The Mark of the Damned: The Vorelian Saga

PART 1

Destiny, my dear, are we ever prepared?

~ Vorelian Scrolls

Visions

Five Days Ago

The day Diemon marched onto the battlefield, swords raised, was the day the king of Geral fell. Not at the hands of soldiers, no—at the hands of something far more sinister.

Dark Energy.

In the five days since, the moon had since risen full, and the desert rains had cleansed the ground of the blood. Fires had been erected to burn the bodies of the fallen men, tended by Gerallian soldiers. But as the dead burned, a new, malicious force had arisen.

A plague. Cu’cel.

The disease was quick, unforgiving, and cruel. Victims started complaining of black spots that sprouted along their arms, but no amount of herbs could treat such evil, and soon, the black spots deepened. They began to rot, and the skin died. The sores oozed blood, and without proper intervention, they became infected. Bandaging did little to reverse the ailment.

Within a day, victims began to see them—the visions. Dark, chaotic, destructive. Every victim spoke of the same images. All claimed to see him, the man. The one who whispered to them. He was cloaked, and a sword sat on his hips, a blade of prestigious design with pearl-white metal. The man walked among slain bodies and through fire. His voice was soft, captivating to some and terrifying for others. But when asked what this man spoke of, nobody could answer. Some claimed it to be Sekar, the God of Darkness himself.

But that whisper had quickly been suffocated by a new and far more chilling rumor, one closer to home and carrying with it irreparable damage. That these visions were of the king himself—Morei Geral.

For the day Diemon’s queen fell was the day the king of Geral harvested fire. His act had been quick, the results instantaneous. Over forty men surrounding Morei had burst into flames, both Geral and Diemon soldiers alike. Every single one of them had burned alive. Their screams tarnished the air and soaked the soil, forever engraining in it.

The turn of events was so sudden that nearly every man on that field stopped, paralyzed by the horrific view. In the complete silence that followed, Ezra ordered the Gerallians to attack. And attack they did, catching Diemon soldiers off guard and slaying them where they stood. It was the push Geral needed to win the battle and reclaim lost ground.

The queen had been impaled by a spear, her body slouched forward when it was found. Blood stained the wood of the spear and dried at the corners of her lips, for she had hemorrhaged. Her death was a victory, but it was nothing compared to such an ominous power.

There was no feast that night, no drinks, and no victorious cheers. For once Diemon had fallen, the attention turned upon the king. He was unconscious, surrounded by a sea of dead, all charred. Yet he had been left unscathed, protected by some unseen force.

It had not, however, protected his mind.

Power like Dark Energy was untamed Chaos, unstructured and volatile. And now it ravaged the king. The body was a result of structure—a tamed force, Light Energy. Submitting the body to unstable energy would undoubtedly fracture the barrier separating the mind’s order from Chaos. Order defines man, but without it, the mind is victim to unnatural forces.

That day, Morei fell unconscious, and he had yet to wake. A fever ravaged his body, and his skin remained pale and slick with sweat. The curse of his ailment stretched further up his arms and decorated his hands. From the outside, the king appeared grotesquely ill. The staff followed orders by Emerald and Peter to care for him, but they whispered many dark things among one another about the state the king was in.

Those rumors reached the city.

People blamed the king for the plague.

Nobody stopped to question that perhaps the king was victim to the same visions, the ones that consumed the sick.

They tormented him and mocked his slumber. Morei became restless as the visions grew unbearable. Staff could hear him from down the hall, screaming, but it never lasted long. For the vision would change, and the king would find himself in yet another reality, each one far crueler than the last.

He was shackled to monsters that wanted to consume his soul, victim to a power that would inevitably become his downfall.

In an act of submission, the king allowed these monsters to have him. It had been because of them and them alone that he had harvested fire with such intensity on the battlefield. Morei had given himself up to protect the city, to protect the people.

The consequences were irreversible. He had won the battle, but the war had just begun.

The Price

of Freedom

Present

Cyrus slid the silver coins across the market table.

The young girl grabbed them without looking up and studied the Krye closely. Whoa, I haven’t seen these in a long time. We use Cyan currency here, sir. See? She pulled a coin out from the pouch strapped to her waist and flashed it. The metal was tinged blue and imprinted with a giant crown.

Panic flared in Cyrus’s chest, followed by irritation at the sight of the ancient currency. He was starving, and he wanted the sweet bread. Will you take the payment? He kept the cloak’s hood pulled well over his head, shadowing his features so that no one could see his silver eyes. They would give him away as a Dragon Rider.

