Delto

  “Don’t say or do anything you’ll regret.” I pull the Princeling’s gag out, not bothering to clean the scarlet blood off it. He groaned, head falling forward, chin resting on the bare, tan skin of his sternum.

  Slowly, ever so painfully slow, he lifts his head, sharp sky blue eyes meeting mine, dark pink lips opened halfway.

  “Why would I regret anything I say?” He asks, shifting his arms. They were bound above his head, thick chains curling along his wrists.

  “Princeling, don’t test me.” I crouched down in front of him, staring into his pale, soulless eyes. My tail flicks, brushing against the backs of my calves.

  “Fine.”

  “Why did you go into the jungle?”

  “I was sent by my father to a Lore village called the Barrow. Happy?” He says.

  “The Barrow?” I turn around to where Cerbera’s standing in the wide doorway, one hand gripping the hilt of her curved bone dagger.

  “Yes. Someone else told me to go to it and ask for asylum.” Skylar says, looking from me to Cerbera and back.

  “The Barrow’s gone. It and all its people are dead.” Cerbera stalks forward, coming over to the raised wooden circle Skylar knelt on.

  “Really?” The Princeling swallows, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t need your pity nor your sympathy.” Cerbera snaps.

  “None of us need your condolences.” There’s a bitter taste in my mouth, not from the prince, but from the familiarity of his eyes.

  Those eyes.

  Pale shards of ice and blue sky set beneath thick copper orange brows, resting above a light dusting of ginger freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

  They were the eyes of a murderer, set on the face of a boy whose father was responsible for the death of him.

  It had been three years ago, when I’d been sixteen. Seder and I had been at the annual market in the camp of a Dwrfish caravan. It had been a peaceful night, in the middle of the Tyr’yui; the time of year when all the trees opened their pollen glands right after the coldest drags of winter and before the heavy rains of the growing season. Lilies floated down from the trees in their thousands, blanketing the earth in a layer of white flowers. Candles decorated the wagons, soft bright glows illuminating the dusk. People milled around, cloaks and scarves hiding bodies from the harsh northern wind, wares being sold from stalls made of painted canvas and carved wooden poles. There were blankets embroidered with dragons in flight, made of wool found only in the Dragonbone Mountains. Glassware and jewelry. Hats and clothes, weapons of every shape and size; battleaxes made of dragon horn; swords and daggers fashioned out of elk bone and gemstones.

  And the food.

  Warm currywursts cooked over open flames, drenched in spices and sauce. Delicious breads made of wheat and corn, baked over warm coals, smelling of cinder and pastries. Roasted Shur’tyr turned on a spit. Soups that filled the air with scents of pork, basil, tomatoes, dozens of other herbs and plants.

  Then there was Seder. He sat on the edge of a temporary deck connected to one wagon, a ceramic mug filled with hot cider cupping in his large hands. He wore a cloak wrapped around his bulky frame, an oversized scarf covering him from nose to collarbones. I sat next to him, bundled up in my own cloak and scarf, clutching my own mug of apple cider.

  Seder was apprenticed to a blacksmith, a year older than me his body large and loosely put together under freckled skin a slightly lighter shade of blue than mine. His hair was deep indigo, with black roots and streaks of purple, curling into his golden eyes in a mop of ringlets. His horns had strips of gold around the tips, light brown rings that flowed out of the top of his head is graceful arcs.

  Seder sighed, resting his head on my shoulder. “I’m going to miss you, Delto.” He says. I wrap an arm around his shoulders, pressing my cheek to the side of his head, the silky waves of his curls soft against my skin.

  “You’re not even leaving for another week and you already miss me?” I blink.

  “I know, but still.” Seder whined. I take a sip of cider, the hot liquid running down my throat, burning a path in its wake like a snail’s slime trail.

  “Kinda wish I was above the drinking age.” I mumble.

  Seder laughs, throwing his head back, a clear, happy sound escaping his mouth. My insides turn to apple-tart jelly at it.

