SAETAN
Beautiful. There had never been anything so perfect since the world was made.
Dark curls- so silky. His fingers and toes- so small! Saetan had never seen anything so small before. His face- scarlet from wailing displeasure. The poor thing was starving after all that work. Being born was difficult.
He smiled at the mother of his fourth son... but the grin slid off his face at the utter hatred upon hers. Jewel glowing angrily, Luthvian's eyes were fixed on tiny wings, her face twisted by revulsion.
Saetan looked as well, seeing only his son.
Lucivar.
LUTHVIAN
Monster.
Somehow, she had given birth to a monster.
In the mirror, she touched the white streak of her hair. She fingered her Jewel as tears stung her eyes.
He was sweet now, just a little thing, and so gentle all the time. But she could feel the Warlord Prince in him surfacing whenever she did something he disliked. Late meals, smacking his hands for tugging on her hair... it was there in the sleepy, glazed gold of his baby eyes.
She had to do something about him. She didn't know what, but something.
"Lucivar," she whispered. "My little Lucivar..."
JAENELLE
Warlord Prince.
Savagely beautiful, an ebony mane falling unbound around massive shoulders, muscles shifting beneath golden-brown skin...
She felt his power, dark, but not dark as the other she sensed far-off, or the one near her demon-dead Warlord. She ached with fierce love for him- absolute, all-consuming.
It made no sense. He'd just killed a man. Why should she love this bat-winged Warlord Prince?
Then she saw herself reflected in his eyes: blond, blue-eyed, ugly, too thin... and she saw love in his eyes as well, somehow.
"Who are you?" She seemed to ask with her soul. His soul answered.
"Lucivar."
MARIAN
Lucivar.
That was his name. He wore the Ebon-Grey. He was the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, the First Escort to the Queen of the Black Mountain, the son of the Healer Luthvian and the High Lord of Hell.
She watched him as he went a round with the practice sticks. Liquid grace, savage beauty, violent passion- all of it wrapped up in the form of one Warlord Prince. The practice stick swung around hard enough to sting the air, colliding with the other stick hard enough to make Marian wince.
Warrior, brother, lover, Warlord Prince.
Lucivar was her husband.
LUCIVAR
Perfect.
He'd never seen anything so incredibly fragile and tiny in his entire life. He'd seen children, of course, and innocent witches destroyed on the spears of tainted males. They were fragile, as well. But they were not innocent.
This small creation was innocent and pure and perfect. Such tiny toes and fingers, soft hair and sweet eyes...
He looked at his wife's face. Her eyes were bright with tears. Happy tears, rolling like wet diamonds down her cheeks. She was staring at the wings on their son's back. He looked as well, and saw his beautiful son, who might one day wear the Ebon-Gray as well. Who would one day be a proud Eyrian warrior.
Daemonar.
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