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And then he turned to Balkazar when the war chief said, “I’m thinking we lower him half a finger every hour.”
Sinadim nodded. “Keep him alive,” the prince demanded, turning to leave. “Feed him bone broth and honey. We’ll leave at noon on the third day.”
Grinning, something cruel and brutal glimmering in the war chief’s icy blue eyes, Balkazar inclined his head. “I’ll double-check my math, and it shall be done.”
“Oh,” Sinadim said, twisting to send a vicious smirk over his shoulder. “And cut his vocal cords. I find myself in the mood to end this chapter.” His tail rose in an arrogant flick. Dismissive. “It’s grown dull. And I’ve more… pressing concerns to tend to…”
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Impaled impossibly deep, seeping a brackish green liquid from one end, and deep, dark blood from another, Varjim was made to endure for three days. Just as Sinadim had promised.
Kept alive, silenced by a tiny slit in his voice box.
Robbed of all autonomy in his final moments.
By noon on that third sunrise, the last Zaganos was little more than a living, wheezing corpse. A testament to the durability of the Anhur.
Hopelessly doomed, but clinging to life.
In the end, it was the flames that killed him.
Flames set by elegant, tattooed hands that didn’t tremble. Didn’t hesitate.
Only the wind heard the reedy screams of the spit-roasted, living corpse stretched across the palace gates.
When they departed, their backs warmed by the inferno raging behind the walls of the Zaganos Summer Palace, not a single member of the prince’s war party bothered to look back.
No, their eyes were fixed on the horizon. Eager for a glimpse of the mighty spires and elegant domes of the freed city flying Karahmet colors.
Tengit.
She was thriving.
In the few short weeks of his absence, change was already obvious.
Gone were the streets lined with filthy, wide-eyed children begging for scraps. The veterans of battles past now stood beside hybrid females armed with long spears, ensuring the sanctity of a market bursting with robust commerce. Vagabonds and retired whores put to work for the city guard. Fed and paid, wearing bright Karahmet colors outshone only by the brilliant smiles that banished the hungry shadows lurking around every hidden corner.
In the parapets above, those same hybrid females walked beside hardened city guards. Stern eyes on the skyline and the citizens in their charge.
And yet, with his own eyes, Sinadim watched from a distance when an Anhur female rushed toward just such a guard. Gesturing wildly in the direction she’d come, begging for help as half a dozen tiny hands clung to her skirts. Dirty, pale children who held the same coloring as their mother.
With a fierce scowl, the hybrid female nodded once and marched toward the commotion. Moving to defend the desperate Anhur mother without a moment’s hesitation.
On the short trip from the city gates to the palace, Sinadim witnessed a dozen similar interactions. Saw what could only be called harmony flourishing in the streets he’d liberated in the Sultan’s name. Synergy between hybrid-kind and the Anhur who spawned them.
It was a glimpse of something… new. Something he’d never seen before and couldn’t describe.
It was a hint.
A whisper of what life could be like under a new reign.
“What’s got you looking so pleased with yourself?” Balkazar asked as they deposited their rescued band of Hathorians with the city medics. Gruff despite the smile gracing his lips.
Sinadim shrugged, glancing down at his lap where a brave girl lay curled across his thighs. Her ears lax in sleep, her cheek pressed close enough to his groin that he could feel her every breath warming his cock.
Carding his claws through her hair, he said, “Just tired,” and left it at that.
Because he knew.
