Twilight's Dawn

stuffy, his body ached, and he couldn’t seem to reach the power that always flowed within him.
    He tried drawing from the reservoir of Sapphire strength stored in his Jewel—and found nothing. He reached for the reservoir in his Birthright Opal.
    Nothing. Nothing! Terror filled him as he realized he hadn’t been drained; he’d been broken back to the limited power needed for basic Craft. How? Why? He remembered fighting against something that had caught him and tried to pull him too deep into the abyss, but . . .
    “You’re awake,” a deep voice said. “How delightful.”
    Falonar turned his head and stared at the man watching him. “Sadi?”
    Daemon smiled a cold, cruel smile. “Everything has a price, Falonar. It’s time for you to pay the debt.”
    Falonar struggled to roll over and get to his feet. Something was wrong with his left wing, something bad, but it was too dark for him to see the extent of the damage. “What did you do to me?” he snarled.
    “Nothing you didn’t deserve.”
    “You can’t blame me for Lucivar being challenged by those Warlords.”
    “Yes, I can,” Daemon said pleasantly. “But this isn’t about Lucivar. This is about Rainier.”
    “Rainier?” He took a step back, then jumped forward when something tried to curl around his calf. “What about Rainier?”
    “Let’s start with you using a warm-up as an excuse to push an injured man so that his damaged leg would go out from under him, ripping the muscles that were just beginning to heal. Let’s continue with using that man’s pain and his vulnerability in that moment to force open his inner barriers and see if he knew anything you could use against Lucivar—or, more to the point, if there was any information you could give someone else to use against Lucivar. And Rainier did know something about Lucivar. He knew about a weak left ankle, a spot that would be more vulnerable to a blow that in turn, might be enough to hobble even the best warrior when he was fighting against so many trained adversaries.”
    “Anyone could have told them about Yaslana’s ankle!”
    “Why would they?” Daemon sounded surprised. “The information about Lucivar’s ankle was a lie Rainier let you find.”
    Falonar stared at Sadi.
    “Rainier was Second Circle in the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi,” Daemon purred. “He was well trained.”
    “That son of a whoring bitch.” He’d thought Rainier was in too much pain to sense the intrusion, let alone try to deceive him.
    “Rainier serves me, and I do take care of my own,” Daemon said. “Which brings us to your new, if temporary, place of residence.”
    Falonar took a step toward Daemon. He would demand that Sadi take him back to that damn village, would demand that Sadi answer to a tribunal of Queens for breaking another Warlord Prince.
    A vine whipped around Falonar’s lower left leg, its curved thorns digging into his skin, chaining him to that spot.
    “It doesn’t have a quaint name like Little Weeble,” Daemon purred, “but I think the place, and its name, suits you better. Welcome to the bowels of Hell, Prince Falonar.” He turned and walked away.
    “Sadi!” Falonar shouted, as another vine wrapped around his right leg. “Sadi!”

    Ignoring Falonar’s increasingly shrill screams, Daemon glided along a path in this forever-twilight Realm. One moment he was alone; the next a dozen males with glowing red eyes stood in front of him. Since a couple of them had been Eyriens, judging by what was left of their wings, he knew their eyes hadn’t started out red. Did these males use an illusion spell to look more terrifying or did some physical change take place because of this particular location?
    That was an interesting question for another day. For now, he bared his teeth and snarled, a soft sound that rolled through the land like thunder. And with that sound, he sent a whisper of his power.
    “It’s him ,” one of them said, shuddering.
    “But . . . I thought he would be older,” another said.
    “Did you?” Daemon asked too softly. He raised his right hand and rubbed a finger against his chin, giving them a good look at the long, black-tinted nails and the Black Jewel in his ring.
    They stepped aside, making sure they gave him enough room to avoid accidentally touching him.
    As he passed them, Daemon said, “There is fresh meat at the end of the path—if the plants don’t consume it all first.”
    They bowed, and one of them said hesitantly, “Thank you,