  “Do you know what I love about you?” Seder brushes my hair away from my eyes, pressing a kiss to my temple, his warm lips sending shivers down my arms. His tail curls around mine, the spades clinking together in a sound of keratin and terracotta.

  “No.” I meet his gaze, one of his hands cupping my cheek, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right under my eye. Those golden eyes of his staring right into me.

  “Everything, Delto. I love everything.” He pulls me into a kiss, his lips soft and sweet over mine, luring me deeper. The tension in my gut evaporates.

  Seder doesn’t need to be a Magi. He has his own power. The power to melt my core with a single brush of his shoulder or fingers.

  I fold into him, hearing the sound of the ceramic mug set down, then Seder’s other hand on my jaw, curling stands of my hair around his fingers.

  We stop kissing, the cold evening air taking the place of his mouth, instead pressing our foreheads together.

  “You’re blushing.” Seder notes.

  “Am not.” I blush deeper, a hot feeling sinking its fangs into my face. Seder laughs again, my heart already feeling lighter. His breath smells like cinnamon and apples.

  “How’s your sister?” Seder’s grinning, a wide smile plastered on his face.

  “Doing better. Still has dizzy spells.” I snuggle closer to his warmth, letting Seder hold me.

  “Hmm.” He murmurs into my ear.

  We stay like that, in a tight embrace, two boys in love wrapped around each other, protecting each other from the cold spells that waged war with the bonfires and cooking flames of the market.

  Maybe that’s why this memory hurts so much.

  A massive boom blares out all other noise, the shockwave blasting us off our feet, sending us crashing into a tent.

  I groan, staggering to my feet, head ringing, vision gray and fuzzy. Behind me, Seder grunted, pushing off the tent pole from where it’d fallen on him, a wooden bar tangled in painted canvas.

  I turn from Seder to the market, a gasp tumbling out of my mouth.

  The market had turned into a titanic bonfire, red and blue flames billowing in the wind, the wagons and tents a bed of blistering wood and embers. The sky’s filled with black smoke, people’s screams an orchestra of high pitched shrieks and low bellows.

  “What’s-” I grab Seder’s hands, cutting him off with another kiss. I feel him stiffen, his muscles contracting beneath his blue skin.

  “Run to the jungle. There’s an over turned log about half a league away. Wait for me there.” I say.

  “No. I’m staying with you.” Seder slides his hands out of mine and places them on my shoulders, the edges of his thumbs digging into my clavicles.

  “You’re not a fighter!” I protest.

  “I’m not leaving you. No argument.”

  I bit my lip. “Follow me.”

  Now I look at the Princeling, at his harsh blue eyes.

  “Cerbera, you know the bridge where we met?” I don’t bother twisting around to see her face.

  “Yes.” Cerbera says.

  “Meet me there. Bring a cloak and hood.” I say.

  “Alright.” I don’t see her leave, I hear her, a light pattering of her footsteps, the air moving to fill the space where her body used to be.

  Skylar shifts, his chains clanking together in soft clinks. I unlock them, sliding the key into one of the pouches on my belt, letting the Princeling fall forward, seemingly boneless without the support of the chains.

  “You’ll need clothes.” I cross the room to the low set of drawers sitting nestled under an eave in the mosaic wall.

  This building hadn’t been here when I’d first arrived, half blind and numb with the pain of having lost Seder. It was a circular building, with one singular wide archway door, exposing the room to the elements. The ceiling was domed, the manacles Skylar had been chained with hanging from the dome’s zenith. The floor was a shallow divot, covered with sand except for the rim and the raised wooden dais in the center.

  It was the walls that stirred something raw inside me, mosaics of dragons and Shur’tyr and Lore made of twigs and bark and bone, a scattered net of whites and browns. A kind of altar to the jungle, in a way.

  “Can I have my sword?” Skylar asks. I whip around to face him. He’s on his knees, massaging his wrists, bright red circles around the joints. Even from three whole meters away from him, I can see the thin scars from the wounds Cerbera inflicted on him. Long narrow strips of ash covering his naked, muscular torso.

