The lanterns swayed overhead, firelight kissing the edges of Demisule’s obsidian jeweled gown. Her every step was deliberate, soft, as she glided to meet him halfway through the garden.

“Your pack is impressive,” she murmured, circling Ligon as though measuring him. “Strong. Magnificent. Commanding. Each one of you, even the weak ones. I can see why your enemies surrender before they strike.”

He folded his arms. “Flattery isn’t a currency we trade in here.”

“Then consider ...