And his warband stood with him.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
The orc soldiers readied themselves, blades drawn, tusks bared in grim silence. Their breath steamed in the cold night air, the low rumble of anticipation running through the line like thunder before a storm.
Rakhal stepped back from them. Away from their eyes, away from their waiting trust. He let himself lean into the dark.
The shadows welcomed him.
The wall of Istrial loomed at his back, casting a vast, weighty shadow across the plain. It had stood for centuries, soaked in memory. It whispered to him now—whispered of blood, of power, of conquest. A hungry shadow, filled with the residue of countless souls who had passed through, died upon, defended or assaulted it.
A dangerous thing. But useful.
He reached into it, and the shadows tugged, eager to be wielded. Their whispers clung to his skin, pressed into his bones. The sheer depth of it was frightening—this was not the raw shadow he usually bent to his will, but something older, deeper, threaded with the city’s long, brutal history. Ancient shadows could devour those foolish enough to use them.
But he had no choice.
He would defend his orcs. Loyal Shazi and her soldiers who had chosen him.
He would defend Eliza, his soon-to-be bride. And right now, he would have it no other way. He had set his mind on her, and he wanted her. He had marked her. And by that mark, he was bound not only to her, but to her people. The city of Maidan. Even the innocents beyond its walls.
If it was Kardoc leading the attackers—if it was his own people—then this would cut deep.
But he had warned his father. He had spoken plainly, without deception. If Draak had sent Kardoc regardless, then his trust had been betrayed. And far too often, the price of betrayal was death.
Rakhal’s grip tightened, his breath steadying as he drew the power of the wall into himself. The shadows roared in his blood, whispering promises, demanding blood in return. He felt the surge—terrifying, vast, barely containable.
His goal was clear. Strike hard. Strike fast. Fill the betrayers with enough fear that they would break and scatter, fleeing before their resolve could harden.
Blood would be spilled.
But that was the price of betrayal.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
The shadows swallowed them whole.
They rose in a tide around him, vast and endless, the ancient shadow of the wall gripping tight to his skin, his bones, his mind. It whispered to him, insidious, dragging him into madness, into the edge of a berserker’s rage.
How dare they betray me?
Through the swirl of darkness, his gaze cut to the rear of the horde. Kardoc. His brother. Charging forward with a roar, tusks gleaming, eyes wild. Of course it was him. Kardoc could never stand to see him change the course of the war, never allow him to take this from him.
But how had he convinced their father?
Not the time.
Rakhal pulled the shadows tighter, wrapping them around his limbs as he drove through the horde. Orcs shouted, swung, tried to strike. Some of the stronger ones—shadow-blooded like him—saw through the veil, catching glimpses of where he was.
“Hold back,” he growled, his voice echoing in the dark. “Or you’ll die.”
But few listened.
They knew him. Theyknewwhat he was capable of. Still, they pressed forward. Orcs obeyed orders, even when it meant their deaths.
