At the memory, Thronos fought the urge to take his head between his hands and squeeze till something cracked. My mind, my mind . . .

“What do we do for now, my king?”

With effort, Thronos kept his tone even. “We recover. We plan.”

Jasen opened his mouth, then closed it. Thronos knew what question the knight had been trying to pose all week—but he didn’t know how he’d answer.

“My liege . . . will you tell me how you came to be on that mountain?” Jasen finally dared to ask. “Hundreds saw you simply appear.”

As Thronos had fallen, he’d desperately wanted to reach his people. Air had shrilled over him, his heartbeat booming in his damaged ears. Suddenly a wave of dizziness had overcome him, so fierce he’d had to close his eyes. When he’d opened them, he’d been standing amongst the others.

I traced for the first time.

Over the last week, he’d debated revealing his talent. If he had the ability, others would too.

After his journeys, he’d begun to suspect their blood might be demonic. Hadn’t he recognized that strange script in Pandemonia, as if from a genetic memory? Hadn’t he felt at home in that plane’s harshness? Why was he still so drawn to its untamed and tumultuous lands?

The ability to trace could be a priceless talent in any upcoming war. But his people had recently lost their king and then their kingdom; Thronos didn’t believe it was the time for them to learn of their demonic origins.

After arriving at the outpost, he’d given himself just one night to explore his new talent. He’d envisioned the temple of gold. That dizziness had struck him; an instant later, he’d traced there. As he’d run his fingers over the bricks, the feel of that invisible shard in his chest had returned with a vengeance.

When he’d flown over an eerily silent battle plateau and a river of lava, deeper went the glass.

And then, arriving in the forest glade—the oasis where he’d rested between his trials—he’d been nearly debilitated by the pain in his chest.

With a bellow, he’d traced back to the outpost, resolving never to return.

He’d only made it until the next night, drawn back to Pandemonia. . . . “I will tell you this, Jasen,” he said at length. “You alone for now.”

“Yes, my liege?”

“If you want to reach something badly enough, you will.”

Jasen’s eyes lit with excitement. “Very good, sir.” Before he left, he turned and said, “I’m glad that you are our king.”

Thronos wanted only to be a worthy one.

No, that wasn’t true. He wanted something else, craved it with a blistering intensity. Yet he couldn’t identify what it was.

Alone, he made his way to his simple cot, telling himself that he needed to sleep in order to heal. He lay back, the pain in his body flaring even worse at rest.

Sleep proved elusive. He felt he should be somewhere else, anywhere but here. Agitated didn’t begin to describe the turmoil inside him.

His shaft started to harden with insistent pulses, as if it had every expectation of releasing. The pressure only aggravated Thronos’s restlessness.

Perhaps he should make just one more trip. . . .

The lure proved too great to resist. He closed his eyes and pictured the forest glade, then tensed to trace there.

From the coolness of his cabin, he teleported into warmth and sprinkling water. He gazed up at towering moonraker trees, marveling anew at the floating bubbles, the drops that couldn’t seem to decide whether to travel up or down.

Lucky drops.

Why would he think that? He waved his wing, fanning the bubbles. Such a whimsical gesture, yet for some reason it grieved him. The glass shard was back, gouging through his flesh down to his godsdamned spine. He snatched at his hair, then twisted around to punch the trunk of a moonraker.

Leave this place of pain. Return to the outpost.

He made a vow to himself then: he would not ever come back here—until his mind had healed.

Pandemonia isn’t going anywhere. . . .

Lanthe sucked in a steadying breath. “I’m ready,” she told the group that had assembled in her room.

Rydstrom had his brawny arms crossed over his chest. Cadeon would have as well if he hadn’t been holding a baby. Holly, also holding a baby, looked worried for Lanthe. Sabine did too, having forgone her illusion of indifference.

Rydstrom said, “It’s too dangerous, Lanthe.” They still wanted to accompany her.

All of them. Well, except for the twins. Though those little badasses would probably think Pandemonia was great fun.

“We’ve been over this,” Lanthe said. “If Thronos sees huge demons, a Valkyrie, and two Sorceri, it’ll put him on the defensive. Face it, we look like a marauding gang. One more time, guys, I will be fine.”

Assuming she could even get to Pandemonia, Lanthe was as prepared as she could be. Sabine had insisted she borrow her ability to talk to animals. If a dragon wanted to chat, Lanthe was ready.

Another loaner? Lanthe wore her sister’s most battle-tested breastplate. As Sabine had grumbled, “You need extra insurance for my halfling niece or nephew.” Lanthe was also wearing more sensible boots (no stilettos this time) and a pair of second-skin leather pants—might as well squeeze into them while she still could!

“You’re not going to simply run into him there,” Sabine said. “What if you miss him?”

Lanthe marched over to her camping backpack. “That’s why I’m staying there.”