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Fadon smiled at his brother’s ineloquent passion. “I believe he’s left already. As far as what Sierra thinks… we haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“So, that’s what’s been on your mind, leaving your command?”
Fadon couldn’t tell the whole of his worries to Ander, not without revealing secrets that weren’t his to reveal. But his future as captain was indeed a part of why he’d been so somber, so he wasn’t lying when he said, “Yes.”
“I can understand. Whatever you decide, though, I’m here for you.”
“I appreciate that, Ander.” Ever since their conversation back on the island, he and his brother’s relationship had taken a whole new path, one that he was thankful for every day. “What about you? What are your plans?”
Ander let out a breath. “I need to get back to Mari at some point. Right now, I’m only here because Lucius was heading to Odessia to settle it for a year, and I couldn’t leave Sierra behind in Ordelpho. I wanted to make sure she arrived safe. Then I was going to head back to Neil after making sure Odessia was safe enough for her and not a shit hole.” He laughed but then quickly sobered. “I just wish I wasn't the damn heir and had the luxury to just live the way I want, where I want.”
If only Ander knew he wasn’t, Fadon thought. Mari was Heir now, technically, and Fadon had no idea what to do with that fact. He’d sworn to Lucius and Demos, and Sierra, in that tent that night that he wouldn’t share anything that was said, not even a hint. What Demos truly was—Ongar, Fadon could barely acknowledge that bit of information. An Owl who really was an owl?—what Phobius was, and definitely not who Lucius was.
He’d known it was the truth, however. He’d felt it in his gut, and that was before Phobius had joined them. He’d needed no proof, so when Phobius had quoted his father’s favorite saying, something he’d only speak to those he trusted in, a sort of talisman that he’d shared with his children, it had only confirmed it: His father had been a reprobate, a monster. Had cheated on his wife and had raped a young woman, leaving her behind with an innocent child, no provisions, no promises.
His father, the man Fadon had looked up to since he could remember. A man who had been sick with love for Fadon’s mother, Diantha, an Omega. A sweet, intelligent yet quiet woman who only seemed to shine when she was with those she loved. Now, in light of what he’d learned, he could see the fissures in his mother and father’s relationship. He could see the times his mother had distanced herself from court, from her husband, eventually from the world.
He remembered the Consortium that year, when the event had taken place, only because it was his first one as Captain. But that was the only thing he recalled. Nothing at all to even hint at the horrible occurrence Phobius had recounted.
Did it shed light on who and why Lucius was what he was? To an extent. The animosity, the arrogance made more sense to Fadon now. He could only imagine Lucius’ resentment toward House Trajan, himself included. It explained a lot, he supposed. He didn’t know Lucius very well, but he did know that the True Alpha was a patient man. A cunning man. And if Lucius were to ever play the card of bastard son, it was only a question of when. And it was that that had Fadon wary.
The rest of the ride Fadon brooded. He knew the time would come when he’d have to give in and speak with Sierra, speak with Lucius, even. He was almost ready but not quite.
When they camped for the night and woke the next morning, he’d known he’d lost the chance to talk to either one today as the group entered the trading village, Tarma, around noon. What Fadon and the others saw was heartbreaking.
The wreckage, the despair. Marauders had been here.
The dirt roads were littered with garbage, clothes, and blood. Houses were missing doors, stables missing horses. Smoke from still-burning ashes filled the air. Tarma wasn’t a large village by most standards, but it was a home and livelihood to one hundred or so families.
When Fadon and the Ongahri entourage pulled up reins in front of the town’s general store, a few terrified faces peeked out of windows. Fadon didn’t blame their reaction a bit. Dozens of Ongahri warriors on horseback was a sight to be wary of even in a well-to-do city on a summer’s day.
Lucius dismounted, and Fadon took a cue from him and got off his own horse, holding up his hands to show that his people meant them no harm.
“People of Tarma,” Lucius called out. The snow fell softly like tiny feathers around them. It was the only sound for miles except the occasional cry of a hungry baby somewhere close by. “We’ve come to offer our aid. Who committed this atrocity?”
Lucius asked again, and after several moments, a man in a leather apron appeared around one of the storage buildings, brandishing some kind of crude weapon. A blacksmith, judging by his dress and muscular physique.
“We have nothing you’d want, Ongahri. Best you just ride on out!”
Lucius wasn’t daunted, though. “Hello, sir. I’m Lucius, Chieftain of an Ongahri tribe. We’d like to assist you, as I said.”
The man shook his head. “Ain’t nothing you can assist with. We got no more food. Unless you can grow crops in this blasted weather, you ain’t no use to us, Warrior.”
Another voice joined in. “Sir. Please, let us help you.”
At the sound, Fadon turned around. Sierra was in the process of walking over to the blacksmith. Fadon opened his mouth to stop her, but she kept on speaking.
“Please. We mean you no harm. We’d like to help.” Her gentle manner, her regal bearing and sweet face rendered the man speechless. Suddenly, Fadon noticed others coming out of closed doors and hiding places, until Sierra was surrounded by children and tired, life-worn women.
Fadon stepped closer to her and watched as the villagers stared at this woman before them. Long strikingly white hair, strange blue-green eyes. The children’s mouths were agape, and the women looked hopeful.
“My name is Sierra. Please, let us help you.” She squatted down and hesitantly touched a little boy’s cheek. The child had bloody scratches and dirt on his tear-stained, pale face. “Does your village have a healer? An apothecary?”
“We do, my lady,” said a middle-aged lady who bobbed in a curtsy.
Sierra straightened to her full height and smiled kindly at the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Ursa, my lady. We have both the healer and an apothecary. But the healer… he was badly hurt.”
