Amos looked at Valentius, who was slithering ahead of them.
A Naga.
How that had happened was a mystery for the Archdemon. A being who could live to see the next age. A being who could get younger by shedding his skin.
Valentius was the last Nightshade. The humans would never accept a Naga as king, much less a Caesar.
Amos looked at Albert.
A ghoul.
Then at Marek.
A Boliarin.
Then he grinned.
And him, the Archdemon.
Oh, they didn't have a paved path ahead of them. They didn't even have a deer trail. They were in the desert. They were trying to survive in the middle of a sandstorm.
He looked at the silk ribbons slowly dancing in the wind. The dwarves were there, in the mountain. But they had to go through several villages if they wanted to reach it.
Amos had no illusions that people were going to recognize them. He knew that he would be treated as the Veil Dancer. This was as much for himself as to kill Wrath.
To wash away the mocking moniker.
To wash away his shame.