  “What, so you can murder us with it?” I snap. “Feel more comfortable with a blade in the home of your greatest enemy?” I yank the bottom drawer out with enough force to snap someone’s neck, the entire armoire rattling with it.

  “No.” Skylar’s words are soft, like a feather grazing my neck.

  “Doubtful.” I pull out a green tunic and loose gray pants. tucking them over my arm.

  “Hmm. Bet I can change your mind.” He says. It sounds almost seductive, the way he phrases it.

  I give him the clothes, watching his gaze go to my eyepatch. “Also doubtful.”

  “How’d you lose it.” The question goes all the way to my core, a shockwave as strong as the one that had ripped through me when Seder had drawn his last breath. Skylar lowers his head when I don’t respond. “Sorry, shouldn’t have asked.” He stands, a whole tower of looming skin and muscle, a war machine trained to kill and kill and kill.

  “Get dressed, Princeling, don’t make me do it for you.”

  “That a threat?”

  “Are you trying to flirt with me?” I cross my arms over my chest, raising a brow at the Princeling.

  “Nope.” He’s grinning, a broad smile splitting his freckled face from ear to ear. I growl, rolling my eyes.

  “Get dressed before I gut you and use your entrails as Shur’tyr bait.” The conversation ends on that note, the Princeling slipping on the shirt, a dash of green on his copper complexion.

  I give him privacy, twisted my back to him when he begins unlacing his breeches, small almond brown cord coming undone.

  “Finished. Where are we going?”

  The market was just how I remembered it, a loose jumble of wagons and tents, pavilions and longhouses pressed up against a small village in a slight clearing. There was Lore and Dwrfish milling around, dressed in cloaks and scarves, just like the last one I’d been to. The air was a haven to the scents of soup and meat, coal and cider, spices and seasonings.

  “What are the Shapeless doing here?” Cerbera points, a man with twisting horns and a serpent’s scaled tail standing at the tip of her finger.

  “If my father attacks and a Shapeless is killed in the crossfire, then they lose their neutrality. It’s a risky move on both my father’s and Purge’s parts.” Skylar says. I swing my head to glare at him.

  Of course the Princeling had to state the obvious.

  The world was balancing on a knife’s tip, perched on the edge of a cliff, hanging by a noose with the bolt halfway pulled, all because of Randor. All because of some twisted vision of his where the Lore were gone.

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  “Just because we live in the jungle doesn’t mean we aren’t aware of politics, Weakling.” Cerbera says.

  “Sorry.” The Princeling lowers his head, resting his chin on his chest, hiding his eyes beneath his copper bangs.

  “Right,” I say. “Doubtful.”

  “Oh please.” Cerbera rolls her eyes, putting her hands on her broad hips. Skylar frowned, testing the restraints I’d put on his wrists.

  I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him; which wasn’t very far, considering how close in height we were.

  “Come on. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a Loric drinking contest.”

  “I’m confused, what is this?” Cerbera cocks her head to the side, one hand resting under her chin, the other gesturing to the low table covered in beer tankards.

  “Lots of rum?” Skylar blinks. I roll my eye.

  “You people are hopeless.” I shake my head.

  “Hopeless?” Now Skylar’s cocking his head too, coppery rust bangs falling away from the side of his head.

  “Yes, hopeless. As hopeless as a Shur’tyr drenched in hot sauce.”

  Cerbera starts laughing, wrapping her arms around her midsection and doubling over, her face cracked by chuckles.

  “Now I’m confused.” Skylar raises a brow, rubbing his wrists together.

  “Loric humor, Weakling, Loric humor.” Cerbera wipes a tear out of the corner of her right eye, her chest shaking with laughter.

  “A Shur’tyr drenched in hot sauce?” Skylar wrinkled his nose, the shiny, smooth, freckled skin between his brows wrinkling and folding in small divots.

  “Yes, Princeling. Not that you would like to see it, though.” I worry my lower lip, watching the drinking contest unfold.

