Page 30

When Commander Zerralae asked Xerxes a question, Xerxes tore his gaze from the exit. He realized he hadn’t heard a word anyone had said for the last five minutes.

“Xerxes.”

Xerxes’s lashes fluttered open.

The sound was faint, just a flutter on the wind, a whisper in the silence. Barely a sound at all, like someone calling from far away. He sat up in bed and looked around at his cot, his blanket, his tent. He glanced over to find Reza’s bed empty.

The camp was silent, save for a few distant snores.

Xerxes lowered himself back onto his cot. He tugged his blanket up to his chest and took in a deep breath, then squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to drift off and have a nice dream. Wondering if the maiden he dared not utter the name of would show up tonight in his sleep. Wondering if Ryn would be wearing the silly peasant dress she wore her first days in the palace, or if she’d be in—

“Xerxes. Open your eyes. They’re here.”

Xerxes’s eyelids flashed back open. He reached for the sword beside his bed, his chest constricting. The sword slipped from his grip and tumbled into the sand as he slapped his hands over his arms, his shoulders, his neck, his…

He wasn’t cold. It wasn’t icy moisture turning his flesh pale and gray—it was sweat. It was sweat from the heat.

Xerxes tore off his blanket and kicked his legs over the side of his cot. He breathed in and out, dragging a hand down his face as his mind settled, as his heart slowed.

He wasn’t beastly. He wasn’t a monster.

Divinities, he was going to lose control in front of all his men if he wasn’t careful.

Xerxes clenched his jaw. He grabbed his sword from the sand and brushed it off as he stood. Then to the voice, he growled, “You must be a deaf god. I told you to stay out of my head. Are your ears made of stone?” But he paused, his brows tilting inward. He angled in the direction of the desert hidden by his tent walls, and he sniffed.

Smoke.

Strange.

A warning-signal horn blasted over the camp, followed by shouts and screams. Xerxes thrashed the tent flap aside and sprang onto the path, sword in hand, but his stomach dropped at the sight of tents ablaze, lighting up the oasis cliffs and sending plumes of thick, black smoke through the fabric alleyways. He ducked as arrows ripped across the skies, plunging into Division One soldiers and setting new fires.

“We’re under attack!” a shout boomed over the base. “It’s Alecsander’s flag!”

Xerxes’s heart doubled over. He ducked back into his tent, his pulse pounding as he fumbled through baskets in search of his armour. Screams magnified outside and he grabbed a shirt instead, dragging it over himself as he raced out and sprinted down the aisle, but he skidded to a halt.

A tall, slender creature in a rippling crimson coat glided between tents, its long slick sword poised, red liquid dripping off the end. Xerxes spun and ducked behind a tall boulder. He peeked around, his mouth going dry as he took in the creature’s dark purple eyes and snow-white flesh marked by bronze runes.

Vafat. Xerxes could hardly let himself think the word.

It moved silently, men in their tents unaware as it passed. Cold, faint whispers followed, dreadful voices all chanting together, and Xerxes smacked the side of his head, fearing they were in there already, the voices.

The Vafat approached the tent with the crest of the Per-Siana King and slipped in through the opening. Xerxes pressed a hand over his raging heart, abandoning the boulder and moving between the rocks. He avoided the path until he came to a pyramid of ivory and black stone blocking the firelight. General Reza would shout at him for travelling alone, but Xerxes didn’t even know where the General was.

Movement fluttered in the dark past the camp like a rising wave over a great dune. Xerxes’s gaze lifted to figures in long coats and hoods emerging by the dozens, their heads appearing over the ridge first, followed by tall, white-fleshed bodies with long swords that drove heat through Xerxes body. Some of the Vafat wore bronze horns, others wore beaded masks over parts of their faces. B’rei Mira warriors raced in on chariots around them, curved blades and spears hoisted alongside scarlet flags marked with foreign hieroglyphs. Xerxes beat a fist against his chest to loosen his lungs. There were too many in red—far too many. His mere three Per-Siana divisions didn’t stand a chance.

“Your Majesty!” Commander Malore’s whisper came from behind him, and Xerxes jumped. The large man moved in the shadow of the pyramid, his greasy hair falling in his wide, wild eyes. “You must hide your ink! The enemy is looking for you!”

Xerxes’s hand flew to the marking on his jaw. He didn’t have a helmet or his scarf. Commander Malore yanked his own black scarf off and shoved it toward Xerxes. “Take my armour too!” He began unfastening his navy and gold breastplate.

“Get to the messengers as fast as you can!” Xerxes whispered through the fabric as he fitted the scarf over the bottom half of his face. “Send out the fastest horses and call in every division we can reach—tell them we’re under attack!”

“I should stay with you and protect—”

“No! Go call in all divisions to come fight for their King! Alecsander is here. This is the last stand!”

Commander Malore nodded and handed over his breastplate. Xerxes’s chest pounded as he considered how foolish he was for never taking Reza’s advice seriously. Once Commander Malore left, Xerxes would be alone. If he was captured tonight…

He squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled Malore’s breastplate around himself. He couldn’t imagine that.