“Estra,” Assyria choked out, recognizing the last sign of the plague. The bleeding would only worsen from there, next streaming from her nose and ears, until finally, she drowned in her own blood. Assyria had helped her sister nurse both their father and mother through their illnesses, and it was an absolutely horrific way to die. The plague had claimed the lives of thousands in the region already, and the scent of burning flesh was as constant as the metallic tang coating the tongues of everyone still living.

“Pray with me, Assyria,” Estra managed to wheeze out. She closed her eyes and rested her back against the stack of pillows behind her, ignoring the dripping garnet from her ears and nose.

Assyria’s chin dropped to her chest, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Please, Weaver, Reaper, don’t let my sister die. I cannot continue to live this life without her, without someone to love me. My husband is cruel, and my family was not. Why do you take them from me and spare him? What sense does that make? The priestess caned me every time I questioned what you wove, but I will never understand why you allow such evil to flourish when you could have created lives filled with peace for everyone. All of this is your fault, Assyria thought, her knuckles white as rage darkened her heart. She swore at each of the Fates over and over and over, that fury building with each successive fit that wracked her sister’s chest.

Estra’s prayers were different. Weaver, I trust that whatever plan you have for my sister is the right one. Guide her along it and help her see your infinite wisdom. Reaper, please make my passing swift and peaceful so that my sister does not have to witness more suffering.

The Fates watched the scene unfold, just as they watched all the threads of their tapestry weave and fray. A gurgle bubbled in the sickened sister’s throat, and Assyria shot to her feet, knocking the table aside and climbing onto the bed. She grasped her sister’s outstretched hand like it was a lifeline and by holding it she could prevent the inevitable.

“Assyria,” the sister wheezed, “trust in the Fates. Let your faith guide you.”

“You are not dying!” Assyria shouted, a tremble beginning in her shoulders and wracking her entire body. A sob escaped next, and Assyria pulled a cloth from her pocket and used it to wipe blood from her sister’s face instead of the wetness from her own.

“I…love…you…” her sister said, each word more difficult than the last to produce.

“Estra!” Assyria wailed, watching as the young female’s eyes fluttered closed. A choked sound stuck in her chest as she drowned in her own blood. Her body jerked as she fought for breath, and Assyria scrambled to flip the frail body, giving her space to breathe out the liquid in her lungs.

But it was too late.

Assyria screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks, at the heavens, cursing the three Fates, cursing the Goddess, cursing the other worlds for taking everything from her. “At least let me join them!”

As if the Fates had heard her, two males burst through the front door to her family’s home, and beyond, a third waited with a wagon already overflowing with bodies.

“No!” Assyria shrieked, throwing herself over her sister’s lifeless form.

“Take her to her husband,” the first male ordered the second. They separated the two females, though Assyria reached for her sister the entire time the male hauled her in the opposite direction, toward the estate that was like a prison. Estra’s body was tossed into the cart, and two of the males trundled along, stopping at the next farm to collect two more bodies.

Assyria went limp in the male’s arms, forcing him to carry her as she drowned in an ocean of grief.

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9

Garnet eyes blinked at me from above, the pupils dark and nearly smothering the red that ringed them. Rage contorted his features until the only sensation skittering across my skin was pure malice.

“Please, don’t,” I whimpered, flinching away in a desperate attempt to dodge the hand flying toward my face. But I wasn’t fast enough. The collision pitched me to the side, and then I was falling, falling, falling, hair whipping in my eyes as I tried to see what I raced toward.

Darkness surrounded me until I didn’t know which way I had come from, only that I was suspended in an endless void, body out of my control. With a sudden thud, my back cracked against something hard, air whooshing from my lungs, and Vagach was there again, standing over me with his arms crossed over his bulging belly. Spittle flew from his mouth as he cursed me, using the tip of his boot to turn me onto my stomach.

I attempted to crawl away, slithering along the cold, blank ground like a lizard, but he grabbed my ankles and yanked me backward. His weight settled on top of me, and he wrapped my hair around his fist and yanked my head up.

“You’ll never be free of me,” he snapped in my ear.

My eyes flew open, and I sucked in a sharp breath. Sweat soaked my hair, and I glanced around, trying to figure out where I was. The tent, placed in a field surrounded by males that weren’t my abusive husband. Who was dead, I reminded myself. Digging my fingers into the blanket covering my naked body, I tried to ground myself even more, waiting for the lingering tension to bleed from my muscles. I was sore from training, sore from riding, yet that didn’t compare to the pain of clenching from fear.

The first stirrings of camp reached my ears, and I groaned internally. I wasn’t ready to face another day with exhaustion gnawing at every fiber of my being. It didn’t help that beyond the physical, I was drained mentally and emotionally too.

Every day at the peak of the sun, I led the group in the ritualistic offering of blood to the Fates before we knelt on the ground and prayed for glory. Every day, those from Vagach’s region worshiped with me, growing more and more fervent in their belief that Kral Xannirin and the Halálhívó were the Fates’ vessels in Ravasz, egged on by Jaku and the Vezető’s veneration of the two. The vehemence of belief from the priestesses was nothing like the unwavering devotion displayed by the seasoned soldiers. Often, I found myself swept up in it all. In my attempt to remain hidden so I wouldn’t be killed immediately, I forgot I was female. My identity was lost among my impersonation of Vagach, which frayed my nerves more and more with each passing day, especially as every action left a bitter taste in my mouth.

This wasn’t who I was or who I wanted to be; there wasn’t as much freedom in my escape as I had hoped.

Turning over onto my stomach, I allowed myself a few more moments in my body, trailing a slender finger in the blades of grass that stuck through the cuts in tarp I laid as the base for my tent. At least the previous night, Izgath had brought me food again, otherwise my stomach would drive me from my comfortable position in search of sustenance.

The male was constantly on my mind. We spent our days riding beside each other, leading the recruits along with Jaku, Dromak, and Uzadaan. He’d almost caught me losing the grip over my magic several times, and lately, I’d begun to fear he knew exactly what I was hiding and his convenient placement outside my tent in the evenings was intentional.

I couldn’t quite figure him out, and that scared me.

Shaking off any remaining tension, I threw the blanket back and revealed my naked body to the humid morning air. It wouldn’t be long until that humidity would give way to the dryness of the mountains that surrounded Uzhhorod. Already, the grasses were changing, from the long, wavy fronds of the plains to a shorter, rougher variety.