Chapter 1

Varok

The storm sings for me tonight.

Lightning ripples across Galmoleth’s permanent cloud canopy, white‑hot veins lacing the indigo sky beyond the cathedral‑high windows. Each flash catches on the polished onyx of the throne room floor, and for a heartbeat the entire court gleams like a sea of oil and glass. I stand at the room’s center, arms loose at my sides, chaos runes pulsing faint crimson beneath the skin of my forearms. The air smells of metal and ozone—my element, my lifeblood.

King Asmodeus lounges on his obsidian throne, one booted leg draped over the other. His heavy mantel of black scales spills across the dais steps, glittering when lightning flares. No one mistakes his indolent posture for laziness. Every noble present knows a single flick of the king’s taloned finger can rip a soul from its shell. Tonight, though, he allows me the spectacle.

Five kneeling courtiers form a semicircle before me, their horns lowered in a show of contrition that trembles on the edge of terror. They defied a tax decree last week; I tracked the falsified records myself, sifted the hidden ledgers by candlelight until dawn. Now their lies must be burned away publicly.

A hush falls. My heart beats once, deliberate and cold.

I lift my right hand, palm up. Chaos answers like an eager hound. Red‑white strands coil through the air, weaving into a sphere no larger than an apple. The strands writhe, then compress until gravity itself seems to whimper. The courtiers’ robes snap against their bodies; dust skitters across stone toward the center of the spell. Gasps ripple through the gallery—house matrons in silver masks, lesser mages, ambitious soldiers. Even they can feel the pressure building, taste the copper bite of raw power on their tongues.

The five traitors whimper. I show them no mercy.

With a twist of my wrist, the sphere unwraps. Chaos streaks toward the courtiers, splitting into five ribbons that lash around their throats. Reddish light seeps beneath their skin. They seize, gagging. Whispers ignite like sparks among the onlookers—admiration, fear, envy. The ribbons tighten until breaths rattle out in broken sobs.

“Your taxes will be paid in full,” I pronounce, voice low, measured. I let the words travel unfettered to every pillar and alcove. “In coin, in flesh, or in obedience. Choose.”

The first noble, a broad‑shouldered male with frost‑white hair, claws at the leash of light. “Mercy, Dominus Varok,” he croaks, eyes bulging. “Forgive—”

I cinch the ribbon once more. His plea ends in a wet snap; his body slumps, smoking faintly. The other four choose coin before their companion’s corpse finishes cooling on the floor.

When I release the spell, the ribbons dissolve into twinkling embers that drift upward and vanish in the drafts. The audience exhales as one. Satisfaction hums through me—efficient, necessary. Yet the familiar rush feels muted tonight, as though something I cannot name waits just beyond the veil of awareness.

Asmodeus’s slow clap breaks the silence. “Exemplary as always, Varok.” His baritone glides over the court, rich with cruel amusement. “Your mastery of the formless serves the crown well.”

I bow from the waist. “Your will remains my purpose, my king.”

He gestures, and violet fire blooms along the braziers skirting the hall. “Then hear my next decree.” His silver eyes sweep the assembly, catching on each face, daring anyone to flinch. “The Demon God of Earth grows restless beneath us. I will hold a summoning at the solstice to secure his renewed favor. For that rite I require a human heart—still warm, still beating—torn free upon the altar of Oltyx.”

Anticipation crackles through the nobles: the chance to watch a life bleed out for divine blessing. Hunger and excitement twist their sharp features into masks of eager cruelty.

“As chief mage of the Soz’garoth,” the king continues, “you, Varok, will oversee the ritual. Select a slave worthy of sacrifice.”

A thrill runs down my spine, dark and unexpected. “It will be done.”

Asmodeus settles back, serpentine smile cutting across his face. “Make your choice swiftly. The solstice is four nights away.”

Four nights. Little time, yet enough. I pivot, gesturing for the guards to open the side doors. A pair of iron‑clad sentinels heave the bar, and a procession of humans shuffles in—three dozen at least, wrists linked by iron, bare feet whispering against stone. They keep their eyes on the floor. All but one.

She stands near the center of the line, bound like the rest. Her skin is sun‑kissed bronze rather than the pallid hue starvation usually paints across slaves. Black curls tumble over her slender shoulders in wild disarray, framing a face both delicate and stubborn—full mouth, high cheekbones smudged with travel dust, a small, defiant chin. But it is her eyes that still me: bright emerald, clear as the rare glass traded from surface cities, blazing with unbowed fury.

