the Shadow, since it meant more knowledge about Tiyus. However she bit her tongue, the desire of not revealing her foolishness further more winning over her curious mind.

“I agree,” she said, sounding as nonchalant as possible. “I have no interest in being involved with the vile creatures.”

A sharp shooting pain speared her waist. She yelped, then bit her lip to bar the unfinished scream, suddenly aware that all eyes were trained on her.

“Are you all right?” Glythia scanned her with his sky-blue eyes, which didn’t seem to dim even in the faint light of the etched orb.

A servant and guard of hers approached her; she waved them off.

“I am fine,” she said with a trembling tone.

She was anything but fine.

The pain was now morphing into a molten lava of pleasure that was snaking down her spine. Something wet was trekking down her temple and her back. Sweat was enveloping her under the pristine white dress.

Fuck, not now!

“You are shivering,” Glythia claimed.

Her left hand was trembling out of control; she withdrew it from the table and tucked it between her thighs.

Clythia wasn’t going to let them see her disintegrate into pieces. The last thing she saw was the intrigued stare of King Kay before she let darkness swallow her whole, envisioning the roses at one corner of the garden she saw in the grounds.

“Really, I called your lot vile and you chose to be petty?” The pain doubled, and the pleasure licked her core with more vigor. She moaned from the pain or the pleasure—perhaps both—leaving her disgusted with herself for being too weak. “I apologize. Please don’t embarrass me in front of everyone.”

The pleasure dulled as though someone had trapped her in an ice cube; the pain on her waist ebbed away, magnifying the stings conjured by the thorns digging into her palms and arm, sullying her white dress in red, a hue matching the petals of the roses.

She hissed; her head was swimming. Her knees wobbled in her attempt to stand up, as though she were in a delirium caused by old wine.

Before her blurry vision, a pair of muscled legs clad in boots and dark fabric appeared. Clythia didn’t need to lift her chin to know who it was. The scent of dew and leather had already announced the identity.

“I only require utter obedience from you, my queen,” Tiyus crooned, the last two words like an ironic jab.

He fell silent for a moment as Clythia stumbled to her feet, yet failing again. Her gaze remained lowered; she didn’t trust herself to look into his eyes, fearing she wouldn’t be able to maintain her composure.

“Once you are assigned a chamber, I will be waiting there. You can ask me anything about the Sovereign,” he said. Of course, he knew about the conversation; how he knew, she wasn’t willing to find out, and at this point, it mattered not. “More importantly, you will know your mission in Stormia.”

“I only want to go home.” Her throat was dry, her voice hoarse like sandpaper. “I don’t care about the Sovereign.”

“I am flattered by how attached you are to me, embracing the Shadow unlike the human or the faerie,” he said with a low chuckle. “The orange doesn’t fall far from the stem.”

Did he just imply that he knew her ancestors? Someone who entertained the Shadow's embrace?

Ilyana.

Despite DavinSaw being mystic-heavy, it wasn’t a religious nation; only one person was revered almost as a deity, and that was Ilyana—the witch who battled the slavers, saved her continent, and struck a deal with the Sovereign. She was the definition of bravery, leadership, and strength.

Yet, Ilyana was in the clutches of the Shadow willingly...no, Clythia’s thoughts were rushing to conclusions. This wasn’t true—Tiyus was lying.

All the inquiries were on the tip of her tongue, but opening her mouth would be an act she would come to regret, given that insults and curses would be pouring out too. Hence, she diverted her fury to her inner cheek, allowing her teeth to dig into the soft flesh.

“You are not going to ask about what I meant by that?” Tiyus tisked. Some part of her was pleased she hadn’t fallen for his bait.

“You are learning to behave, my queen. Impressive,” his voice lowered one pitch. “No matter how slow, the steps you are taking toward obedience are admirable. You will be rewarded soon.”

Now she wished she had said something to wipe the smug look off the face she was deliberately avoiding.

If Tiyus had said this on the first night she met him, she would have been his mat on the floor, bending to his every whim and kneeling until her knees were branded. Yet then and there, despite her animalistic instinct purring to his voice, her gut flipped, sending bile darting up her throat.

He crouched down, his face swimming into her vision. She ducked her chin even lower. “Now that you are my slave, your will no longer belongs to you.” His finger tipped her chin up. Her eyes rolled further down, focusing on the tip of her nose, avoiding the calloused arms just a tad south of her gaze.

Her tongue slid between the gears of her teeth, replacing her inner cheek; blood and saliva swam in her mouth. It was taking all her power not to unleash her fury on the Evil.

