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Renton
Sword clutched like a lifeline, Renton braced for a sabotage from Kherathi’s feingrot when he emerged from the decaying house. Only, none ever came.
His chest heaved, lungs desperate for air. He scanned the street as rivulets of warm rain dripped down his face like tears.
Was this how he would spend his life? Conditioned to expect the worst from others? What if Kherathididactually want to help. How did he even begin to explain that to Tenah? That her father seemed to be wiping the board of their enemies with resounding efficiency? First the tyrant king of Vozar and now Boedworth. Would he succeed in defeating Cirel and his war beasts?
His shoulders drooped. He wasn’t sure he wanted the crew’s opinion on the matter of the shard right now. Not until he processed things. Because despite the fact that he hated the shard, it had done well to remind him of the torture he deserved for the death of his father. Hell, there were still broken pieces of himself that wanted to keep the cursed thing firmly in place to suffer for his failures with Aeyis and Gireth and all of the Corrupt he’d slaughtered without a care when shadows like Tenah might have been able to heal them.
Body sluggish after coming down from adrenaline, Renton dragged his feet back to the villa. He needed to report Boedworth’s death, lest anyone try to pin him as the murderer.
A wall of icy magic hit him from behind as he reached the doors. He spun around, blade raised to the attacker’s chin. His heart lurched.
“Aeyis.” He dropped his sword.Fuck. He’d been so in his head he hadn’t even recognized his brother’s magic.
With a sunken expression, Aeyis held up a transportation orb.
Renton’s brows furrowed. “What are you doing with that?”
The return from Brinedale was hazy, but he was certain they’d left the orb with Hass, along with the tome.
“Hass stopped in. Rumor has it that Denoden’s Kala, or queen, set out with a dark-haired Vozarian woman. Something about a death match with Ruzgorn.”
A death match.
Renton’s hands clenched into fists. “And the orb?”
“Hass ordered us to bring Vesara back.”
A growl escaped him, earning wary glances from shadows lurking in the square. “When did we become hunters for Vristar?”
“I’m sorry,” Aeyis said softly, his chin quivering. “I didn’t sense them leaving. My mind’s been a mess since Brinedale.”
Huffing out a breath, Renton curled a hand around his brother’s neck and drew his forehead against his chest. “This isn’t your fault, so quit with that.”
After a few light ruffles of his brother’s damp hair, Renton released him. Aeyis held out the orb, which Renton took and spun in his hands. How was it that Tenah had just tended to his wounds with flushed cheeks, and now she was hunting down a warlord? How could she not see there were others who cared about her, who would be ruined by her death?
Now you understand how Gireth and I feel about your reckless actions, Aeyis said. You should take the Chaos lord up on his offer. Let the shard become someone else’s problem.
Renton ground his teeth. Not once in this lifetime had he experienced such a strong tether to another soul outside of his family as he did with Tenah. If he agreed to work with her father, she might turn her back on him forever.
He didn’t want to lose her.
“Do you think you can get word to Hass about Boedworth?” Renton asked.
More than happy to announce his death.
Rowdy voices sounded from the terrace above, drawing Renton’s head up. He whistled, and shortly after, Gireth’s head popped over the railing.
Gireth’s smile crumpled, and his tone came out harsh. “This had better be good, Nazrata. I’m about to win a ride on a war elephant.”
All right, so Gireth was still understandably upset about being left out of Brinedale.
Renton had witnessed Gireth’s temper only once. During training exercises in camp, a hunter had spoken ill of Renton’s Ashen mother. Though his father led one of the strongest and most reputable clans, it didn’t exempt their family from the cruelty of others. Before Renton could pummel a fist into the shadow, risking his position, Gireth had stepped in. He’d ordered the boy to apologize. When the boy swung at him instead, Gireth had beaten him into a bloody pulp. Several hunters had to pull him off. Even in the face of authority, Gireth still fought and spat insults, dropping two grown hunters with little effort.
There were two very different sides to his friend. That anger remained dormant beneath layers of humor, but it was constantly building. And when it finally erupted, almost nothing would survive against it. Renton imagined Gireth had lived off that pure rage on Dreaddix. Had pummeled feingrot and Corrupt into bloody heaps in the thick snow drifts.
“The others ran off for a death match,” Renton explained, striving to keep his features neutral, though his own temper bubbled to the surface.
