“Jaku wants people to share tents to dry off. Can’t have illness spreading through the new recruits because they’re wet and cold for too long,” he relayed, and I cursed my luck again. It was as if the Reaper was fucking with me, trying to see how close to burnout I’d let myself go before releasing my magic and revealing my true identity.

Ahead, most of the squad had already turned off the road and were picking their way through the trees. After another large rumble of thunder, Uzadaan leaned forward and spoke to Izgath before hurrying off toward the front again. Izgath shouted instructions at those in the rear, and I followed his orders, even remembering to sneer at some of the villagers I recognized.

By the time the trees enveloped us in their protective embrace, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, leaving only a few drops to race through the canopies and strike anything beneath it. In this copse, so close to both the Graz and the mountains, large boulders waited, providing a semblance of dry shelter. Izgath and I worked together to circle the wagons out of the elements while still managing to use them as a shield from them. Fires sprang up in every direction, with fallen limbs and thick branches dug into the soft earth and braced against one another to form makeshift drying lines. In no time, the group had transformed from wet, weary travelers to cozy campers.

Halfway finished setting up my own tent, the first tendril of my magic slipped. I froze, somewhere between a crouch and a stand, feeling my feet shrink inside the wet boots. My eyes went wide as my pants loosened too.

Fuck, not now!

Panic speared through me, somehow both icy and fiery, and I wasted no time staking the pole into the ground and securing the canvas around it. I raced to the backside, nearly tripping over my own feet as I threw two more poles into the ground there and tied knots in the tent’s exterior to secure them. My gaze landed on my bags drying by the fire as the pants started to bunch up around my ankles.

I was out of time. With one last tug on the rope, I straightened the center of the tent and raced toward the crackling flames. If I lost the hold over my magic, I wasn’t certain that I could call it back to me, at least not until I’d had some sleep. At this rate, I wouldn’t get any dinner either. A meager amount of food waited in my bag, and if I grabbed it before my form fell away, I might be able to sleep with something on my stomach.

Nipples brushed against the soaked fabric of my tunic, and I glanced around, hoping no one was paying attention to me. Thankfully, everyone was occupied with their own tasks. I skidded to a stop as a fully nude male walked straight in front of me, not bothering to cover himself at all. Shock swept through me, but I was losing hold over my magic so rapidly I couldn’t spare a moment to process what I was seeing. I snatched my bag, throwing it over my shoulder, and strode toward the waiting sanctuary.

Each step, I shrank and lost more control over my form. The hair on my arms disappeared next, and I quickly adjusted the satchel to hide my thinning forearms. The tunic grew baggy around the waist rather than being stretched taught across the belly. The entrance was so close, and yet the last threads of my magic threatened to give way at any moment.

I quickened my pace, feeling the waist of my pants starting to slip. With one hand, I grasped them, digging my toes into the tops of my boots to keep them in place, and then hobbled like mad toward the entrance.

“Vagach!”

The name halted me in my tracks a mere breath from safety.

“Yes?” I called out, refusing to turn around as my jaw softened. My hands trembled as I clutched my possessions to me, trying to hide as much as I could.

Please let me go.

“Want some stew?” Izgath asked from behind me.

“Can you leave it there?” I questioned, using my gaze to point to a dry spot of earth beside my tent. My voice cracked as I continued to return to myself.

“Sure,” he offered. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him crouch down and place a steaming bowl there. He looked up at me from that position, something sparking in his garnet eyes. “Officers don’t have to share tents. Have a nice sleep.”

“You too,” I said, trying to keep the relief from my voice. Instead, horror slapped me as I realized how feminine it sounded. Ducking into the tent, I dropped my bag and secured the ties, lest Izgath get any ideas about following me in.

Not a moment later, the last tendril of shadow slipped through my fingers, and I was once again Assyria, standing in sopping wet clothes in the middle of a tent, in the middle of a fucking war camp, questioning what in all the worlds I was doing in the first place.

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6

Ifucking hated Uzhhorod. It wasn’t the dirt that blustered through the narrow, steep alleys in the slums on the outskirts, or the somehow constantly gleaming stone manors that begged for the Kral’s attention as I entered the palace’s gates. No, it was the people themselves, the courtesans who would stab you in your sleep if it brought them attention or favor, the diseased bodies that lined the roads, and everyone in between. Most were utterly useless, and it was by my will alone that they hadn’t all been slaughtered yet by the Angel army.

I was the Fates-chosen savior of the Demons: the Halálhívó, the male who called upon the dead to fight against the living. Infinitely more powerful than every single mouthbreather who lived in this city combined and without mercy to anyone who dared challenge me.

The Kral’s Guard was stationed along the paved walkway that led to the massive arched doors to Gyor Palace. Their red metal armor gleamed as the sun beat down, nearly oppressive at the high altitude. I stopped short in front of one whose form was sloppy, glaring at him through the slits of my ebony horned helmet. That one piece of attire was enough to signal who I was, for none of the other officers sported such intimidating masks.

“How does my cousin expect to be protected if you cannot maintain proper discipline?” I growled at the male. Despite his dark skin, he paled. His laziness only confirmed my beliefs about the people living in the capital.

The male straightened immediately, throat working as he glanced at me and returned his gaze stoically forward. “It will not happen again, Halálhívó.”

“It better not,” I snarled, spinning on my heel and stalking the remaining distance to the entryway. My hounds, Grem and Zeec, trotted at my heels, their nails clicking against the stone.

The bowing and scraping began the moment I passed through the ridiculous glass paned doors. “Halálhívó,” a female called out, a light fabric swishing around her legs as she jogged to catch up with me.

“What do you want, Orith?” I groused, not slowing my pace or deigning to look in her direction. Orith was the daughter of my cousin’s foremost ass kissers, and every fucking time I returned to the capital from the front, she latched onto me like a leech.

I had no time for females; they were a weakness that I refused to take on. I was busy doing far more important things than courting a noble house’s bitch.

Like, saving the entire Demon race from the zealots who snatched more territory from the Demons every day. My blood ties to the Kral were not how I rose in the ranks of the army to lead it. No, it was my devotion to honing my power and fighting prowess. Frankly, I never believed my cousin when he said he was happy with my decision to permanently join after our required service ended. Xannirin was like a brother to me, and he considered me his closest advisor. But court politics was what brought him satisfaction, while mine was killing. Our differences did not divide us as many had hoped; instead, we became a formidable team, with the intelligence and power to rule the entire continent of Keleti.