She quickly nodded and dropped the coins in her pouch, the silver menacingly bright against the blue metal. Oh of course! We take Krye as well, since it’s the standard Vore currency, but we don’t see it much anymore unless someone is traveling. Are you traveling, sir? As she asked, she handed over the loosely wrapped half loaf of sweet bread. The buttery, sticky glaze glistened under the sweltering sun.

Cyrus took the bread, careful to avoid touching the glaze, and nodded.

Where from? Her question was as innocent as her big brown eyes, but Cyrus still felt on the defense, and he didn’t want to share too much. After the last season, his wariness was well justified.

From the south. You have yourself a good day, young lady. Cyrus turned and walked before she could ask anything more. All he wanted to do was keep as low a profile as possible. It was safer that way when one was in a foreign country like Eiyrặl.

More specifically, he was in East Razan. The ground was packed beneath his boots from the countless feet that had traveled it. All around him, people in rich-colored shawls and jewels walked by, their laughter bright. Children with braids ran past him, the boys’ hair as long as the girls. Old cathedral architecture made up most of the buildings, the stone off-white, some with red sigils painted on the oak doors with intentional, pristine craft. The smells of various spices and deep-fried goods wafted through the air. To the left, an Energy Harvester made a rose bloom wide in front of a dozen women, who awed in response. To his right, market stands with various assortments were packed with people who spoke passionately, sharing their stories. The city flourished with more life than Cyrus had ever been exposed too.

He tore into the sweet bread, finding it soft. It was freshly baked and still warm. Cyrus ate as he walked, not wanting to wait until he reached the outskirts of East Razan, where Sozar would land for him. Right now, the dragon soared high above the city, looking like nothing but a large bird.

The Rider’s Sword bounced off his leg underneath the gray cloak as he stepped to avoid a young boy who ran by, shrieking with joy. Cyrus smirked between bites. Children were the most innocent and purest creations, only tarnished by the world they were raised in. Just like he was. Raised in an orphanage, he’d been taught at a young age his parents had abandoned him—forced to find self-acceptance in the mines of Diemon. He had always dreamed his parents were out there. It had been that dream that kept him going well into manhood. That he had a family, waiting for him.

And Kyllian Razan, the king, would hopefully give him that answer.

After discovering Sozar’s egg in the mines and fleeing the city he had called home for twenty-three summers, Cyrus had found himself in the presence of a madman who still held on to the family he had murdered. The events that had unraveled in Evander’s home had hollowed out a piece of Cyrus’s heart and filled it with poison. Guilt and regret seeped deep into his bones, wilting his courage and bending his morals. Cyrus was a man, but he was a man with blood on his hands. It could have been avoided.

That was only ten days prior, yet Cyrus still thought of Evander every day. He had already had a half dozen dreams reliving the horrific event, and in each dream, it felt like Cyrus was more and more the villain. Sozar had tried to reassure him that what had happened was a necessary evil—a small price for freedom, as the dragon had told him—but if this was the cost to walk a free man, he wasn’t sure he wanted to pay. The events in Geral seemed crueler, more real, than before. He had run from that dungeon after taking the life of a soldier, but that too now seemed avoidable. The mere memory of these men made his breaths shallow and his heartrate quicken. Honor had died in those mountains.

Cyrus swallowed another mouthful of the sweet bread. As he did, he hoped to swallow the bile that had risen in the back of his throat. It worked somewhat, and Cyrus turned his thoughts outward, paying attention to the surrounding people.

There was a woman standing next to the Energy Harvester, but she wasn’t watching the entertainer as he manipulated roses for the ladies. She was watching Cyrus. Thick, ashy blond hair hung straight down her back, shimmering in the rays of the sun. Her skin was porcelain and her eyes dark. Dressed in a blue halter-neck dress, she had her arms crossed and a resolved look on her face.

Cyrus averted his eyes, cursing. He didn’t want the attention. Whoever she was though, she was stunning—a gem cut with the steadiest hand and polished to a shine. Without even realizing it, he had been staring back, momentarily captivated.

He needed to focus. Crumbling up the paper that had wrapped the bread, Cyrus dropped it in a small fire pit as he passed, which looked to be used for trash—something he had not seen in Diemon, where burning pits were reserved for the higher class. The flames took hold of the paper and cracked with delight, devouring it in a matter of seconds. The man in charge of the burning pit poked at the fire with his metal prong, and the flames hissed in response.

