Inside a warded chamber below Argentia Castle, King Sodor Desiric VI rested on a slate bed. His ninety-three-year-old body was a mass of wrinkled skin and brittle bone. His ears rang from an incurable disease. His unfocused, bloodshot eyes closed, accepting that it was his time again.

A hand gloved in scaled dragonhide fed him a chalice of ruddy-black liquid that smelled of rust and rotting meat, and tasted as vile. He swallowed five long gulps. Pain stabbed his heart, then convulsions erupted. Wrinkles smoothed. Liver spots faded. His crown of white hair darkened, his male baldness cured. When the ritual was complete, a fallout of hateful dark mana rippled outward from the chamber and Sodor had the appearance of a teenager.

His gaze swept, lingering on each of his six High Lords. Six youthful, grinning teenagers and men. But one face was grim. Sodor said, “We have the rest of our days to dwell on troubles. This moment is a time of celebration.”

Vylath Evarius, the eldest in appearance but youngest in age, muttered, “Did the darkness not also afflict your mind?”

“Yes, I felt it.”

“Then it is not a celebratory moment which we are witnessing. The gods are warning us.”

“You would prefer death?” Sodor’s brows subtly rose in challenge, and Evarius didn’t rebutt. “Know well that divine retribution has been long overdue before I transgressed. It is why I have brought you into this pact, Evarius. Your people will need you when the time comes, perhaps not this century, or the next, but never forget that the gods are mortals themselves.” Sodor picked up his crown. “Now, we have celebrations to organize. You will personally announce King Deseric VI’s passing and that Prince Deseric VII has returned to Cyesten and is in grieving. Do you object to this order?”

“No, my lord,” Evarius said, neck straightening. “It shall be done.”

“Outstanding.” Sodor’s eyes shifted to Novius Hyera. “And what of our next donor?”

“As always, there are rumors of survivors.”

“Any reports?”

Novius’ head shook.

It wasn’t too much of a concern. Everyone in this chamber had several decades to find another. But the last one had taken over eighty years. The one before that had taken seventy-three years.

“I must report,” Wyll magnair said, “that three weeks ago, at Greenwood Village, a child was born with maximum psionic affinity. Should I have him poisoned, my lord?”

Novius answered, “No. He can be useful one day.”

Others nodded.

And Sodor was of similar opinion: “Then you will watch over him, Novius. Keep your distance.”

“Yes, my lord.”