  There were two men sitting opposite each other across the table. The man on the left was Lore, his skin a dark orange, eyes flames of murky brown. He was large, with a full beer belly and a large bulb for a chin, his neck a thick column of meat supporting a round face and drooping red hair tied back in a tail that ran down his nape in cherry streaks.

  It was his opponent I was worried about.

  The other man was Dwrfish, his skin a light bronze and stretched over a narrow frame that funneled into the massive sphere of his belly. His back was bare, a row of sharp black spikes following the shallow divot of his spine, each one connecting to one of his vertebrae. Long black hair that cascaded to his shoulders, tight features, similar to a weasel’s, covered in dirt and smile wrinkles around beady gold eyes with silted pupils. Two horns made circles the size of barrel lids, the tips curling down to his pointed jaw, feathers in pastel colors hanging off leather braids dangling from the upward facing tips.

  Both men wore greens and grays, scarves hiding chests and collarbones. The Dwrfish wore trappers’ leathers and furs, his forearms wrapped in deer hide and sinew-corded bracers. The Lore in traditional Loric clothes in woven shades of greens and browns.

  The pavilion we were under was made of two oak wood pillars supporting a vast dirty canvas that loomed over our head, the far wall belonging to the side of a large wagon, the dirt floor covered with furs and rugs, long strips of animal hides and skins in furry patterns of pale beige and brown.

  “Explanation please.” Skylar demands.

  “Oh gods.” Cerbera groans.

  I explain the rules, watching the Lore and the Dwrfish men down tankard after tankard, the brown, frothy liquid leaking out their lips, running down their faces and dripping into their laps.

  “Okay. So basically, whoever wins is the one who outdrinks the other?” Skylar cocks his head to the side, pale blue eyes glittering like frosty sky under the torchlight.

  “Essentially yeah. Loser has to scoop horse poop with their dagger.” Cerbera says. There’s a light note to her words, and I turn to see her grinning, a wide smile plastered on her yellow orange freckled face, splitting it in two. It’s strange, to see someone smiling in a place where so much blood has been spilled. To see them standing in a place, laughing, where someone you had loved had fallen, a place where they’d last been alive.

  “Why not a shovel?” Skylar blinks. I try not to laugh at his face, at the very chicken-like way he’s watching the drinking contest, his head back, chin tucked forward, face scrunched in a scowl-like expression.

  “Makes for a more interesting match, since no decent person wants to dirty his blade in horse manure.”

  “Or hers.” Cerbera crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at me. All the joy in her features has leaked out, taken over by the cold resolve left in the wake of violence.

  “Right.” Not many people were used to seeing women in combat. Myself included, probably because both the women I was familiar with at Ribena weren’t fighters. And that most of the people I’d fought and killed had been of the male gender.

  “Hmm.” Cerbera frowns.

  “I apologize.” I say.

  “Not you. Him.” She gestures with her chin to Skylar, who’s staring at the Dwrfish man as he chugs another tankard, rubbing his wrists together, straining against his bounds.

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t trust him. It felt so easy finding him. Who’s to say he wasn’t some sort of point man in some sort of operation he didn’t know about?” She has a point. A very good one that even I hadn’t considered.

  “Guess we’ll have to see. Just watch your back around him. It’s hard to stab someone in the back with a sword. Not impossible, but hard.”

  “Right.”

  “Yet another reason I hate swords.” I shake my head. Cerbera snorts, gloomy green eyes wide, looking as baffled as a fish in a trap.

  “If you say so.” She says. I let out a small chuckle, surprised at the sheer giddiness of the sound. How long had it been since I’d heard myself laugh?

  “You okay?” She eyes me, one of her yellow-orange brows raised.

  “I’m fine. Just-” I gesture to the market behind us, at a tall Loric woman and her children in front of a tent across the lane from us.

  “Just what?” Cerbera prompts.

  “It’s hard, coming back to this place.” I manage to say, the words tumbling off my tongue like rocks in a mud patch on a cliff.

  “Why?” Why. Such a weird question. A question that I hated. A question I loathed with every fiber in my being.

  “Randor killed him.”

  “Him?”

  “Aye.”