Cyrus would need to somehow get into the palace and to Kyllian Razan, although how he would do that was a mystery. He couldn’t walk up to the steps and barge through the doors—he would be killed in an instant—but he also didn’t want to request an appointment. That would likely take a full moon cycle, given he was not a citizen of the city.

A devious thought unfolded itself in his mind, making his lips curl upward. Nobody ever said he had to walk into the palace. Sozar could fly him low once the sun dipped behind the horizon, and Cyrus could hop onto one of the balconies and then get to the king that way. It was a glorious plan. It might get him killed, of course, but it was a risk he was willing to take. If it worked, he’d be face-to-face with the king and could get his answers.

But what if he doesn’t have the answers you seek? Sozar asked, intruding on Cyrus’s thoughts like thunder breaking the silence of a serene day. The dragon’s concern was sincere and had been shared already, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear that Sozar was pessimistic. Sozar didn’t believe the king would have answers—by Greve’s grace, he halfway believed their trip to East Razan was wasteful, and had not been shy to let Cyrus know that. But when the young man challenged the dragon about where they should have gone, Sozar grumbled and couldn’t give an outright answer. Simply put, they didn’t have a purpose, and the dragon was exhausted.

What Cyrus needed was an advocate, now more than ever. They were all each other had, and Cyrus sometimes felt like Sozar didn’t consider that maybe he didn’t want to hear the bad. They had been running for practically an entire season, even crossing the Ashen Sea for this chance. It was all Cyrus had left—to figure out who his parents were and if they were still out there, if a family wanted him to return or not. His silver eyes were proof that his parents had been Dragon Riders. But where they were and why they had left him in Diemon was a mystery, one that Cyrus held with bitterness and betrayal. They had abandoned him to that city and never looked back.

He will have answers, Cyrus replied, keeping his voice steady in their mental link. He didn’t want Sozar to know how much that question got under skin, not now. It would do no good to get in argument while they were so far away from each other and Cyrus was surrounded by strangers. But when he peeked behind him, he found the familiar blue-dressed woman close.

We’re being followed. She was close, too close.

The dragon stirred, uncomfortable. Are you sure?

Cyrus grunted in agreement under his breath, as if Sozar were standing right next to him. Let’s find out.

Cutting right, Cyrus broke from the crowd and down a side street. It was quieter here, but he stopped twenty paces in and looked at the stone walls that made up the buildings to his left and right.

He had taken the wrong turn intentionally. If this woman was following him, he wanted to know what she wanted, and how she had picked up on the scent—there were plenty of people with cloaks and gloves on. The last thing he intended to do was walk her right to Sozar.

The next side street up was where he needed to go. Cyrus waited until he was certain she would be behind him. Then, with a sigh, he turned. As expected, the lady was right there, only ten paces away. She bore no weapon, but Cyrus instinctively dropped his hand on the hilt of the Rider’s Sword under his cloak.

Don’t, she ordered. Her voice was sweet like honey, but he still didn’t trust her. I just want to talk.

Cornering me isn’t really grounds to talk, he retorted. Sozar’s anxiety seeped into his veins, making Cyrus’s heart flutter. It’s alright, he assured the dragon.

If you die, I will burn this whole city to the ground, Sozar snapped.

I didn’t really corner you, she replied with a shrug. You’re the one who took the wrong turn. It’s a dead end, but you knew that, didn’t you?

She was clever. You have me, Cyrus told her, and raised his hand from the hilt of the sword. What do you want?

She took several slow paces forward, her rich, dark eyes never leaving him. I want to know why a Dragon Rider is in my city.

Cyrus felt his heart quicken and his breath catch. I’m not—

Don’t lie to me, Rider. A smirk touched her lips. It was obvious she was proud of herself.

She knows who I am. But Cyrus couldn’t say he was surprised. This was one of the oldest cities in the Vorelian world. North of here, if the maps were accurate, lay the Rider Federation—the home of the Dragon Riders when they had reigned. It had been a brief lapse of concentration that had cost him their cover. He was solely responsible for this.

A growl emanated in their bond. Sozar was pissed and rightfully so.

You don’t have to be afraid, she added as she took another step. But I am going to ask that you accompany me.

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. You really think I’m going to listen just like that? I’ve spent countless moon cycles fighting for my life. You’re no different than the rest of them.

And will your dragon protect you when I expose your identity right here and demand your head? She crossed her arms and gave him a challenging look. Listen, I’m not here to harm you or your dragon. I’m here to help.

