Page 186 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

I was still grappling with the phantom heat of Arabella’s skin against mine, which reality was doing its damndest to exorcise. Three days lost to the kind of deep, bone-weary recovery that blurred waking and sleeping, tangled limbs and shared silence. It had been… satisfying. Immensely so. But the sharp tang of ozone from the Guild’s attack, the vacant space where Sims used to stand, and the undeniable rot of betrayal somewhere within these walls clawed their way back into focus.

Contentment was a fragile beast.

Thorne had begun processing our captives—efficiently and brutally, as needed—but I wanted Sir Darian Lightbringer, the golden-haired poster boy for heroic delusion, all to myself. My magic felt frayed. My battle overload made compulsion impossible. Still, I needed answers, and I didn’t care how ugly fetching them became.

Arabella had insisted on attending this little show. By rights, she could have claimed dibs on Lightbringer, but she’d been content to observe. She was calm beside me, her posture betraying none of the ferocity I knew simmered beneath thatexterior. She was also a distraction, occupying a corner of my mind that should have focused on the battered knight bleeding out on the floor. I couldn’t help being drawn to her, but a man could multitask.

Sir Darian knelt on slick stone, face already punished by fists, torment etched into bruises and cuts.

“I’ll ask one more time.” I let my voice drop to a bored monotone, something that wracked an enemy faster than theatrical rage. “What does Auremar want with my wife?”

He spat a stringy mixture of blood and saliva near my boot. Solid defiance for someone who couldn’t move half his body. “She’s not your wife,” he said. “She’s a prisoner. A toy.”

Prisoner, toy, bride—call her what you like, you drooling hypocrite.My left hand flexed, and shadows gathered at my command, coiling around his throat until he made a strangled noise. “That’s still not an answer.”

I should’ve been able to break him faster, but his mind was shielded by a vile mix of holy conviction and something else. Possibly Auremar’s new brand of magic, or my own magic’s post-battle drag. Either way, I tamped down a sliver of frustration.

Darian’s face went red as the shadows tightened. “The king… peace… restore Lady Evenfall…” he rasped, voice strangled.

I released his throat so he could attempt a real explanation. Another shadow twined up his arm instead, sliding beneath his ragged tunic and burrowing beneath his skin. His choked gasp ripped into a raw scream that echoed off the cold, uncaring stones. Arabella watched him, her expression masked in dispassion. She didn’t bat an eye.

“Propaganda again?” I said, letting the shadow retract slightly. “I’m tired of the kingdom-approved script. Spare me the heroic drivel and give me something I can use.”

I pulled a melted sliver of blood from him, a thick droplet glimmering with an oily sheen. Corruption clung to it, humming with dissonant power. It was disturbingly familiar, like a warped reflection of my own shadows, which told me it definitely wasn’t standard-issue Guild bravado.

“You’ve been feeding on something interesting,” I remarked, flicking the globule in idle fascination. “Dark magic? It tastes foul, especially for a ‘hero.’ Auremar’s doping his knights now?”

Fear finally won over his battered pride. He choked on a plea. “Please.”

Progress. I crouched down to meet his eyes, ignoring the stench of panic. His entire body trembled, withdrawal etched into every twitch. “Your heroic blood is tainted, Lightbringer. Did you know? Or did you suspect it all along, and take it anyway, hoping for a power boost?”

I conjured a thin thread of shadow, imbuing it with a faint shimmer mimicking the corruption in his blood. The illusion of relief.

“I could probably give you what you need,” I said casually. “That power you crave.”

Hope, raw and ugly, flared in his desperate eyes. He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the flicker of corrupted essence spinning at my fingertips. “He promised… it would make us strong. Then the pain… it’s too much when it fades.”

I let the swirl of black shimmer drift closer. Lightbringer shuddered, ready to debase himself for another taste.

“Small wonder you attacked us like a pack of rabid wolves,” I said. “Tell me about the spy, Knight. Someone inside Skyspire gave you a way through. Who was it?”

He started, “We didn’t—” I jammed the needle-sharp shadows back, and he shrieked. “Tokens! Enchanted tokens. We activated them when we reached your ascension platforms. Theylet us in before your wards fully recognized… But we weren’t expecting you… to be there.”

Access tokens.

Griffin’s intricate system, perverted and turned against us. Standard guest tokens wouldn’t bypass the Inner Sanctum wards or grant access that deep without multiple alarms triggering. Which meant someone with high-level clearance had provided them. Someone who knew about the emergency ascension protocols, the linked portal network, the lightning bridges. Someone who could issue or duplicate a token cleared for the Inner Sanctum. Pip? No, a servant was seeming less and less likely. A guard captain? One of the senior staff? The list of suspects narrowed considerably.

I met Arabella’s stunned gaze. She’d clearly reached the same damning conclusion.

Darian was trembling, eyes locked on the illusion of corrupted magic I still held. “Please,” he begged. “Just a scrap… I can’t stand the emptiness…”

It was pathetic, yet informative. The King had given the Guild something they couldn’t live without, and now they were tethered to him through magical dependence. Brutal, but not particularly clever, considering Lightbringer had just given up everything for a taste.

“Viscountess Morana,” Darian blurted, tears streaming. “She let us march through Arvoryn Pass… no patrols… We had a deal.”

Of course, the jealous bitch. Another loose end dangling, waiting to be snipped.

I dismissed the conjured darkness. My compulsion, when it returned, wasn’t likely to glean more from a mind half-rotted by addiction. I stepped away from him, turning to Arabella. “He’s broken. He might babble more once the withdrawal really digs in. Your choice: kill him or store him for later?”

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