  “Your father?” Cerbera shoves her hands into the pockets sewn on her pants, thumbs hanging over the length of her leather belt.

  “No. Xandyr’s my father.”

  “Oh.” Cerbera says.

  “Yeah.” I mutter. Most people didn’t know that, that Xandyr was my father. We looked nothing alike, and yet his blood flowed in my veins.

  “Who was it, then?”

  “Someone I loved. Someone I couldn’t bare to lose.”

  “I’m sorry.” Cerbera bows her head, chin tucked into the collar of the gray hip length cloak she wore.

  “Don’t be. Like I told the Princeling, I don’t need your condolences.” I snap, harsher than I meant, a sharp streak across a rusty plane on a metal plate or blade.

  “I’m guessing it’s also how you lost your eye.” Cerbera says. I stiffen, feeling a slight twinge of phantom pain horizontally across my left eye.

  “Aye.” I leave her, taking three long strides over to the Princeling. Skylar looks up when I clear my throat, his eyes widening a little.

  “What?”

  “There’s something I-” Something tugs on the edge of my mind, a distant thumping behind my ears. A sixth sense born of paranoia and having to constantly look over my shoulder.

  “What-” I grab the Princeling by his collar, yanking him under the table in a flourish of limbs.

  “Cerbera!” I hiss, crossing the short distance to her. She whirls around to face me, her dagger already drawn, held inverted in her left hand.

  “You hear it?” She says. I nod.

  “Come on. We need to get behind cover.” I pull her under the table, much to the Dwrfish man’s protests. The Loric man stands up abruptly, knocking his stool back with a clatter, spilling a few tankards that still held beer.

  “What’s happening?” Skylar asks. I glare at him.

  “Make a sound and I slit your throat, understand?” I snap.

  “You kids playing hide-and-go-seek?” The Dwrfish says. He goes to the edge of the pavilion, peering out. I can feel my heart in my chest, pounding, threatening to climb up out of my throat and spill on the ground in a gory, bloody mess.

  The Dwrfish takes three steps out of the pavilion, turning back to glance at us.

  “It’s perfectly safe, come o-” Blood splatters across the ground, the Dwrfish man cut to pieces by a volley of arrows, chunks of flesh and sprayed blood painting the grass. He collapses. Skylar opens his mouth to scream, and I clamp a hand over it, my arm wrapped around his neck, his sharp blue eyes tearing up, wide and fear-filled.

  “Make a sound and all of us are dead, got it?” I hiss into his ear, just loud enough for him to hear. Skylar nods his head several times, lips brushing the palm of my hand.

  The Lore man makes a break for it, running in a zigzag pattern towards the nearest tent, some fifteen meters away.

  He doesn’t get very far.

  An arrow as long as I am tall skewers him to the ground, slicing his head from his shoulders, sending his body toppling over, neck a bloody stump. The Princeling screams again, a much higher pitched one from the first. I grit my teeth, doing all I can to keep the terrified human from bolting.

  I know how this will end.

  How the men from Argona would massacre the Lore.

  Arrows.

  Swords.

  No warning or even a reason.

  Just blind obedience and no moral compass what so ever.

  “Cerbera, can you take out the archers?”

  “Yes. Why?” Her eyes are hard, dark pits of green. She’s seen this kind of violence before. She had the will and instincts to stay alive. I could see it in the way she set her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger. The way her voice became devoid of emotion.

  “If the archers are . . . removed, then we don’t have to worry about getting shot in the back.” I whisper. Cerbera nods.

  “Rin Due’ty dray en’mou.” She taps her sternum lightly with a closed fist, rising up to a crouch.

  Their lives are forsaken.

  “Ran Ill’dy.” Yours is not. I mutter. An old saying. An old way to wish good luck. To make a promise. To ready the mind for war.

  Cerbera gives me a nod, the bottom half of her face hidden by the collar of her cloak. Then she’s gone, a yellow blur streaking away. Skylar shudders, a tremor racing through his body.

