Demetrius had spent countless days and nights carving the sculptures that stood in their Secret Room, and even seeing them crushed on the floor did nothing to quiet the madness in his head.
So he grabbed another one and smashed it against the wall.
Still nothing. Not an ounce of calmness.
“Brother,” he heard Anthony’s voice coming from the secret door on the wall. “What’s the matter?”
Instead of answering, Demetrius threw another sculpture against the floor. More than anything in the world, Demetrius hated being powerless. Perhaps it was associated with the fact that he had always—since that fateful night—had all the power in the world. People feared him. Kings and Queens feared him.
He was the King of the Dead.
But fighting against a faceless enemy was nothing he had done before.
