My brows rose up my forehead, curiosity piqued. “Like what?”

“They’re razor sharp. So essentially they are shredded to pieces if they fall in completely. Should they brush against the edge, it’s like being sliced by a sword.”

“Wow,” I responded. His power was unlike anything I’d ever heard of—which was similar to all those with burgundy eyes. “So that’s how you were able to force them back so far?”

He nodded. “Though, the larger the rift, the less time I am able to hold it. I have to plan carefully where to deploy one and when with each battle.”

“Which is exactly why you are invaluable, Trol. After this, you deserve a break yourself. You’ve been out here far too long without reprieve,” Rokath added.

Trol waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll get one when I get one. What matters most is that the soldiers who have been out here the longest have breaks for themselves. They fight far more than I do.”

A breeze lifted a few strands of my hair as two more people entered the command center, ending our conversation. “Halálhívó,” Banand and Zurronar greeted Rokath first, then Trol. Finally, both their attention landed firmly on me. “Szélhámos.”

The honorific sent goosebumps skittering across my skin. To be recognized for my power…well, it wasn’t something I’d ever dreamed of happening.

“Sit,” Rokath commanded, and they both did.

Turning to me, he asked, “Do you know how to write?”

A scoff slipped out before I could stop it. “Of course I know how to write. My mother taught me.”

“Did you know that writing for females was forbidden a century ago, save for the priestesses so they could communicate?” Rokath spoke into my mind.

My stomach plummeted. That explained why we never learned it in school. My mother had always insisted our handwriting had to be extremely elegant. She’d told us that we were never to show it to anyone unless we wanted our style stolen. The other girls in the village would have copied me for sure, which was my young mind’s logic as to why I never spoke of it.

I’d never thought more of it.

“Well, it’s a good thing I did since we’re changing society,” I quipped.

“Aye,” Rokath rumbled back. He fetched parchment and ink, handing both to me. I arranged them neatly in front of me, waiting for whatever he wanted me to do.

He turned to the two males I’d rescued. “Assyria will take notes on your debriefing. Let’s start with the most important pieces of information you managed to overhear.”

Banand and Zurronar—looking far healthier than he had when we’d rescued him—went back and forth listing out what they’d heard, sometimes pausing to discuss the exact meaning since much had been in Angelic. Rokath would ask them to repeat the phrase if they could remember it, and then have me correct whatever I’d written. Trol jumped in intermittently, asking for clarification.

Apparently, nearly a year of captivity was a long time to gather intel. I shook my hand out on more than one occasion, muscles cramping from how much I wrote.

Once they’d offered all they could, Rokath switched topics to the Angel’s treatment of them. As they recounted their torture, my stomach twisted. Salt burned my eyes as both remained stoic and strong despite the obvious pain they’d endured. Much like me, they’d have deep, invisible scars.

I didn’t write a single word down; instead, I sat in solidarity with them, a witness to their suffering.

When they finished, I cleared my throat and held Zurronar’s gaze. The resemblance to Izgath was uncanny, though their eye color was not the same. They sported the same trim build, and while Zurronar’s hair was still a mess, the style was reminiscent of his brother’s clipped sides and top knot.

“I have some news about your brother,” I began, voice wavering. Rokath stiffened beside me, our bond tightening. But then, he exhaled, chest deflating, and reached for my leg under the table. He gave it a light squeeze, leaving his hand there. Warmth bloomed in my heart at the supportive gesture. That he fought for control with himself to aid me in this difficult conversation spoke volumes.

“Which one?” Zurronar asked. Both of his brothers were in the army, though I assumed the other still lived. I wasn’t sure of his name or which unit he was in.

“Izgath.” I swallowed roughly.

How am I supposed to tell him his sibling died because of me?

I twisted my mother’s ring around my finger, trying to decide where to begin. “I first met him when he came to conscript in Stryi. You’ve seen my magic, so you know I can become anyone. I snuck into the army, and eventually, he discovered my true identity. When we returned to Uzhhorod to join the rest of the soldiers…” I trailed off, trying to find the right words.

“I killed him,” Rokath stated plainly. I whipped my head to the side, finding a stoic expression plastered on his face. “Though he died for a noble cause. I didn’t know that at the time, though. He protected Assyria’s identity until his death. For which I will be forever grateful. It is because of his honor that she ended up in my hands and not somewhere worse.”

Tears pricked the backs of my nose and eyes.

Zurronar paled, his eyes closing briefly. His inhale was slow, shaky. “You know, I spent months wondering if he’d been killed in the plague. If he was alive and still fighting. The same with Onnaron.” A muscle ticked in his jaw as he leveled a heavy, grief-filled gaze on Rokath. “It’s honestly better that I have certainty now. The not knowing was eating me inside.”

“I’m so sorry,” I blurted out, because what else was there to say?

Banand also looked relieved.

One less life on his conscience.

Zurronar’s attention drifted to me, and I resisted the urge to squirm. Instead, I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. He raked his maroon eyes over me as if judging me in an entirely new light. “My life for his life. Thank you, Szélhámos.”

My jaw slackened before I snapped it shut. I’d assumed he’d shout at me. Throw something. Curse my name. But thanking me? That was not at all what I had imagined.

“Of course,” I stammered out, my voice not nearly as steady as I had intended.

Maroon and burgundy tangled for a heartbeat longer before he addressed his leader. “Halálhívó, I served in your army long enough to know that your rules are strict and enforcement is carried out swiftly and without discrimination. While I am saddened by my brother’s loss, it is a comfort knowing he broke the rules for good reason.”

He paused, attention flicking between the two of us. Rokath squeezed my thigh harder.

“She is your mate, and the Weaver has blessed you both. My sword has been, and always will be, yours to wield.” He bowed his head in deference, placing a hand over his heart for good measure.

I kept my composure when all I wanted to do was sag with relief.

Do all leaders have to deliver bad news like this?

“Aye, we do. This is the first of many tests you will face if you want to change our society. But I will always be by your side, helping you bloom,” Rokath spoke into my mind.

“Thank you,” I sent back, my annoyance with him reading my mind banished with his affirmation.

“Do either of you wish to return to Fured for a respite? You have more than earned it,” Trol said, straightening in his seat and reaching for a glass of water.

Zurronar shook his head with conviction. Banand voiced his opinion. “We spent too long caged. I don’t know about Zur, but I am thirsty for some Angel blood. Besides, my magic is far more useful here. I know how to create sicknesses for the Angels now.” The gauntness hadn’t disappeared from his face, but a few hearty meals and some sun would have him healthier soon.

Rokath released my leg and braced his elbows on the table. Leaning in, he stared Banand down. “We have three females here whenever you want to get started.”