  “Why’d you send her away?” He starts to get up, trying to go after Cerbera. I feel something in me snap, something kept buried that’s broken out, flooding into me. I grab the Princeling by the throat, slamming him to the ground, aware of his heavy breath on my face, lips only inches from mine. Of my body trapping his, separated only by a few thin layers of cloth.

  “Listen to me, you fool. Cerbera doesn’t need your help. What makes you think you could help her after she put you on your pampered ass when she wasn’t even trying to kill you?” I keep my eyes on his, waiting for him to drop his gaze. He doesn’t, the stubborn, royal idiot.

  “I didn’t-”

  “I don’t care for your excuses. I saw you thinking about it. You think you can turn yourself in and get away, get taken back to Argona. You think Randor will take you back under his wing?” I put more of my weight on him, readjusting my grip on his slender, finely-muscled neck. Skylar shakes his head, his sweaty fingers curling around my wrists.

  “I’m his son.” He arches his back, a halfhearted attempt to throw me off. I push harder, his hips digging into mine.

  It takes everything in me not to laugh.

  “Randor’s a lot of things. Forgiving isn’t one of them. What makes you think he’ll pardon you just because you’re related by blood? He’ll gut you himself and put your head on a pike, same as he does to us. I don’t have any obligations to keep you alive.” I say. “Whether you live or die, I don’t give a single fucking care in the world. All I care about is whether you’re willing to fight in this war, because, believe it or not, you’re in it. So I’ll ask you once, and only once. Will you fight, or will you be a coward and add yet another corpse to the body count?” I shake him once, studying him for reactions. His bottom lip is trembling, heart thumping beneath me in a fast tempo. I can feel his pulse under my fingers, through his tan skin. It’s almost satisfying, knowing that his life is quite literally in my hands.

  “I’ll fight.” He says. I snort.

  “Congratulations. You just got promoted to the rank of cannon fodder.” I get off him, doing my best not to wipe my hands on the sides of my gray trousers.

  “Really?”

  “Shut up.” I tell him.

  “Does Ribena even have a cannon?”

  “No. And if you say anything about a cannon, I will use you as target practice with tomahawks.” Yanking the Princeling to his feet, I take the risk of peeking around the corner of the wagon, fully aware of how I might get shot in the face with arrows. “Come on.” Dragging him out, I work my way across the bloodstained path, stepping around the bodies of the Dwrfish and Loric men, keeping one hand on Skylar’s ropes.

  “This is-” Skylar inhales sharply, a small whimper tumbling out of his mouth.

  “I need you to do something for me.” I pull out my knife, sawing the serrated edge along Skylar’s bound, freeing his hands.

  “What?”

  “Get as many people as you can out of here. If anyone stops you, show them this;” I hand him one of my pendants, my fingers brushing his. The Princeling blinks twice then nods, taking a step back.

  “What about you?” He asks. I roll my neck, feeling the bones pop.

  “I think it’s time for them to get a taste of their own medicine.” Two orbs of fire ignite in my hands, the feeling of power running through me in rivers of a primal craving. Skylar gulps, the red and orange flames reflected in his frosty sky blue eyes. It’d been so long since I’d felt this free, this powerful. I fed the flames with more, until they towered, great beacons of red and orange misery.

  Skylar nods again, before turning on his heels, breaking out into a sprint, soon disappearing into the unfolding chaos of the burning market.

  I set my jaw.

  Time to end this.

  I find Cerbera towards the center of the market, fighting three men on horseback. They circled around her, keeping the small Lore pinned in.

  “CERBERA!” I bellow her name, seeing her look over her shoulder just as I launched a fireball at the men. The ground at their feet ignited, the horses and men engulfed in fire, their screams and the sounds of burning, crackling flesh rising above the treetops, a shrill orchestra of suffering.

  “Aha!” Something tugs at my stomach, and I turn, the world narrowing to the silver tip of a lance streaking past my face. I feel it slice open my cheek, the world speeding up as soon as it passes. I whirl, summoning a gust of wind, bright yellow light shooting up my veins.

  Unlike Wildfire, Wind was gentler. More a cool breeze then roaring fire. Like feathers running through my blood instead of rocks or boiling water.

