Page 172 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

My father hauled himself up, fury flaring across his features. “Arabella! Praise the heavens! Get me away from this lunatic’s serenade. Have you any idea what I’ve endured?”

Kazimir stepped up to the bars, radiating menace. “My wife suggested we keep you—” he smiled coldly, “lucid. Now I’m second-guessing that decision.”

Whatever bluster my father had mustered vanished. He went pale, casting frantic glances between us.

I signaled the guards. “Open the door. We’re moving him.”

They hauled him out quickly, and I couldn’t resist noticing how pathetic he looked, stumbling and trying to maintain a scrap of dignity. The journey to the next wing felt interminable. My father’s breathing turned ragged the moment we led him into a chamber with a row of terrifying implements lining the walls—spiked contraptions, scalpels, bizarre glass vials with tortured spirits swirling inside. Kazimir’s presence completed the effect, leaning against the wall with an air of menace.

My father’s eyes fixed on me. “Whatever he promised you, Arabella,” he rasped, “he’s lying. Men like him don’t?—”

“What do you suppose he wants, Father? My bloodline? My connection to the First Hero? How different is that from what you wanted? Or Auremar?” I let my voice harden. “Forty thousand crowns, wasn’t it?”

He gaped at me while the guards forced him onto a stone chair. Shackles sprang to life and clamped around his wrists.

“Why does Auremar want you dead?” I demanded. No point in wasting time.

Father started with bluster—denials, righteous indignation. My truth-sense screamed behind my eyes. He must have noticed something in my expression because he faltered, hedged, and finally stammered, “I… I don’t know.”

I shook my head in cold disbelief. “Liar.”

Shadows snapped down, swift as a whip, slicing a thin line across his cheek. He yelped.

“I’m not known for my patience, Evenfall,” Kazimir said in a dangerous voice.

Father’s eyes darted around the chamber. “I can’t tell you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “There are… consequences.”

“And there are consequences fornotspeaking.”

Shadows curled around Father’s forearm, raking thin welts down his skin. He whimpered. This sniveling coward was the man who had ruled my life with an iron fist? He broke at the first touch of real pain.

“You don’t understand,” he gasped, terror flashing across his face. “There are things worse than your shadows.”

“Try me.” Kazimir leaned closer. “Whatever you fear, I assure you, I can make it seem like mercy.” He raised his hand again, letting more shadows slither around my father.

Father’s eyes bulged. “The King!” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “His magic… it isn’t his own. He wasn’t born with any.”

I frowned. “I’ve seen Auremar’s spells in court. If it’s not from heroic blood, then what is it?”

“Something old. Terrible.” Father sagged in the chair. “The Golden Roses help contain it—containhim—but Auremar’s been siphoning power.”

“Go on,” Kazimir said, as if he was bored.

Fear twisted Father’s face, and when he spoke, it was in a strangled whisper, “The Shadow King… he’s real, imprisoned for centuries beneath the Rose Fields.”

I felt Kazimir’s rigid silence. For all his earlier dismissal of ancient tales, he looked distinctly grim now. He and I exchanged a look. The Hero’s Garden. The ley lines. Perhaps theywereall connected.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “The Shadow King’s been dead for centuries. After Soriven transformed him, he led a long life atoning for his evil deeds.”

“That’s what your mother told you,” Father said. Bitterness twisted his features. “She didn’t know the truth. Few people do.I’mnot even supposed to know. It’s why”—he licked his lips—”why the king wants me dead. Long ago, Auremar told me that Soriven never redeemed the Shadow King; hesealedhim away with blood magic. The Golden Roses grew from that blood.”

“What?” I stepped closer, disbelief churning in my gut. “Mother’s stories all said Soriven transformed him through compassion. That the roses were a gift of healing.”

Father let out a harsh laugh. “Pretty lies for children. Your mother believed them too—her family made sure of it. Every Golden Rose that blooms reinforces the seal.”

“The Hero’s Garden,” I whispered. “It wasn’t about compassion at all.”

“It was about containment,” Kazimir said quietly beside me, his expression darkening. “Blood magic of that magnitude would require an anchor, something living that could sustain the spell across generations.”

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