Page 80 of Black Sea

The man drifted his icy stare on me, completely unrepentant.

Amlach watched him as if he wanted to gouge his eyes out with his nails. “Tell the Prince of the Elves of Aegel what your future plans for his sister were. Your real plans.”

Roxior struggled to stay stoic, his voice so harsh it made my skin crawl with repulsion. “Once won these Games, I would have gotten rid of you, Commander, so I’d have the elf trained properly and turned her into a golden slave who would have made me the richest Master of Rubra in history.”

“What’s a golden slave?” Araton demanded in the common tongue.

“A whore, Prince,” Amlach responded, his deadly gaze fixed on Roxior.

A look of anger and loathing was etched into my brother’s aristocratic features. In an instant, he drew his dagger and lunged at the human.

“Araton!” I shouted commandingly.

My brother stopped a nanosecond before cutting Roxior’s carotid artery, the man’s robe clutched in his fist, his arm trembling with rage.

“Elves are not murderers,” I reminded him in our language.

I didn’t want the men’s blood, which was already on my hands, to get on his as well.

I stole a glance at the Masters of Rubra, whose stern faces assured me that the Council would definitely judge Roxior for his behavior.

“Leave him to his downfall,” I told Araton.

A muscle pulsed on his cheek. A vermilion trickle slowly trickled down Roxior’s neck as he stared at Araton, eyes wide with both hatred and terror, his breathing becoming very shallow.

“Brother,” I said peremptorily.

He swiftly pulled back and sheathed his dagger.

Roxior let out a sigh of relief and touched the cut from the elven blade, doing his best to hide the tremor in his hand when he saw his blood-stained pads.

Amlach stepped back from him until he was beside me again, with a suspicious, cruel look.

Too late I realized its meaning.

In an instant, Araton drew his sword and decapitated the Master with a clean slash.

Roxior’s wife’s desperate cry drowned out the guests’ and servants’ horrified noises. One musician bent over to vomit, while a very young dancer burst into tears in a friend’s arms.

Shocked, I stared at Araton as he sheathed his weapon without a flicker of emotion. When he approached me, I felt an irrational urge to move closer to Amlach, almost as if my brother had suddenly become a stranger to me.

“That rat intended to defile your body, Sister,” Araton said in Elvish, his voice low and yet so hard. “Our father would have made me return to kill him if I had allowed him to live now.”

It was true, I was aware. However, not even our father would have murdered Roxior in cold blood, despite knowing his plans. I was sure of that.

So, what was that dark influence I sensed slithering around my brother?

He turned his focus to the soldiers, who had never lowered their bows. “Let’s go!” he commanded.

They were perfectly synchronized as they gathered around Amlach and me, prepared to escort us out. Amlach responded with a nearly amused expression at Araton’s hostility toward him, then headed to the hall’s threshold without waiting for me.

In a burst of courage, Mistress Yrrek left the group of guests to take center stage. “You’re going to miss me, Commander,” she said conceitedly and provocatively.

Amlach paused to glance at her over his shoulder and flashed her a smirk so filled with mockery and malice that the woman lost all confidence and wobbled as if he had just slapped her.

Highly alarmed, I observed him exiting the hall with the soldiers, then looked down at the blood still pouring out in faint gushes from Roxior’s severed neck. His head rested in the crimson lake. I looked regretfully at the expression frozen on his face, which was directed at the ceiling: It was the epitome of genuine panic.

“Nauriel,” called Araton, who was waiting for me at the hall entrance.