“So you admit to killing him and then impersonating him for the entire time it took for us to reach Uzhhorod?” Jaku clarified, fury etched into his snarling face.

I nodded. He looked over my head at Parancsok Olet. “Let’s take her to the Halálhívó. He can decide her punishment. It’s unfortunate that she has burgundy eyes.”

Ice shattered through my veins as an image of the Halálhívó screaming at the recruit jumped to the forefront of my mind. The sinister, masked male who captivated my attention the entire time we were at the viewing ceremony was going to decide what to do with me. Then, I recalled Dromak’s words about how severe his punishments were.

Fuck you, Fates. I wish I’d believed in the Goddess instead.

Jaku released the ties on my wrists and hauled me up, half carrying me toward the black tent Parancsok Olet had emerged from before. A thousand sets of red eyes pierced me, among them Uzadaan and Dromak, though theirs brimmed with an ocean of pity.

Parancsok Olet followed behind us, his heavy footfalls the only sound beside the crackling pyre as the camp held a collective breath, waiting for the rest of the evening’s events to unfold. Until three more caws sounded, so close they might as well have been hovering on my shoulders.

Jaku burst through the flaps with cold confidence and dragged me around a corner before throwing me down on the ground. I clutched my torn tunic to my chest, trying to keep my breasts covered. My hair fell in front of my face, shielding it from the males’ view.

But what does it matter if they watch me shatter?

“She has been impersonating her dead husband, a Kormánzó from Stryi, Halálhívó.” He dropped to one knee and lowered his head to rest on his forearm. Parancsok Olet did the same.

“Rise,” the Halálhívó growled. His voice was as rough as I’d imagined, like gravel scraping over the ground and crunching beneath a pair of boots.

The males rose, and I lifted my head, shaking it slightly to clear the hair from my eyes. The Halálhívó sat on a fucking throne of bones, sneering down at me like I was less than the dirt beneath his feet. His entire being screamed lethality, from the layers of muscle on full display across his torso, to the ink that snaked up his neck, around his shaved head, and toward his eyes.

Burgundy eyes.

Our gazes collided with the force of a lightning strike, and I felt as if I’d been flayed by that whip again as pain seared in between my shoulder blades. With a gasp, I fell forward, hands hitting the ground and leaving my tattered tunic hanging helplessly against me.

The infamous Halálhívó leaped from his throne like he’d been bitten by one of the deadly snakes that lived in the deserts, his sneer turning into full blown rage.

I sucked in a sharp breath as the pain finally subsided, and the Halálhívó clutched his bare, tattooed chest as if he would rip the skin from his own flesh.

His eyes met mine again, and one word rang loud and clear in my head.

“Fuck.”

OceanofPDF.com

***

Atarnished crown rested upon the father’s brow as he surveyed his son’s training. It did not compare to the shine and size of the one resting atop his brother, the Kral’s head, but it still made him feel important.

“Rokath is becoming quite the fighter,” he mused, hoping to catch his brother’s attention.

“Indeed,” the Kral replied, hands bracing on the balustrade that overlooked the training ring. His brother had ridden to Fured from the capital of the Demon Realm a few days prior. Even still, soldiers swept into deep bows and offered them salutes as they passed by. The two paid them no mind.

“Xannirin as well,” the father commented, tracking the movements of the future Kral. The youngling was smart, witty, and charming, whereas his offspring was broody, solemn, and serious. Their temperaments were vastly different, and yet the two acted more like brothers than the father and the Kral ever did.

“Come, brother, let me show you exactly what he can do.”

Without another word, they descended to the training ring. The young males stopped what they were doing and acknowledged their approach with closed-fisted salutes.

“Rokath,” the father barked, and his son’s burgundy eyes cut right to him. Nothing else moved on his form, and for that, the father was pleased. “Step forward and greet your uncle.”

Rokath felt the intensity of his father, his uncle, and his cousin’s stares as he stepped forward and knelt before the Kral. He waited in that bent, subservient position, for what felt like minutes before being instructed to rise. Hands behind his back, chin tilted up, he waited for his next instruction.

Rokath’s father whistled at a few passing males and beckoned them forward. “You will fight my son,” he told them, and all three hesitantly shifted around.

With a waver in his voice, one said, “Of course, Your Highnesses.”

“Good, suit up,” he told them. The three hurried away to don armor and weapons from the nearby wall of materials, and Rokath waited for their return. He knew better than to ask questions, protest, or move in any way without a formal request or dismissal first.

He also knew better than to take it easy on the three. His father expected nothing less than perfection, and Rokath was as close to the center of that target as anyone could be.

The yard had cleared to make room for the three-on-one fight, though newcomers clung to the periphery, waiting with bated breath.

The Kral dipped his chin, releasing Rokath from his stoic position, as the three males approached.

Stepping back, Rokath squared up to them and drew his sword. A bland, almost bored expression smoothed his face as he assessed his opponents. A cardinal-eyed male lunged first, and Rokath disarmed him in three swift strikes. The male raised his hands in surrender, but Rokath knew that the only way to end this was in death, even if the male did not. Just as the second leaped into action, Rokath speared the first through the middle, then used his momentum backward to slam an elbow into the hand of his attacker. Spinning, he sliced across the male’s thigh, sending a spray of blood and a scream ripping through the air.

His cold expression did not change.

The second male limped around, raising his sword again as if he was going to defend himself against the burgundy-eyed youngling. Then, the third joined the fray, lunging with a glaive toward Rokath’s torso. He sidestepped, then deflected the long weapon away.

Shadows swirled from Rokath’s fingers, coating his arms and his blade as he backed toward the dead male. Dropping to one knee, he kept his attention firmly on them as he planted his closed fist against the ground. Behind Rokath, the deceased soldier rose, the sword still clasped in his hand scraping against the stone as he dragged upright. No life remained in his eyes, and his comrades visibly blanched at the sight of their fallen friend stumbling toward them.

A muscle feathered in Rokath’s jaw as he poured more magic into holding the dead male upright and using him as a secondary weapon to even his numbers. With his father watching, he didn’t dare make a mistake, for the consequences, especially in front of his uncle, would leave him hurting for weeks. And he couldn’t afford that level of pain, not when his one hundred and sixtieth birthday was days away and the promise of sneaking away from the military center and out into the city for some drink was all he had been thinking about for a month.

His two opponents stuck again, one at their former friend, the other at Rokath. One clang after another echoed around the yard, no one daring to breathe as they watched the fight unfold. A bead of sweat formed on Rokath’s brow as he pressed his advantage, dodging the glaive and stepping past its sharp blade, using his shadows to snap the weapon in two. Its wielder sucked in a sharp breath, ducking as Rokath swung at him. But Rokath had been training since he could hold a weapon in his hand and predicted the move.