The Devil From Deira
“And grief, if you let it, will turn even a good man into the thing he despises.”
Adrian’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then perhaps that is what I must become, the thing they already call me. The devil of Deira.”
He turned, cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the stables. Spencer watched him go, his heart heavy. There were no more words left that could reach him.
Far from Adrian’s castle, the Royal Palace glowed beneath a veil of winter mist. Inside its gilded halls, the air was no less poisonous than the cup Adrian imagined.
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