Cyrus let out a cold laugh and glared at her. Sure doesn’t seem that way, does it?

Right now, nobody knows you’re here. If you follow me and keep your head down, we can keep it like that, and I can promise you food, water, and a bath, which I’m sure you’d appreciate after your travels. The choice is yours.

Don’t do it, Sozar advised. Last time we accepted help from a stranger, you nearly died.

Yeah. Cyrus dug his boot into the ground and sighed heavily. We don’t have much of a choice here, though. She strikes me like someone who doesn’t bluff.

If something happens . . . Sozar warned.

There were several options ahead of him. Oblige and accompany the woman, who could potentially be luring him into a trap, or bolt and hope he could reach the outer edge of the city in time before the Razan soldiers caught up to him. The streets were packed, which would make it difficult to navigate, and he risked the chance of being outsmarted by citizens who had spent their entire life mastering this city. Escaping Geral had been nothing but Eazon’s luck—not a day went by that Cyrus didn’t remember how bizarre it was that he’d been able to escape with his head. But here, right now, he didn’t think that the God would assist, and he wasn’t willing to make a bet on it either. Already, Cyrus could tell that the dragon was circling closer to the city, waiting for the chance to dive if needed. The thought made him anxious. What if Sozar got himself in trouble and couldn’t fight everyone off? Would Cyrus be able to live with himself?

No.

Don’t, Cyrus stated firmly. Nothing will happen. The city is massive. If something doesn’t feel right, you’ll know. Other than that, keep a low profile. It’s you they probably want anyways, not me. Stay out of sight.

Meeting the woman’s gaze, he nodded. Fine, but if I feel just the slightest bit threatened, I’m gutting the closest person to me. Cyrus motioned at her. That’d be you, so best be wise with what happens next.

The woman pursed her lips, and they held each other’s gaze for a moment too long. It left Cyrus wondering about all the things he’d do to her if the situation were different and he could treat her like a proper woman rather than a potential enemy. Finally, she lifted her chin higher. I understand. Best be off then, shall we?

Cyrus approached her as she turned back to the main street, and he soon fell into step next to her. This close, she smelled like a bouquet of roses and stood a head shorter than him, but she carried herself as if she were the taller of the two. Cyrus respected it, and he didn’t argue when she cut straight through the crowd. A handful of people stepped out of their way, but Cyrus kept his head lowered, not wanting to attract anyone.

They continued to walk at a brisk pace, and when they broke free of the majority of the crowd, Cyrus took the opportunity to speak to her. What’s your name?

Zorya, she replied, glancing his way. Those dark eyes enthralled him. And you?

Cyrus. You hold no weapon. I’ve seen a lot of people here without weapons. Is that common?

A coy smile touched her pink lips. You are a true traveler, Cyrus. Razan, both the West and East cities, are safe places. We are a prosperous and generous people with no crime, save for the occasional child who steals a loaf of bread in a bet with his friends. We pride ourselves on it, and because of that, most of us who have been raised here don’t walk openly with weapons. It shows our mutual trust.

Cyrus contemplated this. So, let’s say the man we just passed pulled a knife and attacked the crowd. With nobody having weapons, who would stop him?

The people would as a group, Zorya explained. Just because we are weaponless doesn’t mean we are ignorant to violence.

No, but you’re ignorant in your trust of others, Cyrus said. At her stunned look, he added, I’m only pointing out the obvious here. You can’t incriminate me for being cautious.

No, she said, dragging the word out, still eyeing him. But it would do you good to find some trust in others.

Last couple of time I did that, I almost died, Cyrus commented, his tone dripping in dark sarcasm. The corner of Zorya’s lips twitched up, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she turned her eyes forward and they continued to trek down the street.

You would benefit from more socializing, Sozar commented dryly. No need to reply to the dragon’s baited remark. Rude or not, Cyrus was not here to make friends.

It wasn’t long before he noted the architecture change to a more pristine and gaudy appearance, where windows were framed in gold and the steps to the solid oak doors were polished stone. He looked around, taken aback by the extravagant builds. The ground gave way to smooth cobblestone, and along the sides of the street, long gardens stretched, full of exotic flowers.

Looking ahead, he felt his jaw go slack.

The palace was before them, and it was massive. A city within a city, by the looks of it, protected by a wall of stone and iron. Tall windows faced outward on both the first and second story, all framed in the same gold. The stone was white and polished, reflecting the light of the sun in a blinding fashion. A thick iron gate with two roaring dragons on either side was guarded by a group of soldiers dressed in dark forest green and gold armor. The Razan crest stood in the center of their gold tunics, two crescents overlapping with a line curling downward. At their hip, swords lay sheathed.

