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A disease for the masses.
But this was their only chance—he, their unlikely champion. A prince of the very line that had given them nothing but pain.
Spoiled. Selfish. Arrogant and cruel, he was Prince Sinadim Rusteem Karahmet, Firstborn son, third in line to the Sultan’s throne.
And he wanted more.
Fattened by the delusion, seduced by the promise.
Ignorant to the true nature of the other side of that terrible coin laced with rot.
It was a pestilence of corruption and betrayal that would see his entire army die screaming, drowning in mud. Choking him on the spilled dreams of whores, veterans, and noble hybrid warriors alike.
Because they’d failed together, marching beneath that banner.
They’d chosen the wrong champion and followed him to annihilation.
He’d been made to watch every moment. Fighting with them as the sands bled from gold to crimson, growing sodden and wet. A quicksand born of blood woke beneath their feet as the battle raged on. Muck that clung and sucked at their boots just to chew at their ankles and swallow their knees. A quagmire of doom.
And so his beloved desert betrayed him.
And the gates of the Silver City were forever closed to the Firstborn Karahmet son. His destiny for greatness crushed beneath a tsunami of failure and waves of senseless death.
Fingers trembling, he reached for the heated ache throbbing in his face and found a bandage.
It was wet.
Tacky with whatever ooze was seeping through the gauze.
“Stop touchin’ it,” a gruff voice ordered from the shadows on his right.
His… blindspot.
“Leave it be,” the war chief rasped, voice a distorted croak. “Won’t heal right if you keep clawing at the wounds.”
The words landed with enough force to send him spiraling into the fog once more. Assaulted by a memory of the final moments of battle, when Hadim himself had strode through the carnage. Flanked by a legion of his half-breed sons. A terrible, vicious smile stretched across the face that looked so much like his own… but wasn’t.
Already exhausted, half his army either struck down or swallowed by the sands, Sinadim hadn’t seen the Heir until it was too late.
There was nothing but a flash. A glimpse of claws sailing from right to left. Claws that found their mark. Catching at the skin high on his brow, Hadim tore him open. Raking across his brow, sinking into the tender globe of his right eye.
He’d felt something pop before stars exploded in his mind and everything else went dark.
Blinded.
His right eye was obliterated. His face laid open to the bone.
Sinadim was struck down.
Made to kneel in the hideous remains of his army, the slaughter soaking him to midthigh, he was ruined. Left with nothing but the hatred etched into his bones, pure, unfiltered loathing boiling his blood.
Hadim grinned.
Reeking of an effortless victory, he knelt in a swirl of fine silks before the fallen prince.
Sinadim let loose a tortured groan and tried to twist away from the memory, to reach for kinder things—and pressed his face into cold stone.
As if summoning the memory, his wounds split against the grime and filth. Weeping as Hadim’s final words echoed between his ears.
