Lower class, then—servants bound to a master. Egath? Tallon? Or another predator now nesting in Sol? The bites marked submission, rank etched into skin. Fewer scars meant greater power. Egath bore none. His throat had been smooth.
Two heads thudded at my boots. Their marks split by severed flesh. Lifeless eyes rolled toward me, and my lip curled.
“They’re lessers. They brought their servants over.” Greaves wiped his blade on a patch of moss.
I filed the knowledge away. “Move out.” I straightened, not wanting to linger. The forest felt crowded. More could lurk nearby. These could be part of a larger scouting party, and I didn’t want to be here with Nienna at my side if reinforcements came.
“My horse took off.”
Greaves met my gaze as he sheathed his sword. The path lay empty behind him.
“Seliora, ride with Nienna.” Their lighter weight would strain the animal less, but worry squeezed my chest all the same. “If we’re attacked again, you release the queen.” My voice left no room for argument. “And Nienna, by the gods,runnext time.”
The Harvester swung up behind her, one arm locking around my wife’s waist, the other hand resting on her sword. Steel whispered as it shifted in its scabbard.
A flicker of defiance, a false bravado, crossed Nienna’s face as her brow pinched. “Perhaps that’s what they wanted,” she muttered, urging her skittish horse behind mine.
She was right. Flight would paint a target on her back.
I never should’ve brought her along.
My jaw throbbed from clenching it. I turned my horse and placed the women between me and Greaves. My heels pressed in, and the animal surged forward, hooves drumming the earth. Cold wind cut against my face as we raced toward camp.
I needed her safe.
Only her dragons could promise that.
We made it back safely before the sun rose. Dawn had not yet touched the sky, and the camp lay heavy beneath a quilt of shadow. Low snores drifted between the tents. Banked embers pulsed faintly in dug-out pits, breathing out the last of their warmth. Most of the soldiers were still draped on their bedrolls, boots lined in pairs outside canvas flaps, helmets tipped on their sides like forgotten bowls.
We left our horses with the other mounts before making our way through the narrow paths.
Inside our tent, the flaps dropped shut behind Greaves with a dull thud.
I felt Nienna’s quiet like an itch between my shoulder blades. It prickled beneath my skin, persistent, impossible to ignore. I crossed to the basin and splashed water on my face. The cold shocked my senses, rivulets tracking down my neck. I shovedguilt and frustration down where they could not be seen. Later—I would deal with it later.
I yanked off my tunic, tossing it aside where it struck the ground with a damp slap. I scrubbed at my forearm with wet fingers, the scent of iron rising sharp and sour.
Velli blood was thicker than a man’s. Gummy. It clung to the creases of my knuckles, packed beneath my nails. Even as it dried, it left a tacky sheen. My hands looked dipped in lacquer. I grabbed a linen cloth and dragged it across my skin, letting the weave catch and pull at the residue.
“More water,” I said with a grunt, glancing at Greaves. The basin had already turned cloudy red. This would not be enough for him.
I stripped the rest of the way, trousers hitting the ground in a heap. They joined the tunic by the entrance, stiff with gore. I dragged the damp cloth down my thigh, tracing the smeared crimson path.
I hated this part. The aftermath. The proof.
I never wanted to be this man, slick with the blood of my enemies.
Yet to become the man I longed to be, I had to fight for it. Peace would not come to me. I had to carve it out.
Nienna hadn’t moved.
She stood near the cot, still as a statue, hands slack at her sides, shoulders held rigid. Firelight from the small lantern threw a thin glow over her face. Her skin looked pale against the dark canvas walls.
I wiped the last of the blood from my torso. The water in the basin had turned bright red, flecks of blackened clots drifting across its surface. I ignored it and dried myself with a clean cloth.
Fresh trousers waited at the foot of the cot. I pulled them on, fastening the ties with fingers that still felt unclean. A fresh tunic followed, the linen cool and unmarked.
My boots.
