Three hundred years later

"He doesn't laugh."

"He never yells."

"When Grayley accidentally stabbed Darius's thigh with a six-pronged razor, our leader didn't even blink."

"I'd say all he needs is a few good hours of bed sport, but I'm not even sure he knows what his cock is for."

The latter was met with a round of rumbling male chuckles.

Darius en Kragin stepped inside the spacious dining hall, his gaze methodically cataloging his surroundings. The ebony floors gleamed clean and black, the perfect contrast for the dragon-carved ivory walls. Along the windows, gauzy drapes whisped delicately. Crystal ceilings towered above, reflecting the tranquility of sea-water that enclosed their great city.

He moved toward the long, square dining table. The tantalizing aroma of sweetmeats and fruit should have wafted to his nostrils, but over the years his sense of smell, taste and color had deteriorated. He smelled only ash, tasted nothing more than air, and saw only black-and-white.

One warrior caught sight of him and quickly alerted the others. Silence clamped tight fingers around the chamber. Every male present whipped his focus to his food, as if roasted fowl had suddenly become the most fascinating thing the gods had ever created. The jovial air visibly darkened.

True to his men's words, Darius claimed his seat at the head of the table without a smile or a scowl. Only after he'd consumed his third goblet of wine did his men resume their conversation, though they wisely chose a different subject. This time they spoke of the women they had pleasured and the wars they had won. Exaggerated tales, all. One warrior even went so far as to claim he'd gratified four women at the same time while successfully storming his enemy's gate.