5 / Ebon Askavi

Saetan calls in his half-moon glasses and settles them on his nose. He reads the report, one elegant eyebrow rising halfway through it.

Daemon sips from his glass of red wine. “Should I be worried?”

“Thieves are not uncommon in any Territory,” Saetan remarks mildly. He removes and vanishes his glasses. “However, this appears to be more than simple thievery.”

Daemon nods, waiting for him to continue. He watches his father steeple his fingers, a Black-Jeweled ring flashing for a split second on one hand. That face—an older version of his own—remains carefully blank.

When Saetan says nothing, Daemon asks, “How long has Phaedra ruled Ciraea?”

“Over two hundred years.”

“Is there a history I should be aware of?” the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan questions the former Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

Saetan’s eyes are hooded. “Such as?”

Daemon mirrors his father’s look. “I can think of only one reason why a group of males would challenge a Queen’s authority.”

“This is not Terreille, Prince,” the High Lord reminds him.

Daemon lets the air chill just enough to warn of his temper. Probably unnecessary, since the man opposite Daemon understands him better than most.

Saetan sighs. The tension breaks.

“I can recall only one… unusual event during Phaedra’s reign.” His father’s voice is suddenly rough. “Mephis handled Dhemlan’s affairs in Kaeleer for an extended number of years.”

Daemon swallows to ease the tightness of his throat at the mention of his eldest brother, a brother he was not able to know for long before Mephis returned to the Darkness.

“Mephis remarked to me once that it would be unlikely for Queen Phaedra to stay in favor for more than fifty years. Along that vein, I was under the impression that her Court would dissolve.”

“Why is she still ruling?”

“There are many and varied reasons, Daemon, but Ciraea’s sympathy, perhaps, is the greatest of them all. Her only child—a son, if I’m not mistaken—was killed in an accident shortly after a third of her First Circle asked to be released from their contracts.”

“Ciraea felt deeply for a mother’s loss and did not have the heart to take away something else which mattered to her,” Daemon finishes.

“Precisely, my dear Prince. She was able to promote enough members of the Second Circle to remain in power.”

“Was it an accident?” In Terreille, Phaedra’s son’s death would have had too convenient a timing for anyone to seriously believe it was other than murder. But, as his father said, Kaeleer is not Terreille. Not the Terreille Daemon grew up in, that is.

“Almost a century later, Phaedra accused her Master of the Guard in the death of her son; something along the lines of a lover’s jealousy. Phaedra’s son had been sired by her first Consort. The affair was rather… unpleasant; Mephis attended the man’s trial in my stead. The evidence was disturbing, not to mention extremely incriminating. The Queens of Dhemlan found the Master of the Guard guilty.” Saetan closes his eyes briefly. When the High Lord opens his eyes again, there is an uneasiness in them that bothers Daemon. “Phaedra went against the appropriate punishment and had him publicly executed. She claimed a mother’s right to the debt owed and was forgiven. I doubt the people of Ciraea—or Dhemlan, for that matter—have seen her in the same light since.”

Daemon takes a moment to process Saetan’s story and all the nuances therein.

His father wants to know his plans. “Well?”

“I may need to travel to Ciraea.”

“I assume that Surreal and Rainier are already there on your behalf.”

“Yes. They have not reported back yet.”

Saetan is watching him. “You’ll keep me apprised of the situation.”

It’s not a request. Daemon smiles. “Yes, Father.”

The High Lord of Hell’s shoulders relax. “I suppose I ought to wish you good luck, but I rather suspect it is Phaedra who will need that luck.” Daemon snorts and uses Craft to send his glass sliding onto the side table. “But I will ask you to be careful, Daemon.”

“I am always careful,” he replies silkily.

Saetan agrees, “Yes, you are, Prince. Let this time be no exception.”

6 / Ciraea

The rogues are stationed in groups of three, one set of which are keeping watch for the guards. Jakob, Eyan, and Charon have been waiting for nightfall in a tavern nearby, rolling dice and drinking ale to blend in with the crowd. Traye sent them word two nights ago of exactly when the ship is slotted to be docked in the port of Halesford. One of the men, an older Warlord who used to be in the merchant business, has loaned them the use of two covered wagons filled with straw. In a short span of time, two teams will work diligently to unload as many cargo bays as possible. Then the wagons will go their separate ways from Halesford—one north, one south. It’s planned well, honed from the other three raids completed in the past.

