I don’t actually suspect an immediate ambush like the one we faced in Nuhav’s alleys. It would be too brash and clumsy for Aramastun. He’s a cunning leader, staying quiet until he finds the perfect chance to strike.
This is only a precursor to what’s really happening,I think as we begin to level off on the uphill road. My thighs and ass burn something fierce from the climb, and I would love a carriage right about now.
Unlike the humans who are completely lost, once we reach the apex of the trade road, we know immediately where to go. The pilgrims surrounding us become sparse and less frequent, until we’re digging our heels in toward Olhav in the distance and no one else is around us.
Because of our fugitive status, we don’t beeline into the colorful city. From the hills surrounding the summit where Olhav sits, I can make out the color-coordinated districts from a distance, alight in the night by magicked oil lanterns and alchemically colored fire.
There’s the warm yellow fog to the northwest, furthest from our position, belying the violent Military Ward. Dim gray and monotone shade makes up the northeastern region, hiding the Intelligence Ward. Both of those wards have been assimilated into the central red-tinged Judgment Ward, which acts as the heart of the city. Far off to the right, southeast, is the calm emerald hue of the fanatical Faith Ward. And closest to us and the road—for trade purposes—is the glittering spectacle and high towers of the many-colored Commerce Ward.
Clenching my jaw, I swallow hard and look at my mates. “Well, no reason to wait.”
We head downhill, toward Liolen Sesk’s Commerce Ward.
Chapter 27
Sephania
We meet no resistance as we make our way through the dizzying heights and glamorous streets of the Commerce Ward. A few vampires pass us, heading in the opposite direction toward the central and southern regions of Olhav, likely to lick their chops at the sight of so much fresh blood making its way up the mountain.
It makes my insides itch, my body shudder, even though they leave us alone. They’re much too preoccupied to worry about Aramastun’s fugitives.
Liolen Sesk’s opulent abode is a cock-shaped fortress with a high tower in the middle, and smaller buildings surrounding it. Platforms lead from the tower to the balconies of the smaller spires.
Staring at the network called Fort Flittus, I mutter, “Quite on the nose, isn’t it?”
“Nothing about Overliege Liolen Sesk is understated,” Skar answers in a blithe, annoyed tone.
Nothing about you is, either, my haughty nobleblood,I resist saying it. No point pushing buttons when things are so tenuous right now between half my mates.
Two guards wait for us at the double doors that reach twice the height of a man. The guards wield halberds and advance cautiously, dressed in garb suited to their mercenary purposes: mismatched armor, colorful scarves across the necks to stave offchill, foppish hats. They look less like guards and more like gala attendees roleplaying looking fierce.
“You are the Loreblood keeper?” the one on the left asks in a lisp.
I note they’re interfolk, a rare breed of vampire with the exception of Palacia and the Gilded Liege. “I am.”
“The overliege has been expecting you.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Inside the castle is no less ostentatious than it looked on the outside. Carved pillars and colonnades hold up vaulted ceilings, with priceless chandeliers hanging from the rafters. Numerous winding staircases with golden handrails lead up seemingly to nowhere. Doors are open and closed, servants wandering through the many rooms. Red and green carpets, pricey imported rugs, tapestries of naked vampires in sensual positions, and a cloying scent of perfume and decadence in the air.
After a confusing walk through the maze that spits us out on the third or fourth level, the guards deposit us in front of a small door, less gaudy than the rest of the place, which by itself is a surprise and makes it stick out like a sore thumb, as if to say, “Don’t look over here at the homely door, it’s not important.”
The guards step aside and I share one last look with my mates, inhaling slowly and breathing out even slower. I give them a firm nod and lead the way into the room.
When we enter, the scent and situation is an immediate shock to the system. The smell is a combination of honeyed perfume and the musk of sex, creating a heady mixture. The scene is right out of an erotic storybook I might find hidden on one of Manor Marquin’s rare bookshelves.
Liolen Sesk stands before us in the center of the room, halfway between us at the door and the throne behind them. They are naked, alarmingly so, and holding out a golden robewith both arms stretched wide, creating a winged appearance. Like they’re presenting their enviable body to anyone who enters, telling us tocome hitherand be amazed.
Liolen’s porcelain skin is unblemished, impeccable, and utterly soft and sensuous. My wide eyes take them from bare feet to smooth pate. Their hips are wide like a woman’s, their waist narrow and seductive; small pert breasts stand at attention, somehow gently bouncing as if on their own; between their legs is a tiny cock, also standing at attention, and their body is completely hairless except for the long golden hair gleaming down to their hips. A small smirk plays on their beautiful face, which is gaunt and hollowed at the cheeks, with high features that seem slightly . . . flushed? I didn’t think vampires could blush. But Liolen’s entire body seems to be precariously trembling. Perhaps from the cold.
“Ah, you made it, Sephania Lock,” Liolen murmurs. Their voice is airy yet somehow guttural, combining the anatomical situation of their male and female parts, which I’m currently looking at with no small amount of stun.
It’s hard to keep my mouth from falling open. My throat is dry, my lips are wet, and I lick them. I don’t mean for it to look any certain way, but the appearance of the Gilded Liege, mixed with the haze-inducing scents in the room, seem to scramble my brain. “I-I have,” I let out in a rasp, clearing my throat. “Where’s Palacia?”
“By all that’s Damned,” Skar scolds. “Do you not have any fucking clothes to wear when taking guests?”
Liolen’s smirk widens, their full pouty lips tilting upward. Glancing left and right, Liolen takes in the golden hems of the robe held in either fist, their figure the appearance of one being crucified. “Is this robe not an article of clothes?”