While the others tremble, she lifts her gaze and meets mine without hesitation.

My world narrows to that stare, to the thunderous echo of blood behind my ribs. No slave has ever looked at me like that—like I am another obstacle she has already planned to overcome. The chamber fades, the king, the nobles, all of them blurring to background haze while her expression brands itself onto my mind like fresh iron.

The iron chain yanks; she staggers a half‑step, but her shoulders square again instantly. The rune across my sternum—Oltyx’s emblem burned into me at my ascension—flares with heat, as if sensing prey. Except the hunger curling through me is nothing as simple as the urge to destroy. It is heavier, simmering, poisonous and sweet, a craving to possess.

The line halts before the dais. I take measured strides along it, inspecting each mortal. Ash‑blonde youths, gaunt laborers, a weeping matron whose wrists run with raw sores. None hold my interest. Each time I pass the emerald‑eyed girl, however, I feel something in me shift off its axis.

“What is your name?” I ask her quietly.

She angles her head. Sweat beads at her temple but she does not flinch. “Iliana.”

No title, no plea. One word, firm as granite. My pulse leaps.

“Do you know who stands before you?”

“Varok, Soz’garoth mage and hound of the king,” she replies. Her voice is soft but unwavering, accent lilting in a way I cannot place—surface plains perhaps. “I know death wears many masks. Yours is merely painted in shadow.”

Murmurs skitter along the gallery. Insolence so bold is unheard of. I should strike her down, display her tongue as warning. Instead I feel a grin bloom, slow and dangerous, across my mouth.

“To face death with poetry,” I muse aloud, “is either bravery… or madness.”

“Perhaps both,” she says.

The chain handler jerks her collar, snarling for silence. She winces yet keeps her eyes on me, daring me to do worse.

I turn, cloak sweeping behind, and ascend the dais steps to stand before Asmodeus once more. My voice carries, smooth and certain. “I have found the sacrifice that will please Oltyx. There is none more fitting than this one.”

Gasps. A ripple of surprise flickers in Asmodeus’s gaze. “The defiant girl?” he drawls, intrigued. “She risks tainting the rite with her stubbornness.”

“All the better,” I reply. “Stronger hearts beat hotter. Oltyx favors strength.”

The king considers, drumming razor claws on the throne arm. “Very well.” He lifts his hand. The guards unlatch Iliana from the column of slaves. They prod her forward. She stumbles once, then regains her footing, chin tipped high.

When she reaches the base of the dais I step down, towering over her. Up close she smells faintly of crushed rosemary and fear—an intoxicating blend. I draw a curved witch‑steel knife from my belt, present the flat of the blade so her reflection swims across the silvered surface.

“Look at your fate,” I order.

She does, but she also looks past the metal, straight into my eyes. A challenge leaps between us like live current. My heart stutters. The urge to trace the line of her throat with my thumb—possessively, not violently—flashes across my thoughts. It should disgust me. It thrills me instead.

I close my fingers around her elbow. The touch is shockingly intimate despite the iron restraint. Rune‑glow crawls under my skin, whispering claim, claim, claim. The court’s chatter recedes as I guide her toward the shadowed passage leading to my private wing.

Behind us, the remaining slaves are herded out. Nobles disperse, voices bright with speculation. The king’s laughter echoes, low and pleased. He sees political advantage in my choice; I see something far more dangerous. My steps quicken.

Iliana matches my pace despite her chains. The corridor narrows, torches casting restless scarlet over basalt walls. Every few strides she tilts her head, studying tapestries depicting ancient demon victories, as though memorizing routes of escape. Admirable. Futile.

“You are calm for a mortal walking to her death,” I remark.

“If my death feeds your god, then at least I will be digested alongside tyrants.”

Her words slice far closer than she knows. “You believe me a tyrant?”

“If you have to ask,” she murmurs, “then you already know.”

I laugh, a sound that startles even me with its warmth. “Careful. Flattery sways me more than condemnation.”

“I was not flattering you.”

Honesty. Sharp as a blade honed on bone. I unlock a heavy iron door and usher her inside. The chamber beyond is dim, lit by glowing quartz veins that thread through crimson stone. Pillars of black glass rise toward a vaulted ceiling. A wide marble table—my ritual slab—dominates the center. At the far wall a balcony opens onto the violet storm clouds roiling around the floating continent’s edge. Gusts swirl in, tugging her curls into wild ribbons.