Charon is antsy, as always, this far into the game. Jak suppresses a sigh and an urge to fix the Warlord’s leg to his chair to stop the incessant bouncing. He settles for shooting the man a look instead. Charon glares back.

Eyan sighs at them both. A man walks along the dock, by the table that the three males are occupying in the shadows of a noisy tavern. The man stops, bends down as if to pick up a copper discarded on the ground. It’s their signal.

Jakob tosses his companions a salute of sorts, stuffs his hands into his pockets and ambles east to the wharf. Halfway there, he slips into an alley. A set of spells are prepared: one for distraction, a look-over-there spell, and another to put the dock workers to sleep. It’s the best he can do to prevent bloodshed.

In the past, his spells were carelessly done—and that almost cost them the first mission. Jak is lucky that the worker who’d awoken as the last load was being hoisted off the ship didn’t have his wits about him well enough to raise the alarm. Eyan had been directing their men on the dock and caught the fellow quickly, silencing him with a knock on the head. Eyan, who was a properly trained male that knew how to defend and protect when necessary; but also a man who does not take pleasure in harming others. He is a Prince, not a Warlord Prince like Jakob. Jak knows, with certainty, that his own response would have been instantaneous and deadly for the sailor.

So he went to his friend Moira, an accomplished Black Widow and a witch who befriended him as an adolescent—one who saw into him, the pain and anger he hid, and told him “You are owed a debt, child. When the time is right, it will be paid in full.” She taught him how to make the spells stronger and more subtle; how to subdue the enemy with a suggestion rather than a fist; and how to economically siphon the power from his Jewels to keep the spells engaged for the length of time required.

Once the spells are in place, Jakob walks along a pier, dodging the men that are exiting the ship. It has recently docked and most of the workers will be released from duty to enjoy the late hours of the night, to spend their pay on strong drinks and the pleasures of the bed.

A hand snags his sleeve. Jakob pivots and greets Traye like a long lost brother. No one else pays them any mind as they slap backs and tease each other. It’s all part of the show. Jakob leans against a large netted stack of crates.

*How many left?*

Traye pulls out a flask from his short vest and takes a long swallow before passing it on to Jakob. *Twenty or so. Can you cover that many?*

*Yeah.*

The question is legitimate, given his Opal Jewel. But Jakob doesn’t plan on using his Birthright for this task. No one else needs to know that.

When the number of people along the docks dwindles down to the guards and a pair or two, Jakob follows Traye onto the ship and hands him a piece of black ribbon. Traye looks bemused.

*Tie it around your wrist.*

*You’re joking!*

*Not unless you want to nap with the rest of the crew, Warlord.*

Traye ties it onto his left wrist with the funniest expression Jak has seen in a long time. He would laugh but that might call unwanted attention to them. Jakob walks several feet away and activates the spells.

*What’s that?* Traye’s thought is laced with wonder as a dark glitter seems to float like a fine mist onto the boards of the ship.

*That—* He rubs his palms against his trousers to shake off their tingling. *—is our protection.*

He walks back onto the dock and releases the next set of spells along the perimeter. Guards will suddenly be too tired to keep their eyes open, and any who do not carry a particular type of ribbon—it is actually carefully woven, spelled spider silk given to him by Moira—will feel uncomfortable approaching the dock for no explainable reason.

Jakob does a quick check of his surroundings, opens his barriers just enough to get a feel for the area. Then he sends out a sharp call along a spear thread aimed at Eyan. Within minutes, word has spread and the rogues glide like shadows to the ship. Each man comes with intent to see this night’s work through. Each man, Jakob hopes as Traye leads them to the cargo below the decks, comes with his own honor, his own hope for the people of Ciraea.

If not… Prince Jakob knows only too well that the simplest misplaced move can bring a house of cards toppling down.

In the early light of a dawning day, a shrouded man walks around the outside of one of two covered wagons in the intersection of a crossroads. When his check is done, he slaps the wooden frame twice with one hand. This exercise is repeated for the second. Then both load-bearing wagons creak into motion and head in separate directions. A group of men gather into the center of the crossroads and observe each other. They share a brief prayer and a simultaneous sigh of relief. They share a crime and a hope.

At the cock’s crow, they too disband and seek their homes, travel to their own towns, families and friends. One man is left behind. As his last Brother disappears from sight—to the Winds—he pulls back his hood, closes his eyes and savors the fresh air.

