And to top it all off, Ellysetta Baristani had escaped capture. Again.

Of all the bitter disappointments—of all the gross ineptitudes—that was the worst.

His Mages had failed him. All of them. Nour had failed. Manza had failed. Keldo had failed. Dur and the Mharog had failed. Every Primage and Sulimage he’d entrusted to bring his great plan to fruition had failed.

“Damn them!” If they weren’t already dead, he’d kill them himself for their bungling.

Throughout history, High Mages of Eld had held their Dark throne through a combination of strength, cunning, and ruthlessness. But no amount of cunning or strength could disguise the string of failures that had dogged his footsteps from the moment he’d fixed his eye upon Ellysetta Baristani. Or keep the whispers already circulating in the Mage Halls from gaining strength and credence. Primages who had been waiting for him to falter would seize upon the survival of Prince Dorian, the loss of Celieria’s throne, and not one but two failed attempts to capture the Tairen Soul and his mate as proof that Vadim Maur no longer enjoyed Seledorn’s Dark favor.

He needed a decisive victory—fast. And this time he had no intention of sending a lesser Mage to bungle the job. He would oversee the next stage of this battle himself.

Vadim released the privacy wards sealing his room and summoned a trusted umagi to clean up the mess while he returned to the war room. Vargus and the other Primages were still there, several of them talking in quiet whispers. They fell silent when he entered. Vargus watched him with trepidation, the others with carefully constructed blankness.

“Vargus, pack your bags. You and I will be heading to Boura Dor tomorrow to oversee the next phase of our attack from there. And Garok?” Vadim turned to the Primage he suspected of leading the rumblings against him in the Mage Council. “You, Fursk, and Mahl are coming too.” He named the other two Primages who were most loyal to Garok. “I have an important job in need of your great talents.”

To his credit, Primage Garok’s expression never changed. “Of course, Most High.” He executed a smooth bow. “It is our honor to serve.”

Vadim hid his satisfaction behind a cold mask. When he achieved his great victory, he would be on hand to take the credit. His greatest detractors, unfortunately, would either perish as heroes supporting their Mage or die as incompetent fools, depending on the outcome of their battles.

When cunning and strength were not enough for a High Mage to hold his throne, it was time for ruthlessness. In particular, the swift and decisive elimination of all who opposed him.

Celieria City ~ The Royal Palace

Annoura, Dowager Queen of Celieria, sat alone on a stone bench in the private palace garden that had been Dorian’s favorite. Winter had come, and the trees had all lost their leaves weeks ago. It seemed fitting, somehow, to be here now, alone in a barren winter garden.

A sealed letter lay in her lap. Her name was written on the front in a familiar script. Dorian had sent the letter to Dori, in Great Bay, before his death. The ink was a bit smudged from seawater. When Dori’s ship went down, the letter was tucked in an oilskin pouch strapped to his waist. Her son had come very close to dying. If not for the Danae water spirits who had rescued him from his sinking ship, he would have drowned at the bottom of Great Bay.

The Danae had saved him, and he had returned to Celieria City with Gaspare Fellows, a dahl’reisen from Cannevar Barrial’s land, and the Fey, to save her. After all she’d done, after all her hatred and accusations, the Fey and a dahl’reisen had still come to save her. That was a humbling realization. But not nearly so humbling as the realization that her Favorite, Ser Vale, had been a Mage, one who’d nearly claimed her soul.

She had harbored, in her innermost circle, an Elden Mage who had planned the execution of her entire family in order to claim her soul and rule Celieria through her and the royal son she carried in her womb.

She ran the pads of her fingers across the folded parchment of Dorian’s last letter to her. She was afraid to crack the seal, afraid what harsh truths might lie inside, but eventually, she mustered the courage. The blue wax broke in two. She unfolded the parchment and began to read.

My Dearest Annoura,

I hope this letter finds you well. The battle has not yet begun. We wait in growing tension and dread, which I suspect is the enemy’s intent. But the waiting is a boon as well, for it has left me with much time to think.

There is a saying here along the borders: A man never sees more clearly than when he looks death in the eye. As I sit here in this cold, dark castle, on yet another cold, dark night, waiting for war, I know it is true, for I see more clearly than I have in a long time.

I have thought a great deal about the difficulties that have beset our kingdom, and this war that has sprung upon us with so little warning. I have my suspicions, which I have written in a letter to our son and asked him to share with you. I will not dwell on those suspicions here. This is not a communication from a king to his queen, but a letter from a man to his wife.

When a Fey warrior meets the woman who completes him, his soul’s truemate, he knows in an instant. And in that instant, whether she will have him or no, he binds himself to her, heart and soul with the words “Ver reisa ku’chae. Kem surah, shei’tani,” which means “Your soul calls out. Mine answers, beloved.” And he spends the days of their courtship—the rest of his life, if necessary—proving himself worthy of the magnificent gift of her love.

I know how those Fey feel, my darling. That was how I felt the first moment I met you. How I still feel, today.