She stands in the middle, chains dragging, eyes sweeping the space. The faintest tremor betrays her composure. I stalk a slow circle, studying her posture, the graceful slope of her shoulders, the proud line of her neck. No visible brand marks her owner; perhaps a newly captured rebel runner. The absence of scars infuriates me. It means no one else has broken her yet.

Mine, the rune whispers.

I lift the shackles’ locking pin with a tiny gesture; the metal falls away. She jolts, rubbing her wrists, wary. I sheath my knife.

“You free me?” she asks.

“Not quite.” A humorless smile tugs at my mouth. “Chains are unnecessary. This room is sigil‑sealed to my command. If you attempt to leave, the doorway will turn to solid stone.” I glide to a sideboard and pour obsidian wine into two shallow cups. “Drink.”

“Poison?”

I tilt my head. “Trust issues, Iliana? Let me ease them.” I swallow from one cup, then offer the other.

She hesitates only a breath before lifting it. The black wine glints garnet when torchlight kisses its surface. She sips, grimaces at the strength, but keeps her eyes on mine. Molten respect stirs in my chest.

“You will rest here until the solstice,” I say. “Eat, drink, bathe. I want you healthy. Oltyx prefers fresh offerings.”

Her fingers tighten on the cup. “You could carve out any heart. Why mine?”

Because I saw eternity in your eyes. Because you stood unbroken when demons bowed. Because the void inside me howled the moment your spirit brushed against it and decided you were its reflection. I cannot say those truths, cannot even admit them to myself.

Instead I walk to the balcony threshold and brace my palms on the cool stone rail. Lightning forks in the distance, illuminating an ocean of storm clouds below the floating landmass. The charge thrums through my bones and blurs my pulse into something primal.

“Because,” I answer at length, “you interest me. Few things do.”

Silence stretches. Footsteps ghost across polished stone. She stops an arm’s length behind me, emboldened, foolish. “Interest,” she repeats, voice softer, “is not reason enough to condemn a life.”

I turn. We stand eye to eye despite my height, because she refuses to cower. Wind whips inside, carrying her scent. My control frays. I could crush the world with a single thought, yet one mortal woman undoes me with nothing but a look.

“I require no reason,” I murmur. “I am Varok.”

Her lips part as if to argue, yet no words emerge. In that fragile moment I see fear flicker, but beneath it glows something fiercer: a vow that if she dies, she will do so on her own terms. The realization slices through me, wickedly appealing.

“Sleep,” I command. “We begin preparations at dawn.”

She lifts her chin. “And if I refuse?”

My blood warms almost pleasantly. “Then we discover exactly how firm your resolve is.” I gesture. Invisible force guides her toward a silken pallet near the hearth. She resists a moment, then allows the magic to shepherd her, unwilling to reveal strain. When she lowers herself to the cushions, I release the spell.

“Comfortable?” I ask.

“Caged birds rarely complain about the softness of their perch.” Her gaze flicks up, daring.

Heat coils low in my belly. I step closer, crouching until our faces align. The firelight paints gold across the curves of her cheek, the proud bow of her mouth. I lower my voice to a rumble only she can hear. “No cage can hold a storm, Iliana. You should worry not for the bars, but for the one who commands thunder itself.”

Her breath hitches. For that heartbeat we share the same inhale, the same tremulous pause. I rise abruptly, turning away before I do something reckless—like drag her against me and taste whether her defiance is as sweet on my tongue as it sounds in my ears.

At the door I pause, letting shadows hide the tumult churning inside. “Rest and sleep after. I will have food delivered so you can have strength for tomorrow,” I repeat, softer. “Tomorrow the court will feast its eyes upon you, and I require you dazzling.”

I shut the door behind me. The sigils flare, locking her inside.

In the corridor, thunder crashes so loudly the walls quiver. For the first time in centuries, I feel unsteady. Obsession is unbecoming for a mage of my rank. Attachment invites ruin. Yet even as I walk away, every particle of magic in my blood leans back toward that chamber.

Four nights until the solstice. Four nights to master this unholy craving or let it master me.

I suspect mastery is already lost.

The rune on my chest burns, a warning or a promise—I cannot tell which—while Iliana’s emerald eyes follow me in memory all the way to my private tower, bright as a blade poised beneath a throat.

And I know, with sudden savage certainty, that I have not selected a sacrifice. I have claimed a storm.