Unable to help himself, Cyrus nudged Zorya in the shoulder and whispered, Trust, huh?

She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. It’s not every day I get to bring a stranger home. Zorya flashed him a smile and kept walking straight for the palace gate.

The statement rocked Cyrus, and he nearly lost his footing. I’m sorry, what?

Zorya didn’t break her pace, forcing him to keep up. What? Getting nervous now?

No, he responded with far more force than intended. She glanced at him as he continued to speak. I mean, who are you? Why are we coming here? I thought we were going to some cottage next to the river, not to the palace!

They were too close to the guards now for him to turn back, and he knew that she knew that. Ahead, just past the gates, rich green grass and more exotic flowers continued to run the length of the cobblestone path, which appeared to lead right to the entrance. Cyrus’s heart was pounding, making his ears ring.

Princess, the guards greeted warmly. You’ve returned with a guest. Does he have an appointment? The left one clasped his gloved hands together and smiled as the right one began to open one of the doors to the gate.

Cyrus gawked at Zorya, seeing her entirely in her light. He had threatened a royal family member—the princess of the king he wished to meet. For a moment, he thought he might lose the sweet bread, but he swallowed the vomit back down. Threatening royalty might as well come with a first-row seat at the execution table. The confidence and air she held made complete sense. The way the crowd had parted for them, as if there had been some unseen force nudging them away—she was a princess, the daughter of Razan, and the entire city had known it except him.

Cyrus studied the princess as she smiled and gave the guards a soft nod. He is the Dragon Rider, men. The times are changing, and the Gods favor us.

To blatantly share that information drove Cyrus mad. He had spent countless moon cycles trying to hide himself, and suddenly, three people knew of him. Every part of his skin crawled at the wrongness, screaming of danger, and he wanted to run. He held his ground, though, not ready to look like a coward in front of her. Cyrus had to keep his word.

A Rider . . . The left guard trailed off as Cyrus met his amber gaze, removing the hood of his cloak. Cyrus took a deep breath, hoping to show the same confidence as Zorya.

By the Gods, the one on the right said, turning from the gate and pulling out silver beads from a pouch on his belt. Cyrus recognized them as Hyle’s Beads. I never thought I’d meet you. He kissed the beads then, the scruff of his beard scraping against them. It is an honor, Rider.

The left one followed a similar greeting, but Cyrus hardly heard them. He nodded and acknowledged them, but he felt weak. Cyrus was a man, nothing more, and it felt strange to be treated as something above the rest of them. It made him squirm underneath his own skin.

We must get him to my father, Zorya announced. He will be thrilled.

Oh! Of course. The guards scrambled to get the gate open for them, and once it was, Zorya stepped through. Cyrus had no choice but to follow, feeling dazed.

The two soldiers bid them farewell, but Cyrus barely registered what they said. He watched the cobblestone pass underneath him as he walked. The sun’s heat felt cool against his skin, and his mouth was dry as they crossed onto the palace’s property and the gate closed behind them with the boom of finality.

Zorya Razan, daughter of Kyllian. The man he was desperate to meet, but he hadn’t wanted it this way. This way was risky, political—it could get Cyrus in trouble. If he had just kept his head down and not gawked at Zorya, Sozar would have been dropping him on one of the countless patios of the palace tonight. It would have been dangerous, but with far less consequences if he could escape and run.

Cyrus had always been good at running, but he wasn’t good at confrontation. And he certainly wasn’t good with politics.

It seemed, after all he’d done to chase freedom, he was right in the den of the lions, chained. Swallowing, Cyrus said, I suppose you won’t take what I said earlier seriously?

The last thing he wanted was to have his first impression with Kyllian be that Cyrus had threatened his daughter. That felt like a real nasty way to start things off.

Zorya laughed, her voice bright and dancing ahead. I won’t tell if you won’t. Given your situation, I would have done the same. When they met eyes, she winked. Now, do you still not trust me?

A loaded question when you didn’t tell me you were Kyllian’s daughter, Cyrus retorted.

She smiled. Fair enough.

Cyrus let a pent-up breath out and checked in with Sozar. The dragon soared over the palace, as close as he could without being identified as anything but a bird. Cyrus could feel the beast tense, ready to tear the entire city to shreds given the slightest justification. It did nothing but make his anxiety rise. Easy, Cyrus told Sozar, trying to reassure him that all would be well. Not that he believed it himself, but saying it sure helped.

