When the siren died, Zuher fell to madness.

The halls were bathed in blood and silence. Rumor said the earth itself trembled with his fury. Nothing quite matched the taste of a siren and without his, Zuher suffered.

At least, that was the rumor.

Those who knew him, knew he'd always been mad. The price of his addiction was merely the disappearance of any veil over the disease.

Still, an entire year passed before Zuher called him.

Every cell in his body screamed for him to stall or to turn tail and sail the other direction. Reality and logic denied such ideas, however, and so he reluctantly answered the call. No amount of hatred for the insanity that laid within the emperor's walls could change the fact that refusal would leave his very blood boiling in his veins.

A collared man was collared for life; therefore, his desires meant nothing.

Upon arrival, he ignored the curious eyes that seemed to burrow beneath his skin like nightmares, just as he ignored the loudly spoken insults and admiration. Reotak was a pestilence on the land, in his opinion. So why should he care that anywhere else, they may have at least whispered their opinions? Here, the glamour-hidden scars that marked him a slave meant he was property. And as such, he was no one they needed to lower their voices before.

"I wish he was for sale. Imagine coming home to that."

Had he the chance, he would rip those mocking smiles from their faces with his bare hands.

"I heard he's a wild one. They said he killed a noble for calling him pup."

Soon, he reminded himself.

So very soon, he'd raze all of it. He just needed a mistake. A gap in security. A broken chink in the invisible chain binding his neck.

"I thought he was dead."

Breathe.

"Nothing good will come of this, I tell ya. Best be staying away from that one. Them Eolisans are all beasts in the end. Nothing like you and me."

"You're late. We expected you to arrive weeks ago."

The greeting focused his attention. Despite the footman's snide tone, he merely offered the man a lazy smile. At some point in his life, burying the rage became second nature. He had no desire to figure out when, that meant reflecting on memories best left buried. Still, it was a useful skill.

"The summons said return, nothin' else," he explained. "I assumed that meant I was free to finish my job before makin' my way."

He hadn't, actually.

The last time he'd arrived late to a summons, he'd been locked in the Black Tower for a month. During that time he'd only had a single visitor and they hadn't been of the friendly sort. Regardless of whether or not his master's note contained a deadline for his return, he was expected to hurry. Dragging his feet had been a pointless act of rebellion likely to earn him more pain than it was worth.

He'd have considered a prayer to the gods that the demon was in a good mood, but there were none to hear him in these lands.

As if reading his thoughts on the matter, the footman offered him a seemingly sympathetic smile.

"Best be going, then. You wouldn't want to keep His Imperial Majesty waiting."

It did not take long for him to spot his master. As was his habit, the demon sat sprawled in the ornate throne at the head of the room. His relaxed frame was as deceitful as always. The truth of his mood lay in the rhythmic impact of his fingers against the arm of his chair and the tightness of his thin, rouged lips.

The drumming stopped. "You're late."

He held his tongue, not about to repeat his flimsy excuse. Instead, he folded his frame into an exaggeratedly deep bow.

"My apologies."

He didn't need to see the man to know he was nodding, content with the show of fealty. The drumming returned.

"Yes, well, now that you are here, I have a new task for you."

Beneath his anger, curiosity stirred.

Zuher couldn't be thinking of asking for that, was he?

"You need only ask, Sire."

As Zuher spoke his orders, tension froze his frame. Gods, Zuher was arrogant. To ask such a thing...he had considered it possible, but hadn't truly thought the man was far enough gone to attempt it. If he were anyone less skilled, or any less well-connected, it would've been easier to fetch the cup of the gods than follow his orders.

Still...

His jaw locked, mind racing.

Were he to do as he was told, he would be dancing a fine line. If he failed, Zuher would be the least of his worries. The gods themselves would see him punished for his hubris. Boiling alive would be a blessing.

If he could twist fate to his side, however...

If he could redirect their wrath...

For the first time in half a decade, a prayer to Koun nearly graced his lips. It took everything he had to conceal the hope flooding his system. He pretended to be reluctant. To need ordered and coaxed in order to overcome his fear and accept the supplies he was being offered.

His body trembled with concealed excitement.

"It will take time," he warned. "They are a cautious people. But, I will succeed."

Or he would die.

Either way, it would be worth it.

Wolves hated cages and his collar was more suffocating than any iron bars.