Then he too departs. Not back to his life, per se, for his first life—his beginning—is a collection of sorrows that end in a handful of twisted shadows and painful lies. No, he returns to here-now, the end of idle waiting, and a future of his own making.

Elsewhere, in a quiet port, guards awaken groggily to the sound of shouts. It takes a moment or two and none-too-gentle slaps to their faces to rouse them to the troubles in which Halesford—and one ship in particular—as suffered during the night. At the news of “T’ship s’been looted!” the guards face one another with shocked, pale faces and wide eyes.

There is no doubt that, upon confirmation of an empty cargo bay, the mysterious rogues have struck again.

Jak is still half-asleep when Theia pounds on his door. The room in which he lives is small, mostly just a bedroom considering that he stays in the Rose & Thorn Inn and has access to Theia’s private set of bathrooms and the kitchen.

“Jakob!”

Her voice is irritated so he switches from Warlord-Prince-alert to man rudely awakened for no good reason. He moans into his pillow, rolls off the bed and opens the door. “Theia, Mother Night! What is it?”

She gives him a look that could flay skin from bones. “Put on some clothes, Jak, we’ve got women on this hall.”

He grins.

When she growls, he sheepishly calls in an old robe and slips it on.

“Boyo, I need you up and alert this morning.”

Morning? Hell’s fire and may the Darkness be merciful! “I just got home, Theia,” he fairly weeps against the door.

She’s not buying his pathetic act, never has in all the years that he’s lived at the Inn. “We have important guests staying with us, Prince,” she says softly.

He blinks, straightens. No guest qualifies as important in Theia’s book unless… “Queen’s men?”

She shakes her head but does not explain further. Instead, as Theia turns to leave, she warns him. *I’m sorry about waking you, Jak, but you need to be downstairs like it’s any other work day. Understand?*

He does understand. She is trying to protect him, in this small way, by preventing others from noting any suspicious changes in the Inn’s routine—in his routine.

Jakob takes a moment to splash cold water on his face and rake a hand through his hair. Theia is worried. She hates what he is doing, because if he is caught he will be severely punished—crippled, perhaps—or even killed. As a Warlord Prince on a battlefield, no matter how intangible that battlefield, Jakob accepts those possibilities. Is not afraid of them. But for the sake of his friends, for Theia, he will be very cautious.

Rainier knocks on the adjoining door of their rooms. Surreal dumps her wet towels into a basket and calls him in. She stops in the middle of adjusting the wide belt around her waist at the look on his face. Her Gray jewel is glowing in her hand before she thinks twice.

“What’s the matter?”

He closes the door carefully and glances at her Jewel. “That won’t be necessary, Lady.”

Reading a message in his eyes, she vanishes it and calls in her Birthright Green to wear around her neck. Then Surreal walks over to him, places a hand on his chest and says, “Tell me.”

“I went for a morning walk along the wharf. The rogues struck again, at a port called Halesford not far from here.”

She doesn’t need to ask why he went out walking. His leg—the one Jaenelle managed to heal, mostly—is prone to ache with damp weather, and Rainier walks for the gentle exercise, to ease the sensation. Usually if she is awake early enough, she’ll go with him.

“Then they may be nearby,” she concludes softly. “What did they take?”

“I’m unsure. I was listening to two men talking about it. When I asked, as a curious bystander, they went silent pretty damn fast.”

“That doesn’t bode well for our investigation.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Surreal calls in a jacket. Rainier holds it open for her. Then they walk out into the hallway and head downstairs. Rainier leads her to a table and a pot of coffee appears along with hot fresh rolls and a pat of butter. Surreal eyes the dining room of the Inn—which is more likely a tavern in the evening. No one is behind the bar and a young bright-eyed girl is folding napkins and humming.

*It’s very quiet.*

Rainier makes a noise of agreement as he slips his coffee. Surreal is about to say something a bit too bitchy when he goes very still. Watching his eyes glaze, she drops her hand into her lap and calls in her stiletto.

A man pushes through a swinging door—no doubt leading to the kitchen—calling, “Hey, Ali, Theia wants—” and breaks off abruptly.

Warlord Prince. An Opal-Jewel rests at the open collar of his shirt.

Rainier stands up with his attention focused on the other male, on the potential threat. It’s instinctive, Surreal knows, but that doesn’t prevent her heart from lodging itself in her throat.