The dragon didn’t reply, his unhappiness broadcast in his silence, so Cyrus retracted his thoughts and focused on his surroundings instead. There was nothing he could do to put the dragon at ease, and right now, he needed to focus on staying alive.

They continued to walk in silence. Ahead, the palace grew closer, its archways becoming taller. It felt like the castle was preparing to engulf him, never to let him go again. Cyrus wasn’t sure what to say to fill the void of silence between them. He was a ball of emotions and confusion. In an instant, everything he had worked for had been tossed out the window. His path had changed—or had it always been that he would stumble on Zorya like this? That was a question he would never know the answer to.

Destiny was a finicky creature, one that Cyrus would never dare to understand. He still had yet to understand whether the Gods controlled destiny or if it was an entirely different force. Perhaps not even the Gods could control it, and they too were susceptible to such games of life.

All he could hope was that whatever lay ahead would contain the answers he needed.

Bitter and Broken

W e can rest here a few days.

Syra stared at her hot duck stew, the flavor turning bitter in her mouth at the sound of those words. She swallowed, but it was forced. Her stomach twisted in knots. To remain still in one place was to dance with Death herself.

It was ignorant to assume they were safe. They weren’t. They hadn’t been safe, and it seemed they never would be. After the disaster at the Nighthunter Federation, the Raveer ship she had boarded with the help of Zane had turned into a living nightmare. Only a few had survived the pirate invasion, mostly the prisoners that she and Zane had released, including Roman, Vic’s father.

Vic Resanson. The man she had been ordered to find in Dryl’s final wish, in a letter she still had tucked away in the pouch of the belt that held Death’s Sword around her hips.

They had manned that ship the rest of the journey, unable to rest for longer than a handful of hours at a time without the help of a full crew. It had been grueling, exhausting work, and her muscles still ached. By the end, her eyes and skin were dry, and her clothes were tattered.

Finally, they’d arrived at Roman’s home, stationed in the heart of Jasper Village, down a street with five other beautifully built stone homes. This one was no different—vaulted ceilings with an upstairs and downstairs, along with a spiral staircase that was wide and tall enough to drive a steed through.

The galley they sat in now was used by maids, but upon their arrival, Roman had ordered all staff to retire. He was a man of many secrets, and even after ten days out at sea, it seemed she knew less about him than she initially believed.

Zane scarfed down the last of his stew, then put a hand to his chest and belched. That’s the best damn stew I’ve had in days. What lovely lady cooked this? Zane reached over and tore a massive piece of bread off the loaf in the center of the island. Without saying more, he started dragging it through the remnants of stew in the bowl.

Roman lifted an eyebrow. His name is Jyle. He cooks everything.

Zane halted midchew and slowly nodded.

Even though Syra knew practically nothing about Roman, the three of them had built a strange trust out at sea, something unbreakable. It was a trust built off survival. But as much as Syra wanted to embrace this newfound alliance, she couldn’t, because she’d felt that same level of trust with Kar and Dryl.

Then Kar had betrayed all of them, and had no doubt been behind Dryl’s murder.

The memories crashed in around her in an instant. Placing a hand on the butcher block counter, she took a deep breath. Anxiety and anguish unlike anything she had ever known smothered her.

Syra tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in the back of her throat. It had been Kar who stood over her aboard that ship, stuck between the realm of the living and dead. She had not needed to see his face to know it was him, to understand that he was watching her. Kar was powerful, far more so than she had been prepared for, and he had wanted her to know that.

Roman and Zane knew. It wasn’t like she had a choice. When the Guardian had released her from his hold, she had awoken on the floor with the two men over her. The Onye, the beast that had wreaked havoc on the ship, sat just outside the door, watching her as she sat up.

She’d let that beast out; she’d been the reason all those lives had been lost. Her idea, and hers alone. Passengers and crew members had been slaughtered because of her selfish need to stay alive. Pirates had been murdered without mercy, and she had been left with nothing but their bloody, mutilated bodies. She could still hear the crunch from the Onye feasting upon the slain.

Syra had hardly slept since that night. Sure, she had closed her eyes and drifted off into slumber when the exhaustion had been too great, but she could not relax. Not when she knew she was being watched. And when she did succumb to dreams, they were not ordinary—they were cruel, monstrous, and haunting. In the nightmares, she was stalked by a hooded man, who always managed to stay just out of reach. Kar. Memories contorted into a heinous visual of the man she once trusted, hunting her.

