I try not to look at the large scar cutting across Androl’s forehead, but my eyes still momentarily flicker toward it. Scars may be common for the weaker species, but it takes a significant injury to permanently mark a demon.
Most are gained in battle, or in childhood before our power has fully developed.
Androl received his in battle. It was several hundred years ago, and I don’t know the details. He was captured by a hoard of ogres, and those little fuckers are known for their love of torture.
I’ve heard horror stories regarding their treatment of women during the female decline, and I can only imagine the things they did to a young Wrath warrior. Androl was with them for almost three years before we were able to locate and rescue him.
I suspect not many know what happened during that time. I’ve tried looking. We keep extensive records, but Aziel redacted most of Androl’s accounts.
Androl clears his throat. I lower my gaze, ashamed to have gotten caught staring at his scar.
“Our final soldiers are just now arriving,” he says. “Let me show you around.”
I nod. Should I acknowledge my staring? Should I apologize? I cast a sideways glance at Rexton, hoping he can sense where my thoughts have gone. He’s positioned slightly behind Androl, out of the lieutenant general’s view, and he makes intense eye contact with me before pointedly shaking his head.
No apologies, then.
Androl gives Rexton and me a quick tour, showing us where the leadership tent is and where I can find food. There’s not a moment of pause within camp, and I can tell immediately that I won’t be getting much, if any, sleep these next few days.
Androl pulls open the flap of an unmarked tent and steps inside. I follow, mindlessly glancing around the small space. There’s a cot pushed up against the right wall, and on the other side is a short desk. A bathtub is nestled between the two, so I assume this tent belongs to Raum.
Unless the spear incident has earned me a bathtub. I wouldn’t complain.
“This is where you two will be staying.”
“Us two?” I spin toward Androl. “Are Rexton and I to share a tent?”
Androl furrows his brows. “Yes?” His gaze flickers between Rexton and me. “We aim to take up as little space as possible, and Raum said you two wouldn’t mind sharing a tent. Is there an issue with that?” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sure I can scrounge up…”
“It’s fine,” I blurt out, interrupting. It’s actually not fine. It’s far from fine, but I don’t want to be a burden. “We only need a second cot.”
Androl nods, visibly relieved. It confirms my decision not to make him find a separate tent for Rexton. A cot should be easy enough to secure.
“I’ll have one brought in,” Androl says. “I’ll leave you to unpack your things and get settled. Let’s meet at the leadership tent in thirty minutes.”
He’s gone a second later.
I turn toward Rexton and gesture to the tub. “Clean yourself.”
Rexton recoils. “Excuse me?”
Do I need to spell it out for him? “You smell like me. I suspect you haven’t showered since the attack, and my blood has soaked into your skin. Raum seems to believe that you and I are together. There’s no other reason he’d tell Androl to supply us with one tent and one cot. It’s an assumption I don’t want anybody else making. Wash my scent off yourself.”
“I do not—”
“Yes, you do,” I say, interrupting his budding argument. “And we’re not leaving until you no longer smell of me.”
I pull open the tent and wave over the nearest soldier. He’s wearing a patch on his shoulder that signals he’s here to support and help out around camp, not to fight.
“I need this tub filled,” I say.
He nods, then vanishes.
I turn back to Rexton, refusing to concede. This is a battle I’m going to win.
Rexton flattens his lips into a thin line, his hands clenching and unclenching as soldiers file inside our tent with buckets of water. The tub is filled within minutes.
I point to it. “Hurry up. We’re running out of time.”
