“To me!” I growled, and ranks reformed at my back. “If you hear the blast coming again, use your shadows to plug your ears.”

I carved a path straight through the middle, splitting their forces in two. At the rear, as I suspected, a Myrza waited. Fuck, how I wished I had Rapp’s binds here to help me take this motherfucker down.

Instead, I had to rely on a group of Suppressors to clamp down on his psionic abilities. More soldiers offered me small weapons to stick in him to render his power completely unattainable. All the while, he swore at us in Angelic. Even more when I forced him to his feet and marched him back to the academy with daggers in his thighs and calves.

With the battle over, the survivors started to separate out the bodies. The Demons would receive proper rites, even more blessed for their sacrifice since the High Priestess was here to see them into their next lives.

The Angels? Well I’d probably want to throw them in the ocean for the fish to nibble the flesh from their bones.

Passing Olet and a few Százados, I instructed them to do just that. “I want a full account of our losses as soon as you have them,” I added. I’d overseen hundreds of battles in my centuries of life, and I wasn’t stupid. A great many Demons had died protecting the academy and Fured. The dent in our forces was yet to be seen.

But it would be a sizable one.

“Yes, sir,” they said, all bone-weary and dragging from the exertion of the day.

With the Myrza bound and Assyria safe inside the walls, I should have felt triumphant. But with how the Angels had marched through the northern tip of the Demon Realm unchecked, all I felt was dread.

And whatever had happened to Trol…

I had a marrow-deep feeling that it was only the beginning.

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42

Exhaustion tugged at my limbs as the lead healer attended to my wound. The academy was in recovery mode, soldiers limping by the battlefield tents to seek treatment, others hauling wood toward the pyres some distance away.

The gash in my shoulder would heal in a day or two, but what of them?

A hiss slipped past my lips as an ointment-soaked cloth pressed against the flayed skin. Fuck, it hurt, even if it was already mending. The male jumped back like I’d scalded him. “Did I hurt you?”

I shook my head and gritted my teeth harder. He continued his work while I continued my survey of the living and dead.

A cart approached, carrying half a dozen females. Yet unlike many of the ones that had already trundled by, the priestess-turned-warriors were all neatly arranged, their hands by their sides, palms facing the sky.

Sleeves rolled up and revealing the devious eye tattoo.

A snake wrapped around my chest and squeezed, robbing me of all air. Tears burned my eyes, and my vision blurred.

“Is it too much?” the healer prodded.

“No,” I replied. But it was. The pain of their deaths was unfathomable. Yet, he couldn’t touch, couldn’t heal this ailment. The one that came from too much loss. That came at the cost of love.

They’d died…because of me.

Because I was a symbol for them.

Because they believed the lie I let them ink into their skin.

Because I gave them a reason to hope they could live in a different future.

Because I dared to demand more…and they followed me into the fire.

I smashed my lips together, trying to refrain from crying out. My bond with Rokath was still muted from Hayyel’s power, but I tugged on it anyway.

I needed him.

Only he could talk me out of this spiral tugging me under, under, under…

Like a Fate, he emerged from the crowd, his burgundy eyes burning straight into me. He ignored the salutes, the greetings, the veneration of his battle prowess. To him, I was all there was in the world.

The lead healer finished binding the bandage on my shoulder and quickly excused himself. Rokath stopped in front of me, his fingers dipping under my chin and lifting my gaze to meet his.

“What’s wrong, little imposter?”

My throat worked as I tried to form the words. “I–I failed them.” One tear slipped out, then another. The next two words choked out of me and opened the floodgates. “They died.”

I collapsed into his chest, clutching at his bloody armor. He wrapped his arms around me like he alone could hold the pieces of me shattering together. “This is war.”

Anger swelled, joining my sorrow. “How can you be so cold, so cruel?” I jerked back, glaring up at him. Yet instead of a furious expression etched into his face, heartbreaking sympathy greeted me.

“This is your first battle, Assyria. The first time you’ve fought, the first time you’ve watched others bleed, the first time you’ve watched others die for their beliefs. It is not mine.”

I wiped my nose on my sleeve, filling my nostrils with a metallic tang—a reminder of who was being prepared for their pyres. “I can’t do this. I can’t stand by and watch the people I love die.”

Rokath crouched so we were eye to eye. “Yes, you can. Because you are the reason they fight–”

“I am the reason they died! I was the one that pushed you to bring them here. It was my symbol they tattooed into their skin. It was me who they followed onto that battlefield.” A choked sob escaped me then, and I collapsed inward, unable to snuff the embers of grief.

“You gave them a choice, Assyria. That is what they wanted more than anything. And those still living? They’d do it again.” Rokath stroked my hair as I sobbed harder into his chest.

“You loving them is what freed them and made them fearless. You loving me is what freed me and made me more than a weapon. Your bravery is not muscle or magic, Assyria. It blooms from your heart. From the raw, relentless devotion you show others. From that fire that refuses to die even when others try to smother it. A flame borne from love.”

I looked up at him through blurred vision. “But they died because of it. Like everyone else.”

“The Reaper’s path is different for everyone. You do not influence it, as much as your mind might tell you it does,” he murmured, brushing the backs of his knuckles across my cheek.

I swallowed hard. Movement caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. My gaze drifted toward Rapp, Kiira, and dozens of others watching on.

Rokath’s knees hit the ground, one by one, like twin boulders planting themselves at the feet of the mighty mountains. From my position on the table, I was merely a few inches above him. “Do not let this battle, or any others, harden you as they have me. If feeling your grief is the cost of loving you, then let me drown in it time and time again. Because we need your emotion, Szélhámos. You are the type of leader we have been missing from the army. You will not be broken by this—you will bend it to your will instead.”

Rokath tugged open a leather bag I hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. From within, he pulled out more bones and a smattering of white feathers. Sinking back on his heels, he knelt, the bundle raised over his head. “For your throne, so you may claim your rightful place at my side.”

Those gathered went utterly still, enraptured by the scene before them. Rokath had offered me Hayyel’s arm bone, but that was done only in front of Vokkia and Rapp.

This?

This was him bowing to me in front of the army.

This was him elevating the myth of us further.

From the fringes, males appeared, some carrying feathers, others carrying bones.

They knelt behind Rokath—not to him, but to me. To what I represented.

They offered more to build my throne. To sit beside the male they had revered long before I emerged as his mate.

Females joined them, yanking up the sleeves of their armor and revealing the devious eye tattoo on their wrists.