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Fifteen minutes later, we were walking across the threshold to Aemon’s townhouse in the center of Urtavia. Soturi of Ka Batavia guarded the black onyx wall outside and lined the interior, all bowing respectfully to me as I walked through the entrance.
We were led into a small chamber at the center of Aemon’s home, the Arkturion’s war room. Flickering torchlights lit the windowless walls, all painted a soft muted gray like the rest of Aemon’s townhouse—a stark contrast to his reputation as the Ready. One wall had been detailed with a map of Lumeria. But the soothing tones ended there, as the walls framed black marble floors shined to such perfection, the fires reflected in it. It was the opposite of a waterway; it gave the illusion of walking on fire.
Which was exactly how I felt.
Soturi of Ka Batavia lined one side of the room, standing still against the wall, their green cloaks neatly pleated around their waists and styled with the excess material to cover their heads like a hood, even indoors.
I’d expected our soturi here, but my heart jumped at the warriors standing at attention on the opposite side of the room adorned in not gold, but silver—the Soturi of Ka Kormac. Their silver armor was designed to look like a wolf’s pelt. Their sigil, a snarling silver wolf, clipped the top of their green cloaks over their soldiers. These were the Imperator’s men. My enemies. The wolves who belonged to the army occupying the city.
I stepped deeper into the war room with Rhyan beside me, my training sandals almost sliding on the smooth floor. The wolves against the wall growled under their breath as Rhyan strode past them. Trained since birth to be the future High Lord and Arkasva of Glemaria, he had been groomed to intimidate others with just a look. Even if Rhyan didn’t have that look down to an art, he’d still intimidate with his height and muscles—and impressive as they were, they didn’t compare to his reputation as a warrior. Ka Kormac knew damn well he’d easily beaten several of their soturi on duty, and they hated him for it. But in true Rhyan fashion, he appeared aloof and calm against their predatory stares, like he was bored and could barely be bothered to escort me to these proceedings since he had better things to do. I was the only one who sensed the icy tension emanating from his aura. He was keeping his emotions close.
A set of onyx double doors opened at the front of the chamber. Aemon appeared dressed in full arkturion regalia. Unlike the soturi in green cloaks that magically camouflaged their appearance in the outdoors, the Bamarian warlord wore red. His cloak skirted elegantly around his hips, leading into the long piece of material that rose up behind his neck and spilled down his back, flowing out like a cape from his golden armor—armor that had been molded into the shape of sharpened seraphim wings, as was the tradition for all soturi in Bamaria who served Ka Batavia.
His black hair was shorn close to his head, his expression grim as he folded his arms across his impressively muscled chest. He stepped forward, and the Valalumir stars hanging from the seven straps of his leather belt picked up flashes of light from the flickering torches lining the walls.
Arkturion Aemon Melvik, Bamaria’s warlord, was known as the Ready—the deadliest warrior in Lumeria. His reputation had been sealed when he’d swung into action the day the Emartis attacked my father. Aemon had single-handedly quelled the riot and killed its ringleader, my uncle Tarek—Aunt Arianna’s late husband and the father of my evil cousin Naria.
Aemon was stern and severe yet always fair and kind beneath the surface. But when he was the Ready, a literal death-God incarnate, his face took on another look—a terrifying one that dared any Lumerian or beast to fight him. He wore that face now.
“Soturion Lyriana, your grace,” Aemon said and bowed his head. “Soturion Rhyan.” He gestured to a small rectangular table carved of black onyx at the front of the room. “Have a seat.”
My eyes darted around to all the armored soturi, waiting, alert, and ready to attack. Their energy seemed to crackle with tension. Rhyan’s eyes flicked to mine then back to Aemon, still outwardly cool and calm. A snobbish expression overtook his face, as he casually inspected his fingernails and flicked an imaginary piece of dirt.
A moment later, the double doors opened again. My stomach dropped. I’d suspected he was here if his men were, but I wasn’t prepared to be so close to the Imperator after what had just happened. I wasn’t prepared to be in a room with the man who’d had me whipped and lashed like an animal—brutalized with a magically enhanced weapon meant for soturi who possessed magic in their bodies. The punishment was not meant for someone like me—someone without magic to protect her flesh or withstand the attack. The Imperator’s black robe swirled against the back of his black leather sandals. The Bastardmaker, brother to the Imperator and warlord of Korteria, stalked behind him.
