Take Me Away, Dark Lord!

His heart, already bleeding for his lost citizens, completely ruptured.

”Oh, by the Light,” Julian choked, tears welling in his own golden eyes. He dropped to his knees, taking her tiny hands in his. ”You brave, foolish little angel. You have a heart of pure gold.”

Julian looked up at Kaelus.

The Marquess’s face was suddenly set in lines of desperate, wild hope. ”Kaelus. What she said is true. She has the Bastion Knights. She has you, too. If she truly can sense magical anomalies... if you were right beside her, undercover... we could lay a trap. We could use the entire city guard as a perimeter. We could find them!”

”Are you out of your mind?” Kaelus snarled, looking at Julian as if the man had just suggested they juggle live grenades. ”You just spent ten minutes telling me the Night Market is a death trap! And now you are advocating throwing my daughter into it just because she gave you the puppy-dog eyes?!”

”It is our only lead!” Julian pleaded, abandoning all dignity. ”The trail is freezing! If we don’t catch them tonight, they might move their operation! Kaelus, I am begging you. If there is even a fraction of a chance that her abilities can track them, we must try. I will put my own life on the line. I will be right there with you.”

Kaelus looked at the pleading Marquess.

He looked at Gallahan and Lucas, who were suddenly nodding slowly, the viability of the plan taking root in their minds.

And finally, he looked at Seraphina.

She had stopped crying.

She was looking at him with a fierce, unwavering expression.

She wasn’t throwing a tantrum.

She was asking to be useful.

She was asking to use the monstrous power she had awakened to do something good, something necessary.

If he kept her locked in a glass box, what kind of life was that?

He was raising a ruler of the North, a Sovereign of the Dark.

Rulers did not hide while their people bled.

Kaelus closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose fiercely.

He felt an overwhelming headache building behind his eyes.

He was a father.

He was an Archduke.

And he was currently being bullied into a covert sting operation by a six-year-old with a snotty nose.

”If,” Kaelus said, his voice deadly quiet, causing everyone in the room to hold their breath. ”If we do this. It is on my terms. There must be absolute control over the situation. I won’t allow any deviations.”

Seraphina threw her hands in the air. ”Yaaaaay! Undercover mission!”

”Silence,” Kaelus barked, pointing a finger at her. ”You are not an agent. You are acting as bait. You will not engage in any other activities or speak about them.”

He turned to his commanders, the aura of the Reaper returning with terrifying force.

”Lucas. Boris. Gallahan. Strip off the armor. Find some commoners’ clothing from servants. Coarse wool, leather, nothing that shines. You are no longer the Vanguard of the Bastion, but mercenaries or simple laborers walking around the night market.”

”Yes, Your Grace!” the knights barked, their blood pumping at the prospect of a hunt.

Kaelus turned his terrifying gaze onto Julian. ”Marquess. You are too recognizable. Your face is known to every rat in this city. You will require a disguise and stay thirty paces behind us with a strike team in the shadows. If you compromise our cover, I will break your legs.”

Julian didn’t even flinch.

He nodded furiously. ”Whatever it takes, Kaelus. Whatever you need.”

”What I need,” Kaelus grumbled, looking down at the ecstatic, snot-nosed child bouncing on her heels, ”is a drink. And a very long vacation.”

***

Transforming the Black Bastion into a group of inconspicuous commoners was akin to trying to disguise a herd of rhinos as a flock of sheep by taping wool to their horns.

It was an exercise in absolute, hilarious futility.

Thirty minutes later, the guest annex looked like the backstage of a particularly chaotic, budget-starved theater production.

Sir Boris was the most glaring failure.

The seven-foot giant had managed to squeeze himself into the largest burlap tunic they could find in the servants’ quarters, but the seams of the shoulders were actively screaming under the pressure of his massive deltoids.

He wore a floppy, wide-brimmed straw hat pulled low over his scarred face, looking less like a humble turnip farmer and more like a mountain troll attempting to sneak into a garden party.

”I can’t breathe deeply,” Boris complained, his chest expanding slightly, resulting in an audible riiiip from his left armpit. ”The fabric is structurally compromised.”

”Just slouch, Boris,” Lucas muttered, adjusting his own disguise.

Lucas was wearing a patched leather vest and a faded crimson bandana tied over his head to hide his military haircut.

With his face covered in a lattice of pale scars, he actually pulled off the ’ruthless, washed-up mercenary’ look perfectly.

He looked terrifying, but at least he looked like a local terror.

Sir Gallahan, the pristine, handsome prodigy, was suffering immensely.

Seraphina, acting as the self-appointed lead costume designer, was currently standing on a chair, holding a piece of charcoal she had scavenged from the fireplace.

”Hold still, Sir Gally,” Seraphina commanded, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in intense concentration. She aggressively rubbed the charcoal across Gallahan’s high, aristocratic cheekbones. ”You’re too shiny. You look like a prince. Commoners are always covered in dirt because they work hard. We need more dirt!”

”My Lady, I assure you, peasants wash their faces occasionally,” Gallahan whimpered, closing his eyes as she smeared soot over his nose.

He was wearing a plain brown tunic that was entirely too large for him, making him look like a very handsome sack of potatoes.

”More dirt,” Seraphina insisted, rubbing the charcoal into his hair to dull the golden shine. ”There. Now you look like you sleep in a barn. Perfect.”

Julian Myer emerged from the adjoining dressing room, and the room fell silent.