“Rainier,” she calls softly.

He doesn’t respond, simply stares ahead, eyes glazed. The other male’s eyes are now equally glazed and the stranger takes one step forward.

Rainier growls. Surreal is out of her seat with a restraining arm on him.

Shit shit shit.

She can block him with her Birthright Jewel, shield him too, but any use of power might push Rainier over the edge. That won’t do—she doesn’t want to have to explain to Sadi why they were kicked out of Ciraea before they even started asking questions.

A quick glance at the young girl shows her to be pale and wide-eyed. Useless. Hell’s fire, aren’t these Kaeleer witches supposed to know how to handle males?

Then an older woman—the Mistress of the Inn who led them to their rooms yesterday—appears behind the other Warlord Prince. Her sharp bark of “Prince Jakob!” seems to have more effect. The man, Jakob, takes a deep breath, turns on his heel and walks back into the kitchen.

Well, at least that one was able to step back from the killing edge. “Rainier!” Surreal puts bite into her voice. He pins those still-glazed eyes on her. She reaches over and picks up the coffee pot, vanishing its contents as she does so. “Can you get us more coffee?”

His eyes drop to the pot. She watches as he fights to leash his instincts. Rainier takes the pot from her and nods.

“Oh and more rolls too! I am starving.” She blinks innocently.

Whether he believes her innocent act—definitely not, she suspects—Rainier’s mouth quirks. “Yes, Lady.”

Surreal is idly tapping her fork on the table when he comes back. She stares as he sets down a basket of hot rolls, a heaping plate of sausage and eggs, two jars of jam, and one pot of coffee.

“Rolls, Rainier. Not the entire kitchen!”

“You need to eat,” he says mildly.

Damn. There’s no point in arguing with him; Rainier has that stubborn look in his eyes—eyes which, thankfully, are no longer glazed with temper. She growls to herself.

It makes no sense. The female has to keep the male from going berserk and in return she has to put up with his peculiar brand of insufferable fussing. No sense whatsoever. She’d give Rainier a piece of her mind too, but those eggs look delicious. Surreal manages a half-hearted snarl when he hands her a filled plate and digs in to breakfast.

After several minutes or so of silent feasting, she swallows the last of the food, sits back and narrows her eyes at her companion.

Rainier raises an eyebrow.

She takes a sip of her coffee. “I’d like to walk down to the wharf, if you don’t mind going back there.” He agrees. “Good. Now just wait here a moment, won’t you, sugar?”

Surreal doesn’t give him the chance to protest. By the time she is at the bar, the Mistress—what was her name again?—is already there to greet her.

“Morning, Lady. I hope the breakfast was to your liking.”

“Filling, thanks. Now—”

“Theia.”

“Theia. Between you and me, sugar, males are a handful.”

There is amusement in the other woman’s gold eyes. “I’m a mother. Trust me, I understand.”

“Was that your son, then?”

The woman hesitates.

Interesting, thinks Surreal.

“No, but he has been in employed at the Rose & Thorn for many years.”

In other words, she considers him to be family.

Surreal’s smile has sharp edges. “My companion may seem to lack sense, but I can assure you that he does not. His temper is mild for a Warlord Prince. So that has me wondering, sugar. Why would he take a sudden dislike to one of your males?” Her shift in posture would appear ominous to anyone paying close attention.

The Mistress proves to be astute. “Don’t worry about Jakob, Lady” is her quick reassurance. “We don’t have many Warlord Princes passing through the Inn, and even then Jak’s usually the strongest. He’s territorial about our Inn.”

Surreal decides, for now, to accept this answer that is not an answer. She has no justification for going after the male, besides Rainier’s instincts. Just as Surreal is about to walk back to Rainier, she catches a lingering scent of rage. In a brief pause, she opens her barriers just enough to taste it.

The scent is masculine, dark. The Opal? Yes, she senses that. But there’s something more as well. Surreal returns to Rainier and slips her arm into his, giving him the physical connection to a female that he needs in order to ground himself.

This Prince Jakob of Rose & Thorn Inn wears the Opal as his Birthright. She’d bet a year’s salary on that wager. It’s probably one of the reasons that Rainier reacted so strongly. This Warlord Prince is not only a stranger, but someone who outranks him.