These were the monsters who had taken Jules, the brutes who had been in charge of her, free to do Gods knew what until her transport to Lethea and her stripping—her death.
Sweat beaded at the nape of my neck, and nausea roiled inside of my stomach as pure hatred pumped through my veins. Still, my body knew what to do, how to keep playing my role. I found myself pushing to my feet without thought, standing next to Rhyan as he bowed. Willing my insides to remain inside, I curtsied, offering the Imperator a forced show of respect. My knuckles cracked with the knowledge that I was submitting to him, and some small ember of defiance rose inside me. I pulled my gaze up to meet the Imperator’s dark eyes—feral and predatory—as his aura lashed out at me.
“Your highness,” Aemon said and nodded toward the Bastardmaker. “Arkturion.”
The Bastardmaker grunted in response, then turned to me, a look of glee spreading across his reddened face.
Rhyan gave me a sidelong glance and coughed, giving a pointed look at my hand on the table as we retook our seats. It was shaking violently. I pushed my hand beneath me, sitting on top of it. I needed to maintain my air of defiance and strength, to remember who I was.
But the fear was winning out.
My eyes met Rhyan’s.What is he doing here?Rhyan was no mind-reader—not like Morgana—but he seemed to understand me well enough and frowned in response with a slight lift of his shoulder. He straightened his back, draping one arm across the table, his fingers tapping a bored beat against the marble.
Aunt Arianna entered the room next, followed by the reason we’d been called to trial: Tani Elwen.
I sat straighter, watching the novice soturion march in with her head held high, her lips in a smirk. The last I’d seen Tani, the day before, she’d been wearing an Emartis mask in the halls of our apartment building, and we’d fought. She wasn’t just a soturion with a vendetta against me because of her loyalty to Ka Elys, but a member of the Emartis.
She was the second known member I’d met. The first had been a jeweler I’d stumbled across on my birthday. He’d been tasked with making pins with the Emartis sigil—a bastardization of the sigil for my family, Ka Batavia. Our sigil showed golden seraphim wings beneath a full moon. On the Emartis sigil, the wings had been painted black. It was some kind of dog whistle that I assumed alerted the other members of their identity. When I’d found the jeweler again in Urtavia and confronted him, he’d seemed genuinely afraid for his life and as if he were part of the traitorous organization only for money. But before I could learn more, Soturion Markan had killed him. Right in front of me. Fucking bastard.
The scene was one I’d tried my best to block out of my memory. Markan had killed him because the vendor had looked like a threat to me. But the vendor had only attacked me because he’d seen Markan, he’d been scared he’d been caught. I shuddered with the memory. Seeing Markan’s sword pierce the vendor’s belly before his body had fallen to the ground had been horrifying.
Whoever the vendor had been answering to terrified him. The leader of the Emartis was someone with great power and money. The Imperator was my prime suspect. I doubted the Imperator cared who sat in the Seat of Power in Bamaria—he only cared it wasn’t him. And with the demeaning way he spoke to me and about women, I would have thought he’d have preferred my father, the first male Arkasva in Bamaria, to anyone else. But that wasn’t it. He wanted Bamaria. The Emartis created instability in our country. And that instability had been the excuse for more of his soturi to cross our borders fully armed.
Tani was led to the onyx table across from mine. She sat tall and proud, her dark silky hair braided down her back and her orange soturion tunic neatly pressed, her armor showing the sigil of Ka Elys, an ashvan horse flying across the sun.
Aunt Arianna gave me a sharp look. Her red hair had been pulled into a crown of braids on top of her head. I knew her command at once. It was the lesson she’d drilled into me again and again until I’d become almost perfect at following it.
Control what they see.
In Lumerian politics, perception was everything. I had to appear calm. Powerful. In command. After all, I was not on trial. Tani was. Tani was a member of a dangerous, rebel organization trying to hurt me, trying to hurt my family.
“Arkturion,” Arianna said. “Your highness.” She bowed to the Imperator.
