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Azriel did not know what that meant, had not heard that word in the courtyard or on the wind. He peered at his scarred hands. A wisp of shadow wended around his fingers. Why now?

To seize this moment, the shadows answered.

He realized he’d been listening to them with a cocked head, as if having a conversation—realized it only because his father’s cruel face shifted from fear to calculation.

His father’s wife apparently read the same shift in expression and hissed, cradling her son’s head to her breast, “Don’t you dare, Maxtus. Don’t you dare.”

Azriel’s sire ignored her. His Second in command, now keeping a healthy distance from Azriel, countered, “Milord, having a shadowsinger in our forces is an asset—”

“The beast is an affront,” his father’s wife seethed, fear forgotten as she shot to her feet and tucked her eldest son behind her. At seventeen, the boy was too old to be hiding. But there he was, shock and horror blatant on his bloodied face. It melted into something close to victory as his mother spat at her husband, “If your by-blow stays, Maxtus, I’ll put him down myself.”

His father’s craggy features again became as immovable as the mountains around them. The female trembled at that expression. And though Azriel hated her, he did not enjoy the sight and scent of her terror before that merciless countenance.

His father’s voice was like gravel as he said to her, “For too long I’ve let you dictate what to do with the boy.”

“You shamed me with his birth, when he was born of that whore,” his wife snapped, unable to help herself, fear be damned. She flung a thin finger toward Azriel’s mother, still kneeling on the floor. “And here is the monstrous result. That boy is a devil; look what he did to our sons—”

A backward swing of a broad hand, so fast that his father’s wife hit the stone wall behind her before the sound of the blow had finished echoing. His father had barely moved. His face remained impassive as he growled, “I have had enough of your interference. Get out of my sight.”

She clutched her cheek, righting herself. Her son didn’t try to help steady her. Not one of the warriors reached out a hand to assist her. But she bowed her head, her light brown hair—a rarity amongst their people—tumbling over her shoulder. And she said with no true remorse, “Apologies, milord.”

Then she rushed away, eldest son in tow, motioning to one of the warriors to lift her other son from where he lay unconscious on the floor. She turned back only once, venom in her gaze as it landed on Azriel. Then she was gone.

The lord once again assessed Azriel—slowly, coldly.

Down the hallway, water dripped against stone. A torch crackled. Far above, someone screamed. With pain or laughter, it was hard to tell.

Azriel’s mother remained trembling at his father’s feet. The looming male examined her. As if he had never seen her before.

But Azriel wouldn’t have her kneeling—not for this male. Not for anyone. And no one, not even Azriel’s father, stopped him from walking to his mother, helping her rise. His scarred knuckles were bloody and raw—arcs of dirt and blood lay beneath his nails.

His father ordered his mother, “Go into your room. The boy stays here.”

Azriel lunged for his mother, but she only gave him a terrified, pleading glance before she vanished. Begging him to behave.

“Leave us,” his father directed his warriors.

“Milord,” his commander started, face pale as porridge. “I’m not certain leaving you alone—”

“Leave us,” his father repeated, the green stone atop his hand flaring with a sickly light. In silence still heavily laced with fear, the soldiers departed. And then Azriel was alone, perhaps for the first time ever, with his father.

His sire stared at him. Azriel stared right back.

“How long have you heard them, boy?”

Azriel knew what the male meant, and kept his face blank as he answered, “A while.” His voice was hoarse, but icy as the winter beyond the keep.

Interest honed itself into something deadly sharp in his sire’s eyes. “And what do the shadows tell you now?”

Azriel considered his words carefully. Knew it for the test it was, though he could only guess at what the end result might be. The shadows yielded a solitary kernel of information: “They tell me that your wife is not going to her chamber. She has dropped your sons at the infirmary and is now walking alone to the guards’ station. They tell me that the male who is leading the patrol tonight likes to lift her skirts when they are alone. They tell me that she thinks you do not know, but you do. And one day she will pay for it.”

His father smiled, teeth flashing. “Anyone could figure that out. She’s a harlot, through and through, but a good enough breeder to keep around for the time being. Tell me something no one else knows.”

Azriel’s entire life had boiled down to this moment, these next words. But the shadows offered nothing. Only silence. If this was a test, it was his to pass on his own.

His father was a brute, yes. But also clad in velvet finery at odds with what most warriors wore. The talons atop his wings were shining, as if polished, in contrast with the roughness of this place.

He was a vain male. And beneath the vanity lay fear—of being lesser, of being found wanting. The vanity was a shield. His sire’s most valuable weapon and defense. And his greatest weakness.