Venomous shame coursed through her veins. The men at this table were in danger because of her. Wherever she went, Death followed. A Soul Speaker had once told her that, and at the time, she had shoved the warning aside. But now, it was too real to be ignored. Her father, Dryl, innocent people . . . and now Roman and Zane sat across from her. If they hung around long enough, they would be next.

Syra?

She jolted from her thoughts and stared up. Roman was leaning on the counter, giving her a hard stare. Zane had stopped eating and was also looking at her. She knew he was uneasy about the thought of Kar watching them. He had been raised to believe that Death Seekers only showed themselves when something terrible was going to happen. To him, Kar was not just a threat, but also a bad omen.

Syra cleared her throat. Yeah? She tried to keep her voice steady, but it still shook a bit.

Roman’s blue eyes didn’t blink. You okay?

She bit her tongue, guilt turning her breaths shallow. I’m fine. Just exhausted.

Aye, it’s been a long journey, the older man agreed, and rolled his shoulders as if for emphasis. We can rest tonight, though. King Matthieu doesn’t know I’m here, and this small town doesn’t pass much attention.

The reference to the king of Raveer only made her more unsettled. You really think with a bounty on all our heads, we’re safe? The question came out almost hysterical, and she dropped the spoon into the stew, where it clanged against the ceramic bowl. We just snuck off one of the king’s ships. The port will be alerted, and soldiers will be sent to find out who left a ship abandoned with no record of docking or a count for the crew members. And don’t forget the Onye onboard. Let alone the blood smeared all over the place. No, Syra spat. We’re not safe. We can’t rest. We can hardly sleep soundly with that kind of mess we left behind. We’ll have the whole kingdom after us before dawn.

Zane held up a hand. Let’s keep a little bit of optimism in this.

Syra scoffed. Dryl was optimistic too, and now he’s dead.

The men stared at her, likely wondering if she had lost her mind, but it didn’t matter. No matter how hard she wanted to believe they had the upper hand, that they could outsmart a Guardian of Death, she knew they couldn’t.

Zane pushed his bowl ahead of him. Maybe one of us can keep an eye out? Take shifts through the night.

And when the staff members ask why we’re stalking the halls at night? Syra pointed out. They will surely be up throughout the night, checking on things and performing various duties.

Roman waved them both off. They will speak of nothing. They are trustworthy. Trust me on that. Many of my staff have been around for countless summers and have been involved with several of my more . . . illegal business trades. They are good.

Syra didn’t reply, but she still didn’t trust them. Frankly, it was difficult to trust anyone at this point given the betrayals she’d faced. Zane was a good man, she told herself, but there was a wall between her and everyone else, built out of the broken fellowship of Kar and Dryl and the brutality of watching her one remaining family member die.

So, that’s what we’ll do, Zane announced, obviously trying to keep the conversation going. I’ll take the first watch, Roman second, and then you can take the watch closer to dawn. It’ll give you some time to rest.

Syra didn’t acknowledge the plan, only shoving her bowl out of the way. No longer hungry, she folded her arms and met Roman’s gaze directly. You’ve been quiet this long, but it ends tonight. We are at your mercy in a home that is yours, surrounded by staff you swear will keep their mouths shut. It’s time you talked, Roman—if that’s even your real name.

Zane lifted an eyebrow and turned his attention to the other man. She’s charming, I know, he commented dryly. But she has a point. It would be nice to know where we go from here.

Roman took a deep breath and dipped his head. He didn’t speak, and the silence that followed was marked by the faint footsteps of one of the staff members upstairs.

When the man finally did talk, he spoke with resolve. Even in his own tattered clothes, he gave off the air of authority. Vic didn’t just go to Mourale Mountains, he went to the Infernol. He paused and laid a hand over his right wrist. The Infernol is our only hope against what’s to come.

Let’s back this up, Zane cut in before Roman could say more. Against what?

The man cleared his throat. The Infernol isn’t some old organization waiting to bring back a dead empire. It was made to protect the future of our world against Henry Junok.

Henry Junok is dead, Syra blurted out.

That’s what he wants us to believe, Roman responded, his voice soft. Public records show that he died, but there is evidence showing that who we thought died and who actually died are two different people. Henry is alive. The Infernol has no doubt of this, and we’ve spent the last five decades trying to find a force strong enough to defeat him. We believe he’s tucked up in the City of Liral. It was the heart of the Lirallian Empire in its day.

