Azul stepped forward, chin held high."I accept your judgement, Ugoeze.Thank you for your benevolence."
The words tasted like coal, but she forced them out with a smile that did not reach her eyes.The Ugoeze inclined her head graciously, and the wives began to disperse, their whispers already weaving new gossip.
Azul turned and walked out of the chamber, her back straight, her servants hurrying to follow.She did not look back.
As Azul walked, the corridor became cooler, and the oppressive weight of the Ugoeze's chambers lifted slightly.Her mind throbbed; first, she needed to figure out which scripture she was supposed to transcribe.
"Azul."
She stopped.Borji had followed her, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor.
"Why did you accept that?"he demanded."You didn't have to; you were not in the wrong."
"Did you expect me to fight back and make an enemy out of the Ugoeze?"Azul turned to face him, her eyes blazing."I am at their mercy: no allies, no coin, no freedom.If they wish to drown me in one of the garden wells tonight, I will die.It is best to be on someone's side until I can leave this place."
He seemed taken aback by her reply, unable to fully grasp her words.His cluelessness annoyed her more.Even if he were an unwanted prince, he lived a carefree life, unbothered by the idea of death.
"It's not right," he insisted, stepping closer."You defended yourself.You shouldn't be punished regardless."
"Why are you even helping me?"Azul snapped."You and your entire family should just leave me alone."
Because of his father, she was stuck in this place; because of his brother, she would have to spend hours writing out meaningless words on parchment.There were only so many of them she could stand at one time.
"I am not grateful.And I do not need a stranger taking advantage of my pathetic situation to stroke his own ego and play hero when it suits him."
She turned on her heel and stalked off, her servants scrambling to keep pace.Behind her, Borji stood frozen, his expression unreadable.
Chapter 2
AKhanwasonlyeveras great as his reputation, and Ragnar Valthorne—the Great Khan of the Valthorne tribe—was a man of disgusting success.From the Kuraltai to the Bacchalia, from the Thessaran Empire to Kemet, there was not a soul who hadn't heard of the warlord that terrorised the Grass Sea.
Shadows moved from branch to branch, keeping to the foliage, hiding in the dark.Eyes swept over the camp below, trying not to alert the soldiers to their presence.The assailants watched as the men polished their armour, laughed around small campfires, and shared their meals.
The shadows exchanged glances, nodding and separating.Their orders were simple enough: eliminate their target, or die trying.
Nyraxa Varkesh did not look up from her letters.
The candlelight flickered across her tent, casting long shadows that danced against the canvas walls.She lounged on a pile of cushions, a stack of parchment beside her, a quill moving steadily across the page, which she rested on a solid leather book.Her hand was elegant, as though she had written a thousand letters to a thousand men of distinguished titles and would write a thousand more.
Kohl lined her eyes, making the green of them almost luminous in the dim light.Black strands of wispy hair fell past her shoulders and face in a way that should have looked dishevelled but somehow only added to her beauty.She wrote on, undisturbed, unbothered by the night or the camp or the knowledge that they were far from home in hostile territory.
Outside, a shadow passed her tent.
Nyraxa's hand continued to move across the page.The letter was nearly finished—a report to a contact in the Bacchalian court, full of carefully worded nothings that would be read a dozen times for hidden meanings.She loved this part.The game of alliances that weren’t quite solidified, as though they were ice sculptures in the making.
The shadow passed again.
Whoever it was had circled her tent three times; it seemed they were here for her.
She finished the sentence.Dotting the final 'i'.Then, without looking up, without breaking rhythm, her other hand moved.The dagger was attached to her thigh; there was another under the cushions.In every tent, in every room, in every place she ever slept, there had always been a blade for her to throw.Her fingers closed around the hilt, and she threw in a single motion that was too fast to dodge.
The blade tore through the canvas, breaking through a human skull.The body fell, and peace returned to her tent.
Nyraxa set down her quill, picked up the next letter, and began to read.
The stream ran cold and clear through the forest, its surface catching the moonlight in silver ripples.A man stood waist-deep in the water, his scarred back to the bank, long black hair plastered to his skin as he bathed.
In the trees above, hidden amidst dark, dense leaves, an assailant nocked an arrow.