Well, Prince Jakob won’t outrank her, and Surreal has no qualms about using her full strength to pound a message or two into a thick-headed male. With that comforting thought, she lets the issue go and turns her mind to their investigation.

Now where would be the best place to begin digging for information?

Jakob is not quite chopping through the cutting board with the vicious downward swings of his knife. He is certainly massacring the carrots.

Theia snaps out his name. “Jak!”

He snarls in response. He brings the knife down again, barely missing a finger. A piece of carrot splinters. Jakob takes a deep, ragged breath and leashes the rage that has been hither-to drowning the warm coziness of the Inn’s kitchen. The knife is carefully placed to the side.

“I’m sorry, Theia. I—” He squeezes his eyes shut, his brows pinched together.

“I should have warned you, Prince. For that, I also apologize.”

When he looks at the Mistress of Rose & Thorn Inn, he sees the woman who gave him a place to live and what comfort she could, in her own way. Not quite the same as with her flesh-and-blood son Whit, but certainly no less. For that, he will always be grateful to her. Loyal.

“They’re not working for Phaedra.”

“No.”

Of course not. The second he’d been able to clear his head and shove down the Warlord Prince howling for release, he’d seen past the Opal-Jeweled rival in his mind’s eye. In a brief glimpse he had instinctively categorized the witch. Strong, deadly. The delicately pointed ears marked her as Dea al Mon. Her coloring was unique for a Dea al Mon witch.

He can think of only one Aristo witch who fits her description and that makes his gut churn.

Lady Surreal SaDiablo.

It makes no difference, the rumors of the witch’s past. No, what matters is that she represents a force with which he does not want to contend. If Surreal is in Ciraea, then it won’t be for pleasure.

And that scares the shit out of him.

Has the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan caught wind of the rogue business?

Jakob thumps a fist onto the table. If Prince Sadi is curious about Ciraea, then he damn well should be here on his own. Queen Phaedra has gotten away with too much for too long because Sadi—and his father before him—have paid no mind to the people of this province.

Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. That’s a title of a deserving man, a man who understands the responsibilities that it represents. It is NOT a title to bestow because Sadi happens to be the most powerful male in Kaeleer.

In a small way, Prince Jakob hopes that Sadi does pull his head out of his ass long enough to take a second look at Ciraea. Barring the possible unpleasant outcome of meeting Daemon Sadi, Jakob would love to have the opportunity to tell the man exactly where he can stick his title if he’s not going to live by it.

Theia makes a disapproving noise at his short bark of laughter, though his humor has everything to do with the sudden complication of their situation and less to do with hysteria.

“What else needs doing, Lady?”

She eyes him. “Can you handle that knife without ruining my tables?”

He snorts and picks the knife back up. “I’ll try.”

“Then make yourself useful and slice the radishes for this evening’s stew.”

He slices radishes, peels potatoes, lights the ovens, and by the time a morning’s work is done, Jakob is calm enough to consider what his next move should be.

The next grim-faced worker pretends that he does not hear their questions. Surreal curses at the back of the male’s head and has to be warned by Rainier not to pull a weapon unless she intends to use it—and explain that use to her employer afterwards.

The pair are about to return to their rooms, only marginally more informed and amply irritated when an aged, lazy voice calls out from a sheltered huddle along a string of open-doored shops.

“Aye, lass, you’d be right to be asking questions.”

Surreal glances at Rainier and raises her eyebrows. He looks as befuddled as she does.

The old man appears to be a permanent fixture of the docks. The shirt, vest and trousers are patched haphazardly and his deeply lined face speaks of years of hard labor.

Surreal allows Rainier to approach the male. “Sir, can you tell us what you know?”

“Name’s Herb, pup. Old Herb, that’s what the youngin’s call me.” The man speaks around a long-stemmed pipe. “Sir was my father,” Herb puffs.

“Lord Herb,” Rainier replies gravely. “I am Prince Rainier and my companion is Lady Surreal. We were traveling across Dhemlan when we first heard of Ciraea’s plight.”

“Ba!” the Warlord spits in a rumbling voice. “Plight? Mother Night, Hell’s fire and may the Darkness be Merciful. Plight! The rogues are trying to save us, pup, not destroy us.” Rainier gets a pipe jabbed in his direction, and Surreal stifles a laugh at the look on Rainier’s face as he eyes his ash-covered boots.

“Why are you in favor of the rogues?” She sounds curious.