Yet as much as she hated Tiyus, she hated herself twice as much. This was her fault. As a queen, she should have known better than to welcome a stranger into her bed. This was the real world, not a fantasy tale spun by an erotic author from Melop. Now, her lust had gotten the better of her and doomed not only herself but almost doomed her son as well. If she wasn’t careful, it was likely to doom DavinSaw too—even the whole planet.

The thought of her son was the anchor she was clinging to with all her abilities, preventing her from unleashing all the magic thrumming within her on the vile beast before her, from Diseventuating to her palace to see how Clen was doing, or from succumbing to the desire that threatened to engulf her.

“Go back to the meeting,” Tiyus ordered.

With a flick of her finger, the wounds and blood faded from her skin. Darkness swallowed her whole, and she popped out on the very seat she disappeared from.

Startled faces welcomed her; some jumped in their seats. The werewolves muttered something under their breaths. The humans exchanged glances, sharing a shared hatred for her among themselves. Even the vampire tossed a stiff flinch at the sight of her. Modyr raised a brow, concern flickering in his eyes. Glythia made the scene more dramatic by sloping his monumental figure to the side and pushing on Morven.

“I’m fine,” she snapped at Casarda, who had left her chair and was scuttling toward her. “Sit your ass down,” the Lady of Spies retraced her steps back, eyes still on her—whether the worry gleaming in them was genuine or not, she couldn’t tell.

However, Clythia was anything but fine. Panic had her in a chokehold. The fact that a cruel monster—it was a good thing Tiyus couldn’t read her thoughts—had so much power over her was rattling every fiber of her being.

It was as if the Evil was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Wherever she was, he was there too. Her mind was the only sanctuary he couldn’t step into, and she was glad for that as she used that one freedom to rain down insults on that son of a whore.

Perhaps what she wanted was not to go back home but to Stormia, to find the Sovereign and beg them to cleave her from this curse. She couldn’t live like this; this would only lead to losing herself and becoming a toy for the Evil until no will of her own remained.

“You haven’t touched your plate,” Modyr murmured to her, yanking her out of her thoughts.

As her mind was reeling, she was half-aware of what was going on around her. After more discussions on plans to execute in Stormia, a meal was served, mainly a variety of fruits and bean soups. The aroma was inviting, however Clythia had lost appetite.

“I can’t see any meat.” Clythia said, taking a bite of a fruit punch, it tasted amazing. “This is a dessert, not a meal.”

“That is barbaric,” Modyr shuddered.

“Yet delicious,” Glythia said with a mouthful.

“I don’t expect a dog to think otherwise,” the faerie said.

The Prime clanked the fork on his plate. “You two would make a formidable couple,” his gaze bounced from her to the faerie.

“What did I do?” Clythia raised her hand in a gesture of innocence.

“What didn’t you do?” Glythia grunted.

His accusation wasn’t only about the similar comment she dished out to the werewolf king. Clythia had the feeling his tone carried blame for her indifference to his werewolf’s funeral, for murdering the human girl, and, more importantly, for binding herself to the Shadow.

Clythia had doled out her patience to its last drop, thanks to Tiyus, and she didn’t regret crossing one more line between her and the rulers as she let an invisible force slam Glythia’s face onto the pile of fruit punch on his plate.

The werewolves dashed toward their king in unison. Strong hands pulled on his shoulders to peel him from the plate. His hands pushed on the table, managing to drag it along with his face until those sitting on the other side were chased out of their seats and ramming it against the wall.

“This,” Clythia hissed in his ear, “I didn’t do this.”

Then she let him go; his face was dripping with fruit juice, his eyes were bloodshot from the vinegar and lemon, tears mixed with his sticky face, and slabs of salad stuck to his forehead, slowly sliding down his nose and plopping onto the plate—half its contents were scattered on the table.

Modyr clapped his hands and laughed wholeheartedly. Not only him, but the sight of the lethal werewolf in such a diminished manner was whimsical enough that even though almost everyone despised Clythia, they didn’t withhold the laughter bursting out of their mouths.

The werewolves didn’t find it funny, though; they were glowering at her with ice-cold hatred. One of them raised a fist to barrel it toward her face; the reverberating laughter ceased abruptly.

When it was an inch away from her cheek, his fist froze, and its direction veered toward his own face, connecting with his jaw with such force that he flipped back onto the mat. The laughter resumed with more energy.

Glythia wiped his face and leapt to his feet, sneering at her, baring his teeth, revealing his elongating canines. A growl rolled off his throat that belonged somewhere between a man and a beast.

“If you touch the Witch Queen in my territory,” Modyr’s voice came softly, “I will destroy you, so please sit down and enjoy the generous hospitality I’m extending, Glythia Amandaw.”