Vogel narrows his gaze back on the Amaz dome as the Shadow web slithers higher and Marfoir scuttle over it, their bone-white forms mere specks from here. With sly calculation, he considers that it will take at least three days for news of the obliteration of Amazakaraan to reach Noilaan with the time lag in even the best of the Vu Trin’s hidden portals.

He smiles.

By the time Noilaan receives word of the Magedom’s rune-obliterating power, it will have fallen.

And heathen Alfsigroth will soon be consumed as well through their Zalyn’or necklace bindings—including Wynter Eirllyn, the filthy winged one hiding under this dome.

Revulsion ripples through Vogel at the thought of those unnatural, feathered appendages. But then, some relief gathers, blunting his reflexive rush of hate. The Eirllyn creature is a helpless little beast, her disgusting wings ragged and incapable of flight, her fire long since doused.

She’ll be easily put down.

Vogel relishes the idea of handing her over to the Elves to smite as they see fit. The Alfsigr monarch, Iolrath Talonir, insisted on taking custody of the creature, the Alfsigr religion mirroring the Gardnerian in its hatred of demon wingeds.

Let the Alfsigr have this one, blessed triumph, Vogel magnanimously considers, even as he yearns to obliterate her wings himself. Let them gain a blessing from punishing the demon girl before we secure dominion over both them and their lands.

The whoosh of broad wings sounds beside him, breaking off his thoughts. Vogel turns as an incoming Mage soldier lands his dragon. Shadow horns curl up from the glamoured pyrr-demon’s Mage-black hair—horns only Vogel and his Shadow soldiers can see—the demon’s eyes a glowing red under their glamoured green.

Vogel eyes the Shadow-tethered demon with barely concealed loathing. Mage dominion over Shadow power necessitates dominion over unsavory creatures—who will be disposed of after the Reaping Times.

The soldier dismounts. “A rune hawk just arrived, Your Excellency,” he states, his sulfuric gaze simmering like twin coals.

“What news?” Vogel inquires.

The bottomless flame in the demon’s eyes deepens to a more ominous red. “It sends word that Yvan Guryev’s ‘assassin,’ the wandmaster Mavrik Glass, has defected to Noilaan.”

A cataclysmic rush of fire sears through Vogel’s lines, his sense of unimpeded triumph burned clear away as he absorbs the ramifications.

If Mavrik Glass, our most talented assassin, is a traitor...then the Icaral of Prophecy is potentially...

...still alive.

“What news has been confirmed?” Vogel asks, slow and deadly firm as an image of dark wings accosts his mind.

“We tortured a captured Vu Trin spy,” the envoy replies. “She told us of Yvan Guryev’s survival. His death was a ruse.”

Vogel’s internal fire stokes higher, violent outrage churning through him. “How can it be? The Icaral was impaled.”