As his gaze swept across the dunes, he saw the convoy in ruins. Bodies sprawled, limbs splayed awkwardly across the desert floor. Arrows jutted from armour, throats gaped in wide, wet slashes. The sand drank greedily, pooling crimson around iron and bone.
Lucen and his men had been thorough. Not even the emissaries, tasked with attending his trial in Aethonia, were spared. The wind was already cloying with the thick scent of blood.
By the time the last body crumpled to the sand, the hired mercenaries were already moving with cold efficiency. One of them dragged a figure from behind the dunes.
The man stumbled as he was hauled forward, lean and wiry, clad in a plain white shirt and fawn breeches—an imitation to Castiel’s own clothing that felt almost obscene.
Lucen crouched beside him, tilting the man’s head in his hand as if examining a piece of fruit at the market.Their resemblance was uncanny, close enough to unsettle.
“You’ll do,” he muttered.
The dagger appeared without ceremony, the cut shallow but cruel, slicing across the man’s neck from ear to ear. Blood welled instantly, dripping down his throat in thick rivulets.
Next, Lucen made quick work of the man’s face, ruining it irreparably.
“Can’t have them looking too closely,” he cheerfully remarked,wiping the blade on the man’s shirt like he was cleaning up after a meal.
Castiel said nothing, watching as the copper strands glinted under the rising sun—familiar, like staring at a reflection warped by rippling glass. The body double sagged in Lucen’s grip, consciousness wavering.
But he was still alive. Barely.
The man’s weight shifted as Lucen’s men laid him near the splintered remains of the prison cart, a perfect stand-in.
“Vultures will take care of the rest,” Lucen added, flicking his attention to the sky.
Already, carrion birds circled above them, talons curling as they waited for stillness to settle over the sand. One bird broke from the flock, plunging toward the corpse of a fallen guard. Feathers ruffled as it tore into the soft tissue of the man’s exposed shoulder.
Castiel didn’t flinch. His gaze lingered on the double—on the bloodied, faceless shape wearing clothes so similar to his, with skin and hair so similar to his.
From a distance, under the harsh eye of the desert sun, it would be enough to pass for him. And enough to let the world believe he’d died here, alongside the rest of them.
Long enough for him to disappear, until it was time for him to be useful again.
A movement in the corner had them turning. One last Alpha soldier wearing the deep green and gold of the Asadian army staggered back, sword trembling in his grip. His chest heaved as his gaze darted between Castiel and Lucen, searching for an escape.
Lucen’s blade gleamed, but he didn’t strike. Instead, he took a slow step forward, the sharp arc of his sword slicing lazily through the air.
“You could try running,” he suggested, his voice smooth, almost kind.
The Alpha paled beneath a thin veil of sweat. He turned on his heel, nearly tripping as he scrambled up the dunes, sand kicking up in his frenzied retreat. His ragged breath trailed behind him, swallowed by the wind.
Lucen watched him for a few seconds, amusement flickeringbehind those hazel eyes. “What do you think, little brother? Do we leave a witness?”
Castiel’s hand dipped without thought, finding a bow by his feet, the wood still warm from the dead man who’d held it last. His fingers brushed blood-streaked fletching as he notched two arrows, the action smooth, effortless.
The soldier’s silhouette shrank with each stride, but Castiel’s focus sharpened—steady, unhurried.
He pulled the string taut and loosed. The twin arrows blurred through the air, striking in tandem. One punctured the man’s throat with a wet crack, the other embedded at the back of his skull.
The soldier’s body crumpled mid-stride, collapsing like a puppet cut loose from its strings. A soft thud followed as dust swallowed the lifeless heap.
He exhaled through his nose, lowering the bow as the silence thickened.
Lucen let out a low whistle, the sharp sound cutting through the lingering hush of the battlefield.
“Nothing like the sound of an Alpha hitting dirt to make a day worthwhile,” he drawled, his tone almost lazy—as if they hadn’t just left a trail of cooling bodies behind them.
Castiel didn’t respond. The bow in his hand felt heavier than before, so he tossed it aside, the thud of wood on sand quieter than the roaring in his ears.
