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Swallowing something sour, Sinadim turned vibrant green eyes back. To the nest they’d shared with a brave girl.

There was nothing left but the dregs.

Stained by lust and gore, it had already been swept aside. Straightened and tidied as their girl was tended—her interest in Anhur males set aside as she gazed down at the sucklings pressed to her breasts.

Her need of them already forgotten.

Already, he’d indulged the fantasy too long. Too deeply. Pretending this was anything more than a way to lash out at the sultanate, to shirk his duties and forget the Anhur wife who’d been stolen from him.

For three short, glorious months he’d lived like a savage. Pretending to be Hathorian, allowing himself to be taken by primal instincts not his own.

No matter that Tengit had thrived without his guidance… it couldn’t last.

At least…

… not without profound change.

Sacrifice.

The sort of idealistic nonsense more likely to get them all slaughtered at the gates of the Silver City, and for what? The sake of change? To give the common folk a shot at hope?

Trembling where he stood rooted to the floor in the heart of a liberated Tengit, Sinadim was held immobile.

Tempted.

Torn between his decades of meticulous planning to overthrow the Sultan and his Heir, or the promise of being the change he meant to bring with his rule.

Claws dimpling his palms, Sinadim’s mane flared. His tail flicking with indecision.

There was a choice to be made.

One that, perhaps, had already been decided upon before he’d ever put words to his actions.

There would be war.

After all…

… it was in his blood.

Bred into his line in a dance as careful and dedicated as the one used to engineer a smaller species to be everything an Anhur might want.

“It’ll be almost certain death,” Sinadim murmured without peeling his gaze from the flurry of female activity unfolding before him.

Balkazar didn’t miss a beat. “And it’ll be glorious. Worthy of a seat at the table with the Nine.”

“Perhaps,” Sinadim replied, shooting the war chief a sideways glance. “But is glory worth the price of failure?”

“Guess it depends on who’s asking. A prince or a peasant?” Balkazar smirked. “A spoiled prick dressed in the finest silks might never have a reason to reach for more, but to the ones like me? Born with nothing but the promise of an ugly, lonely death?”

“Glorious,” Sinadim murmured, trying to understand. To see beyond what he’d been born to wield.

Balkazar’s smirk bloomed into something that might be considered soft if it weren’t stretched across his grizzled features. And then, “No,” he said, turning his gaze back to his son. “It’s the promise of something more.”

For a long moment, they watched in comfortable silence. Neither speaking as the nurses and Omegas worked their mysteries. Content to observe as Sickle moved among them with ease.

Sinadim exhaled. Long and slow, measured as the breath trickled from his nose.

And then, “War,” he murmured at last because he’d already committed. “We go to war against the Silver City.”