He etched crimson lines into his skin, applying more pressure, cutting deeper and using torn flaps as markers. The latest stings barely registered as tension seeped from him.
“Majesty?”
The softly spoken question snagged his attention, and he snapped up his head. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the woman standing before him. Surrounded by onyx walls and torchlight, Eye wore an ivory gown, appearing as ethereal as a dream. A glorious mane of dark hair framed a delicate face, her skin a shade lighter than her rich brown eyes.
Pushing the words through clenched teeth, he told her, “What is my one and only rule for you, Eye?”
She grimaced before admitting, “I’m not to interrupt you. But if I must, there are only two instances I’m never to do so, even if I’m dying.”
“That’s right.” Eye had more privileges with Kaysar than anyone else in existence, but there were lines even she must not cross. “Name those instances.”
“When you’re studying your maps that aren’t maps.” She shifted from foot to foot. “And every moment in between.”
Maps that aren’t—He flicked his tongue over an incisor. Was it his fault that others couldn’t read his works of art?
As a boy, he’d had no spare money for ink and paper, so he’d adapted. As often as he and Viori had dashed from village to village to avoid being punished for simply surviving, he’d needed a map. The Forest of Many Names was an infamous labyrinth known for gobbling up visitors and spitting out their bones. Eventually.
His greatest fear was finding Viori’s bones in the wooded terrain.
His lungs squeezed, his breath thinning. “Your insolence this day is concerning, Eye. But I’m a merciful king. Upon occasion. Too merciful, perhaps. I’ll give you one chance to save yourself from reprisal. Show me what Prince Jareth is doing right this second.”
The seer had the ability to meld her mind with another’s and reveal whatever images she observed in a vision—the past, present or future. It was a painful process for her. He didn’t care.
As she’d done thousands of times, she projected a picture into his mind. An image of Jareth Frostline, Crown Prince of the Winter Court, traveling through the Forest of Many Names with his bride. Princess Lulundria, the darling of the Summer Court.
“Show me the end result of our coming skirmish.” And there would be a skirmish.
Jareth craved a fight. Why else would the prince near Kaysar’s borders?
Did the husband hope to impress the new wife with his bravery, mayhap?
He will face only humiliation.
After Kaysar’s escape from captivity, he’d hunted for Viori ceaselessly, but she’d vanished without a trace. He gripped his throne, his claws digging deep. Even Eye had failed to catch a glimpse of her.
The Frostlines had taken everything Kaysar had ever loved. For centuries, he’d nursed his hatred like a fine wine. Now, he lived to ensure the royal family suffered and suffered and suffered and suffered and suffered. Exactly as he’d planned. Until Hador and Jareth experienced the same devastation they’d caused an innocent boy and his sister, Kaysar had no intention of ending his personal war. Which meant the war would never end.
His suffering endured throughout the ages. Theirs would, too.
“To show you the end, I must watch the beginning.” Eye’s distaste for the sight of blood was her biggest fault. Along with dozens of others. “Why should I bother? We both know you’ll win.”
“You bother because I command it.” Kaysar smiled at her. An expression many had deemed “the most terrifying sight in all the land.”
Did he know he’d win? Yes. But he still enjoyed a peek at the end result.
In battle, he had no equal. Not because he was born with a natural or even unnatural talent for killing. In his formative years, he’d worked as a farmer, like his parents. No, he succeeded because he let nothing dissuade him from a goal.
It helped that he’d trained under the harshest conditions. That he’d spent centuries battling trolls, goblins and ogres. The worst of the worst.
Perhaps he was a monster himself, eh? But at least he wasn’t a liar.
After he’d taken control of the Nightlands—a former prison territory inhabited only by the dregs of society—he’d created a new court, Midnight, with no one able to stop him. To the fae, might equaled right, every kingdom ruled by the one with the strength to hold the crown.
Over the years, the Midnight Court had become the wealthiest kingdom with resources the others lacked. Even better, the Nightlands were infinitely more dangerous. Well, except for the Dusklands.
Just for fun, he’d also conquered the barren wasteland teeming with monsters. He hadn’t yet set up another court to rule—but he would. When he tired of hurting the Frostlines.
He and his army would have no trouble accomplishing whatever he decided, his soldiers motivated to succeed. In battle, the men he’d trained had no equal either. Without hesitation, they savagely killed anyone who served the Frostlines. But. As ordered, they always spared the Frostlines themselves. To this day, Kaysar lamented ending Prince Lark’s life so soon.