Ferdinand’s gut told him he was right because out of all of Alasne’s many defense mechanisms, she next drew a serious face and aimed to degrade him while attempting to elevate her own altruism.
“Someone had to fight for the legacy of the Warlords. And though you obviously care nothing for your mother’s legacy, I do. Her legacy is my legacy, too.”
Ferdinand gave the barest shake of his head. “That’s exactly what she’d like you to think. She’s using you now as she used you all those years ago. Befriending you, encouraging your need to leave the Warlord’s mantle behind for the freedom of the oceans, worming her way in until you felt safe in handing your power to her without a second thought.”
“Nice try. That’s not what happened.”
“Oh, but I know her. Better than you know her.”
Her sand-crusted lips pursed. “She has been my family for twice your lifetime, boy.”
Ferdinand did not flinch nor hesitate. “When I kill you, Geneva will frame it to your remaining men not as my victory but as your shortcoming. You will be a beloved cautionary tale, and a catalyst for action among those who survive. Then, she’ll take your ship, your men, yourtitle, and use everything you built for her own means until she wins. And I can tell you that she won’t win today—she won’t win at all. Your way of life will end, along with your crew’s, and that legacy you claim to care about will rot into the sand.”
Alasne’s crooked mouth bared a bloodstained grin. “That’s a mighty long speech, boy. Careful, you keep talking and your mother will have all the time in the world to stab you in the back with a sword or two—the Hand can only cover so much.”
A bare minute had passed, and not a person had come charging toward them. For as loud as Alasne had been on the Hand’s thumb, several sworn fighters likely had seen her fall. Someone, if they truly loved Alasne, would come for her. And yet no one had. That said much, because if the heat of battle stoked anything it was rash decisions in the name of love.
“No. She won’t.” Ferdinand shook his head. “She’s not coming to your rescue. It’s much too convenient for her if you’re dead. So, I will ask you again. Do you have anything to say about Geneva before I kill you?”
Alasne’s brassy eyes caught on the action in the distance while she batted at the blood welling on her mouth, as if she were thinking about it. But she wasn’t. Not at all.
“See you in the stars,traitor.”
Ferdinand thought that sneering spittle was a good-bye.
Alasne released both hands from beneath her body and went for his sword. Not to knock it away, but to use it for her own will. With a single howl as the sharp edges bit into her fingers, Alasne stacked her hands one atop each other on the mid-shaft of his blade, grip tight as blood immediately started to flow. In that moment Ferdinand wassureshe was about to plunge the tip straight into her own chest with a ferocious yank… then her eyes flickered, her mouth twinged, and her grimace sloped to a fresh, bloodied smile.
From behind came a voice he’d known his whole life.
“Ferdinand!”
His right hand flew from the sword hilt to his dagger, and he wrenched around to see the woman who’d raised him—twin swords slicing a deadly cut through the air as she dismounted her silver steed and landed, cat-like, upon the sand.
Within striking distance of his back.
Just as Alasne had suggested.
No.
Ferdinand’s body was twisted and open as he kept Alasne pinned with the sword, yet his dagger stayed silent in his hand. In that position—torso a prime target—and at that range, he was easily a dead man.
“You do it. Or I will.”
A nasty promise from the second Warlord to the third.
Geneva’s eyes shifted from Ferdinand to Alasne, cold and calculating—everything they’d been behind the Warlord’s mask. The instant they did, Ferdinand’s sword sprang to life—not under his power, but Alasne’s.
Her bleeding fingers swept it aside and drilled the point into the sand. Not an obstacle so much as a diversion.
As he yanked the blade free of the earth, Alasne’s sliced palms dug for her own boot knife, her body fishtailing as she raced to connect with the hilt before Ferdinand could react.
In the process, Alasne kicked out a boot, nailing him straight in the knee Amarande had damaged all those days ago in her cell. Ferdinand stumbled, holding his single-handed grip on his sword. His dagger flailed to a weak position for any sort of throw, his body reacting to both gravity and the shifting sands at his feet. Alasne got the knife in her grip and—
A dagger struck her straight in the throat.
The hilt jutted from Alasne’s jugular as she flopped backward. Then Geneva was on her, stabbing straight through the woman’s stomach with one of her swords, before withdrawing both that blade and the dagger, and hauling Alasne up by her collar.
Alasne’s head lolled as Geneva bent in such a way that her furious features would be the last thing the second Warlord would ever see.