This information came as a blow, ripping the air out of Syra’s lungs. The concerns of Kar and the Raveerian kingdom suddenly felt petty next to this revelation. Henry Junok had been killed with the fall of the Lirallian Empire over four centuries ago. It was impossible for him to still be alive. How can you be so sure? she asked.

It was no lie that Henry was and still is the most powerful Energy Harvester, having mastered an element of Dark Energy. The Demon Killer was just a small reflection of what he is capable of. Roman shook his head and leaned back in the stool, crossing his arms. It’s believed that he’s been protected with the help of Sekar.

Zane busted out laughing and almost fell out of his chair. Syra stared, unsure of how to reply or what to even say. Excuse me, Zane wheezed between chuckles, I’m going to need that run by me again. You’re saying that not only is Henry alive, but that he’s partnered up with the God of Darkness himself? He got lost in a fit of laughter again and wiped at his eyes. That’s outrageous.

And so is the idea that living men are ripped from their homes as children and raised as warriors for the underworld. Yet—Roman motioned at Syra—she has proof, and knew them personally.

Yeah, but— Zane stopped short and cleared his throat. Okay, fair enough. He looked over at Syra and gave a nod of acknowledgment. She smiled, but it was small. As small as she felt right now.

Gods, she mumbled, drawing their eyes back to her. The same Gods that weren’t there when my father was killed or when Dryl was attacked. The words were hostile. Those are the same Gods that are letting this happen. How can you be so certain they are real, Roman? What you’re telling us is that a man—no, a monster—has befriended a God.

Syra hated to admit how she felt, but it was obvious. She hadn’t asked for any of this, and prior to the disaster that her life had become, Syra had been a strong follower of Drügalism. She had spoken her prayers and given her thanks, and for what? To be tossed around like a sack of flour in the hands of fate while the wicked grew stronger?

No. It simply wasn’t fair.

Syra swallowed down the growing, all-encompassing repulsion. Does everyone in the Infernol believe that? That Henry is alive and has been aided by Sekar? she asked before anyone could reply to her previous statement.

Yes, Roman stated without hesitation. The Lirallians are amassing in significant numbers throughout their city. They’ve doubled in size since last season. It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

Syra nodded, but it was to herself. To believe that Henry Junok, the man who had nearly destroyed the country of Diyrặ, was alive and well made her skin crawl. If he was alive, so was the Lirallian Empire. Kar felt minuscule against that thought. Her bounty, the Demon Killer, being on the run—it all suddenly felt worthless.

The Lirallians were gaining in number, but that meant nothing if there was no proof. What evidence do you have? she asked. How can anyone be so certain Henry is alive if no one has seen him since his execution?

The older man shook his head. Insiders, spies—the Infernol has our ways of gathering information when needed. He brought the copper mug to his lips and drank.

That was not the answer she wanted to hear. If anything, it created more questions. Even with Roman’s certainty, she refused to believe a man like Henry Junok was alive.

Zane inhaled and shook his head. Man, I got to tell you. This is not where I thought I’d be. A bounty on my head, hunted by the same soldiers I used to lead, and now talking about some dead guy and Gods. I’m going to need something stronger if we’re going to keep this up.

That got Roman to chuckle, and Syra followed suit, but it came out more as a snort of disbelief. Zane was right. This was outrageous. So, she said, we go to the Infernol? It felt like their only reasonable option, regardless of what they believed. If they could secure her safety, she could figure out her next steps.

Roman pursed his lips. That wasn’t entirely my intention . . .

Then what? Syra asked. Stick around and wait for an army to corner us? We aren’t safe in the open. If the Infernol is in the Mourale Mountains, then we go there, where there are numbers to protect us. What she really wanted was to avoid another run-in with Kar.

She’s got a point.

The voice came from outside the galley. Zane and Syra stood immediately, unclipping their sheaths to draw their swords. Chairs screeched against the marble floor with their sudden movement. Body tense, Syra stared at the doorway, waiting for the man who had spoken to show himself. Roman pulled a steak knife from behind him.

Easy there, the voice called, and stepped to the doorway, holding his large, pale blue hands up. I am not your enemy.

He was a Guardian of Death, but his strong jaw and crimson eyes reminded her of Dryl. They were almost identical. The Guardian’s hood was drawn down, displaying his black hair styled to the side, the tips brushing over his brow. The smallest hint of a Marking licked at his neck. Even his smile was similar to that of the Guardian she once knew. It was undeniable.

Who are you? Syra asked,