Herb leans back on his crate, looking thoughtful. “Well now, I wouldn’t say I’m in favor of stealing, Lady. It’s a bad thing, to take another man’s hard-earned profit. ‘Course, if the Queen weren’t doing exactly that herself, then I’d have personally tracked down those rogues and handed ’em over for the Queen’s justice.”

Surreal cannot imagine that this old man would abandon his perch, let alone hunt down a band of rogues by himself.

Rainier asks, “Is there proof that Phaedra is… abusing a Queen’s rights?”

That earns him a snort. “No, the Queen’s as forthright about her business as a Black Widow is about poisoning a man’s drink.”

That sounds like an interesting tale. Too bad they don’t have time to listen.

“What I’m saying is,” Herb continues, “that you only gotta keep your eyes open to see how the people have fared under Phaedra. Why, you think I’d be out here in the damp instead of warming my old bones by a fire if I had a bit of untaxed marks?”

Yes. Surreal bites her tongue.

Herb explains, “See, people tell me things because they think I’m too old to remember. But my mind’s still as sharp as the first day I set sail.” He taps his forehead for emphasis. “I heard that the rogues were returning the goods to our people. My cousin’s cousin knows a family that was in a bad way—couldn’t feed their babes or store enough wood for the winter. Heard a stranger dropped off an entire crate of un-dyed cloth on their doorstep, ready for the market.” Herb seems satisfied with his story, as he nods approvingly.

When the old Warlord is done refilling his pipe and seems ready to start talking again, Surreal gives Rainier a mental nudge. Rainier makes their excuses and gives their thanks. Herb looks almost disappointed to be losing his audience, but he does tell them to visit again, that he likes young company. She feels the old man’s eyes on their backs until they turn the corner of the thoroughfare.

Surreal and Rainier head back to the Rose & Thorn Inn, the day passing to afternoon. She thinks quietly until the Inn comes into view, then remarks, “We do know one thing, sugar.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether or not the people of Ciraea or Ciraea’s Queen approve, the rogues are real. I doubt that they intend to stop.”

“That’s why I’m worried,” Rainier admits.

Her, too. Worried, not because she fears coming across a band of rogues—certainly not, that might be entertaining in a violent sort of way—but for the simple reason that if Sadi is called into the hunt, he will be merciless until the rogues are dead, the Queen, or both.

Later, as she sits down with Rainier in her room, she mulls over their latest report to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Rainier gives her a wane smile and Surreal sighs. The truth will have to do. And Daemon isn’t going to like it.

7 / SaDiablo Hall

Even a Red-Jeweled butler has enough sense to stay out of the range of fire. Of course, given that Daemon Sadi is a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince and Black Widow with the High Lord of Hell as his father and Witch for a wife, his range of fire stretches pretty damn far. It is likely that there is nowhere a man will be safe from his reach. Beale knows this.

The butler does not approach him, not when the walls of his study are coated in ice.

*Prince?*

*Tell Jazen to pack enough for several weeks.* His voice is too soft, a warning hidden beneath words.

*Yes, Prince.*

Daemon does a slow prowl across his study, not yet ready to face others until the urge to splatter bodies across the walls can be leashed.

He enjoys being Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, needs the challenge of it. And if there are males foolish enough to implement their own brand of justice without seeking him first, without acknowledging his right and responsibility to handle the conflicts in Dhemlan… So be it.

Daemon flicks one fingernail against another, his hidden snake tooth sliding out.

The quicker this situation is resolved, the sooner he can come back to peace and quiet. Well, Sadi smiles ruefully, as much peace and quiet as this family can tolerate.

His temper subsiding—though still ready to flare from one heartbeat to the next—the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan straightens the cuffs of his shirt and strides from the room. Tomorrow morning he will depart for the estate nearest to Ciraea and meet with Surreal and Rainier.

Tonight, he will enjoy resting in the arms of his beloved wife—soothe himself before what he is sure to be many trying days ahead.

May the Darkness have mercy on Ciraea.

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Related Posts:

• [BJT Big Bang] The Rogue of Ciraea (masterpost) – from March 5, 2011
• The Rogue of Ciraea – Preface – from March 3, 2011
• The Rogue of Ciraea – Epilogue – from January 29, 2011
• The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (2/2) – from January 23, 2011
• The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (1/2) – from January 18, 2011

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