Page 51 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

I nodded in satisfaction, surveying the carnage. My three shadow warriors—summoned from the dark corners of my own runes—drifted among the bodies, silent and lethal as ever. With a flick of my hand, I dismissed them. They twisted into wisps of shadow and seeped under my scarred flesh, leaving me with a jolt of power that crackled cold across my nerves.

“String them along the road outside the village,” I said evenly. “To send a message.”

Thorne gave a curt nod. “And the villagers?”

I cast my gaze over the ramshackle huts. Every door and window remained barricaded, the people too afraid to see what fate awaited them. “What do people think of the Dark Lord these days?”

“Probably that you roast people alive and bathe in the blood of virgins,” he replied solemnly. “Same old story.”

I almost chuckled at the memory of Arabella telling me something similar only a couple days ago. Still, I quite liked rewarding terror with a firm dose of reality.

“Out!” I barked at the huts. “Now!”

Slowly, doors opened, revealing pale, hollow faces. A few men carried makeshift weapons, more posture than threat. Women shielded children behind them, trembling. An elder in a worn robe shuffled forward, determined despite the stoop of his shoulders.

“You’re the Dark Lord,” he said calmly.

I inclined my head. A ripple of tension went through the crowd.

“Why help us?” the old man asked. “The Viscountess?—”

“Is spread thin,” I interrupted. “Now, how long have these raids gone on?”

“Three weeks,” he answered. “They started small—stealing livestock, pilfering storehouses. Last week, they torched the mill in Oakhollow and murdered the miller’s family.”

I frowned. “And Viscountess Morana sent no soldiers?”

“She recalled most of them north,” someone else muttered darkly.

“And what of King Auremar?” I pressed. “Solandris is only a breath away.”

A bitter laugh escaped a tired-faced villager. “He’s busy polishing his towers. We’ve sent messengers—none returned.”

I took another step, letting them all see the gore staining my sword. “And yet I stand here, not Auremar or Morana. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

No one dared laugh. They just stared, fearful and half-hopeful.

“What do you want of us?” the elder ventured.

I liked his directness. “Simple. Trade with my territories. Pay me tribute—crops, livestock, resources. I’ll ensure no more bandits trouble you.”

“You want us to abandon the Viscountess.”

“If you prefer being ransacked to aligning with me, go right ahead.” I swept a glance over the ragged villagers, letting silence underscore how close they’d come to annihilation.

The hush stretched before the elder drew a trembling breath. “She won’t like it,” he whispered.

My expression turned cold. “Leave her to me.”

At that precise moment, hoofbeats cut across the tension. Soldiers galloped in from the eastern road, bearing the silver serpent crest of Arvoryn. The villagers parted, uncertain whether to hide or watch. I remained where I stood, sword still in hand, as Viscountess Morana dismounted.

A tall woman with braided dark hair and calculating eyes, Morana radiated an aloof elegance. No fewer than five expertly crafted daggers were displayed on her belt, with more likely hidden within her clothing. When her gaze alighted on the dismembered corpses, shock slid over her features before she masked it with chilly composure.

“Lord Blackrose,” she greeted with forced cordiality. “You’ve been busy.”

“Cleaning up your bandit infestation,” I replied. “They were having a grand time terrorizing your villages.”

Her jaw tightened, but her voice remained even. “My forces have been engaged elsewhere. And you took the liberty to handle it without informing me?”

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