  This was magic, in its purest, rawest, form.

  This was freedom.

  It crackled in the back of my head, a deep rustling. A heavy buzzing, like cymbals ringing behind my ears.

  “Monster.” A brush of air tickles my face, and I look down to see the bloodied tip of a sword sticking out from my belly, right below my sternum. The pain hits then, a sharp needle of it. I gasp, my head wrenched backward, a black, gloved hand holding it back, pressure on my throat.

  “I have no reason not to capture you, scum.” The voice is soft, lithe, inviting. I can see Seder in front of me, his outline blurred, leaning towards me, whispering in my ear to give in.

  It’s not worth fighting for, Delto. Can’t you see that?

  I would rather die than see Randor win.

  Then don’t let him win.

  “I’m sorry, Seder.” I whisper, feeling my hands pulled behind me, my knees pressing into the damp, blood-soaked earth. My body tips to the side, vision going cloudy and foggy.

  “You have the Ironglass?”

  “No, sir. We-”

  “You fools! How do you expect to capture a Magi without Ironglass?” I manage to see a man with a short buzz-cut of pale silver hair standing over me, an open collar hanging off a long chain in his black gloved hands. Every line in his well-pressed navy blue leather suit is etched with cruelty and anguish.

  “Go . . . to . . . hell.” I pant, searching for something I could use as a weapon.

  “Can’t do that. The King needs me.” The man places a hand under my chin, lifting my head up. “Hmm.” He runs his gloved thumb over my eyepatch.

  “You . . . want . . . me. You . . . need . . . me.” What am I saying? I can feel my control over my mind slipping, the firm hold on sanity cracking, tearing, leaving something raw and tender in its place.

  “Why would I need anything from you?” The man tightens his grip, fingers and fingernails digging into my jawbone.

  “Don’t . . . hurt . . . him . . . I . . . beg . . . you.” I close my eye, wanting, longing, to leave the world behind.

  “Him?” I feel my head moved sideways.

  “I’d . . . rather . . . die.” I groan.

  Something sharp and narrow wedged itself against the inside of my throat, a blade made of cold steel.

  “Then die.” The blade began to move, slicing open my skin like a fissure torn in the earth from some massive scythe.

  So this is where it ends. Killed like a pig in a slaughter house.

  Killed and butchered like a monster.

  “You’re terrible at this, you know.” Seder chuckled, offering me a hand. I grunted, swatting it away.

  “I’m fine. It’s you who’s terrible.” I rolled to my feet, picking up the iron poker I was using to spar with. Seder gave his a flourish with his wrist, his light blue skin oily with sweat.

  “Terrible at what? Falling on my face?” It’s easy to lose my gaze in Seder’s muscles. He’s a blacksmith, his muscles long and hard, forged like hot iron over an anvil.

  “No. Terrible at being honest.” I said, holding the poker up and out, leveling the hooked tip with the flat surface of Seder’s breastbone. Seder lifted his as well, and then we had them crossed, a ringing of steel against steel. He had a scar over his sternum, a white mark that ran from the base of his neck to his navel, like someone had cut him open.

  “You know how easy it is to make you squirm?” Seder pulled me against him, his sweaty body eclipsing mine.

  “No.” I pushed at him, my arms twisted at weird angles between us, his wound around my back, his iron poker pressed into the sensitive skin between my shoulder blades. Seder smirked.

  “You really aren’t the brightest.” Then his mouth was on mine, his breath smelled of ash and cedar wood, one hand reaching up to hold the back of my head. I felt his fingers curl into my hair. Hunger roared in my belly, fueled by Seder’s body and the passion he used. The iron pokers fall and hit the ground, clattering and clanking against each other.

  “Why . . .” I gasped.

  “I had hoped it was obvious.”

  “Hoped what was obvious?” I blinked.

  Seder began kissing my throat, working his way down to my collarbones, each kiss a feather brush, traveling the tendons in my neck. Then he lifted his head, his glowing, golden eyes meeting mine.

  “I love you.”