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Xerxes let his hand slide off his face and fall to the rough, quilted blanket beside him. He eyed the threads again; deep, rich blue with silver patterns at the edges. Then his gaze travelled around his sleeping quarters as he tucked thoughts of that maiden back into the cracks between sleep and waking where she belonged. He wondered how this ‘voice’ being had found its way into his tent again. He asked himself why he was even bothering to entertain it instead of sending it away like before. And why it kept telling him to ‘open his eyes.’ If he heard that phrase one more time, he would have a monstrous meltdown.

General Reza was alive. It was the first news Xerxes asked for when a white-robed physician with bloodstains up his sleeves peeked in to check on him. Xerxes ran a finger over his smooth lips, wondering if the physician had fed him water in his sleep to soothe the cracks.

Division One had lost three quarters of its troops. It was the worst blow his numbers had taken since the beginning of the war. Xerxes sat in his bed with his palms pressed against his eyes for almost an hour after the report came. He’d been reckless, chasing dreams of stirring hope in a war where there was none. He’d imagined Alecsander would show up himself after the win at the salt cliffs, and Xerxes might have had a chance to take him out.

With the reinforcements, Xerxes should have had more soldiers, but with the losses taken during the Final Stand attack, his numbers were about the same as before. Just different bodies replacing the old ones. Messengers claimed more divisions had gotten word through the night and were on their way though.

At least there was that.

It was a terrible day to be a king.

Xerxes’s brows pulled together as a thought crossed his mind. He yanked his hands up and lifted his fingers one by one, ignoring the thread-thin cuts, dirt, and bruises on his knuckles as he counted. “One hundred twenty-eight, plus two…” He glanced off. “Was there one more…?”

Reza appeared at the tent entrance, still in his armour now dented and filthy. He said nothing as Xerxes mumbled through his numbers.

“One hundred thirty-one …” Xerxes dropped his hands.

One hundred and thirty-one.

He rubbed a hand along the back of his head, feeling knots in his dark waves of hair. Then he pulled his stiff legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the ripples of pain coming from the cut in his abdomen. It felt worse now than when it had first happened.

A new, crimson cut marked Reza’s ear too, his left eye was swollen half shut, and blood speckled the hem of his cape. The man reached to help Xerxes up, but Xerxes raised a hand to stop him. A moment of silence hung between them.

“I’m angry, Reza,” Xerxes said quietly, his dry voice cracking on his words. “You shouldn’t be near me when I’m angry.”

Reza released some sort of raspy grunt that carved through the tense air. “We’re all angry, Xerxes.” He appeared at Xerxes’s side and began lifting him from the bed anyway. “Are you some kind of animal that I should be afraid when you’re upset?” he muttered.

Xerxes’s lips thinned. “Do you think I’m an old man like you? I can get up myself,” he snapped as he stood with a wobble. A breath of vertigo trickled in.

Reza’s mouth thinned beneath his beard. He sucked on his teeth and tapped a finger against his chin. Then he shoved Xerxes back down. His bellowing laugh filled the tent even before Xerxes hit the bed with a growl. Xerxes tried to swat at Reza but he sprang out of the way.

“Get back here!” Xerxes demanded, eyeing the wretched smirk on Reza’s mouth.

Minutes later, Xerxes sat on a crate in the new strategy tent, his elbow up on a supply shelf and his cheek leaning lazily against his fist. He was getting a headache from all the jaw clenching.

In hushed, nearly reverent voices, his commanders discussed next steps for the present divisions and the risks they faced. But Xerxes couldn’t do it. He blocked out their speculations that Alecsander could be back in the desert. He plugged his ears when a commander claimed Alecsander’s son had joined the war and that was whose flag they’d seen. This was the first Xerxes had heard about the warlord’s offspring being involved. Some were sure Alecsander wasn’t really in the desert, but it was too much. Too much and too loud. All Xerxes saw and heard was the roiling cloud overhead he’d seen when the reinforcements had shown up—though, he considered that was probably a delusion of dehydration and no sleep. He wasn’t sure what was real, and what he’d imagined. Especially since he thought he saw a piercing light on the Gold Maiden’s sword too.

But the most curious part of it all was that the Vafat had disappeared when the Per-Siana reinforcements arrived. Regular B’rei Mira warriors had taken their places. Xerxes had barely noticed with everything going on, but he was certain there were no Vafat left by the end. Like the creatures all saw something they didn’t like and vanished.

“Your Majesty?”

“What?” Xerxes’s elbow slid off the shelf. He fumbled to catch himself, and when he came up, he looked around at all the blinking commanders in their torn leathers and ragged sandals. He cleared his throat, stood, and clasped his hands behind his back. “What was the question?” he asked, less angry sounding. He didn’t dare peek at Reza on the crate to his right in case the General was laughing.

“I was saying we can’t afford for you to come that close to being recognized again,” Commander Zerralae said. Xerxes caught the tail end of the man’s poorly concealed scowl. “I highly recommend you destroy your robe of nobility and dispose of your signet ring. All evidence of your royal blood should be burned.”

Xerxes’s hands tightened behind his back. The horrid lump of metal left to him by his father used to anger him to look at, but now, he couldn’t bring himself to pry it off his own finger.

“The Last Stand battle was unexpectedly victorious. We were given a second chance we didn’t deserve, Your Majesty. We should all be dead—and by now Alecsander must be wondering what happened.”

Xerxes’s jaw slid to the side. He was also wondering what happened.

As if reading Xerxes’s mind, Commander Yem asked, “Why isn’t Commander Adassah here?”

Xerxes’s gaze flickered from face to face. The commanders were stripped of their armour and helmets, revealing dried blood and purpling bruises on their faces. Commander Malore had a new cut across his entire forehead and it was a wonder he was even still breathing. Xerxes hadn’t considered that the shiny new maiden should have indeed been present among them. He stifled some choice words, astounded she was caught being this rude again.

“Find her,” he instructed. He didn’t care that she was from a burn division. His strategy meetings were mandatory.

Commander Yem gave him a curt nod and headed for the tent opening with heavy footsteps. “Wait!” Xerxes yelled, his flat hand firing into the air, and Commander Yem jumped.