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One, as Daxeel suspects it, is his unique selection process. The first warlord to exclusively recruit dokkalves with dead evates or none at all.

Rune’s evate is dead—and the pain that forever lives within him blends with his primal nature to create a savage warrior, one who lives in rage that begs to be released.

Rune will be focused, not yearning for a love left behind at home, but rather one in the afterlife waiting for him. If there’s a significance in that, Caspan sees it.

And he sees it in Daxeel as he turns his chin to him.

“As I understand,” the general begins, “you are to sacrifice your evate in the Sacrament.”

It is not a question—it is hard approval, as firm as his coal gaze.

This is a career offer.

Daxeel’s stony face betrays nothing. “The career I established is outside of warriorship. I hope to return to extraction.”

Caspan’s lashes lower over his black eyes. “War is coming.” The thicker accents of the south barbs his words. “There will be a call for all trained males to enter it.”

Waris something of a leap.

Daxeel considers what’s to come as more of an invasion, aconqueringof the human lands. An extermination to come.

“My father’s unit will be positioned in the far reaches of the human realm,” Daxeel says with a curt glance over at General Agnar.

His father makes no secret of his blatant cruel stare fixed across the courtyard. Daxeel traces it to Bracken across the way, his pale hair a deadly rope down his muscular back.

Drawing his attention back to Caspan, Daxeel adds, “I will follow blood customs and take my place under my father’s command.”

The nod Caspan answers with is one of respect.

Still, he traces his attention to his second, some groups down the courtyard. Bracken turns towards them, not quite looking at Daxeel or Caspan, but observing the faces of potential recruits.

The pearlescent gleam of his eyes is milky, cloudy, and Daxeel itches to rip them right out of his head.

His glower isn’t returned.

Bracken hardly spares a glance on him. Beefy arms folded over his chest, his long body leans back against the stone wall by the entrance to the garrison. His attentive gaze sweeps the courtyard, lingering over a few here and there, as though he can find the best warriors based on presentation alone.

Caspan nods again, one dip of his chin, and Daxeel recognizes for what it is: Understanding. The primary reason Daxeel could never belong to his unit. Bracken.

Then the general is gone, melted into the crowd packed onto the courtyard.

Daxeel spares Bracken a look of threats before Rune nudges him out of his darkened thoughts.

Rune’s barbed voice is a murmur, low enough that no one around them can hear anything beyond a growl, “Ambush.”

Daxeel’s chin turns to the side. His lashes lower over the approaching litalf—and it takes some seconds before he recognizes the rage-twisted face.

“Lord Braxis.” Daxeel doesn’t bow his head in greeting, and neither does Rune.

They are not of Licht, and so they owe no propriety to the lord.

The sharp angles of his noble face are blotched red and angry, a rush of bewildered panic that frizzes his uncombed, plaited hair, and reddens the hues of his green eyes.

The lord storms towards them, hands fisted at his sides. The moment he reaches Daxeel and Rune, he can’t contain the snarl that rips through him, “Where is my son?”

Rune casts a frown between the lord and Daxeel, and it’s a look that Daxeel shares. In tune, they both return their frowns to Braxis.

“I have not seen him here—”