Page 15

Fuck. The tide had definitely shifted, and not in our favor. I attempted to remain still, to keep my heart from pounding through my chest.

“Yes,” Arianna said neatly.

“Well then, it seems to me if this was during school hours, we’re not dealing with a Lumerian who attacked an heir, but two novice soturi. It seems to me that a fight during Academy hours is a legal fight.”

“It was off Academy grounds,” Aemon said.

“Yes, and so my question now,” drawled the Imperator, “is what in Lumeria Soturion Lyriana was doing off the Academy grounds when it was still Academy hours.”

Rhyan stiffened in his seat. Fuck. Fuck. He clenched his fists in his lap, his knuckles turning white even as he continued to keep a neutral expression on his face. I’d left the Katurium because he’d told me to. He’d wanted me to rest, to heal after being injured, after being lashed…to think over his offer of extra training. He had been trying to protect me.

“Soturion Lyriana is here under special guidelines. She has barely three months to prove herself as a warrior without magic. And she is to fulfill her end of the bargain by taking training seriously. No special provisions were to be made for her. Those were the specific terms of the bargain she herself agreed to,” the Imperator said, voice growing in volume. “Or else we have no deal. Was she not just found guilty of disregarding the rules? Of disregarding the chain of command? Of disregarding the very kind offer I so generously made to her? She is still making her own rules, preferring to be Lady Lyriana instead of realizing that becoming Soturion Lyriana is what her life depends on. Step forward, your grace.”

Cold air blasted against me as I pressed my hands to my sides to keep them from shaking. My heart was pounding furiously in my chest so loudly I thought the whole room could hear. Rhyan made a small noise of anguish—too quiet for anyone to notice but me. His lips tightened as the muscles of his jaw flexed while his shoulders tensed, his body poised for a fight.

I reached the front of the room and stood between Aemon and the Imperator, staring out at the soturi lined up to watch me before glancing at Tani and the traitorous mask lying before her and Aunt Arianna.

“Turn around, Soturion Lyriana,” the Imperator commanded. “Face the doors.”

Rhyan’s eyes widened, as did Arianna’s. I caught Tani’s gleeful look of joy as I willed myself not to throw up. Slowly, I turned my back on the room—the room full of armed soturi.

“Imperator!” Arianna said, her voice indignant.

“My lady,” he said calmly, “despite your impressive titles and familial relations to her grace, you have no jurisdiction here.”

Deep breaths, deep breaths.

“Imperator,” Aemon said, a warning in his voice.

“Nor do you, Aemon, when it comes to our contract. Waryn.” The Imperator jerked his chin at the Bastardmaker. “If you would.”

“What?” I asked, my breath hitching as a look of disgust came over Aemon. The Bastardmaker was behind me, his grubby hands on my shoulders, his dirty hateful fingers grabbing at the ties of my tunic—the tunic Rhyan had just so carefully laced up after treating my wounds—and then, without warning, there was a sound of fabric ripping all the way down my back.

“NO!” I shouted.

But it was too late. Cold air, infused from Rhyan’s aura, hit my bared skin, and the front of my tunic hung off my shoulders. From behind I was bared except for my short-pants, my sandals, and the fresh bandage Rhyan had just applied over my wounds.

I closed my eyes in humiliation, willing myself to breathe and not panic. But my entire body was shaking with cold and fear and dread of what was coming next.

There was a loud slapping sound, and a riot of pain exploded across my back. I fell to my knees, biting back my scream. The Bastardmaker had hit my back, the rough palm of his hand thwacking right across my tender wounds. A tear escaped my eye. My knees were definitely bruised from hitting the marble floor, and my back pulsed in agony.

“Do not touch her again!” Aemon yelled.

“Arkturion,” Arianna snapped. Her voice was shriller than I’d ever heard in my life. “She is still under my care as Master of Education. She has not been sentenced anew to punishment. You are out of line!”

A chair had screeched across the floor, and Aemon gestured for the person moving the chair to take a seat. Though I couldn’t see with my back to the room, I knew it was Rhyan.

As I watched the flames flicker in the smooth marble beneath my hands, my entire body shook. Then a large set of hands wrapped around my wrists, and I was gently lifted to my feet and pulled against a man made of nothing but sheer, overwhelming muscle and wearing black robes over silver armor.

The Imperator.

“Tut, tut,” he said gently, like he was cooing at a baby. His hands ran up my shoulders, still bared from the destroyed tunic. “Oh, this won’t do. Not for an Heir to the Arkasva.” He squeezed my shoulders, his fingers pressing in with such force I gasped in pain. His hands moved to push what remained of the material back up my arms. The tunic fell right back down and would have completely exposed me if I hadn’t been holding the front of the cloth in place.

The Imperator turned me to face the front of the war room once more, my feet stumbling to comply. I couldn’t look up, couldn’t face their eyes, their glee, or their pity. It was too humiliating. I was too angry. I was Lady Lyriana, Heir to the Arkasva, High Lord of Bamaria. And the Bastardmaker, the fucking Bastardmaker, had just publicly stripped and assaulted me before some of the most powerful nobles of Bamaria. And Tani, who was a traitor, a part of the Emartis, was going to walk free on a technicality and a gryphon-shit excuse for doubt and then tell everyone what had happened, guaranteeing my humiliation and punishment remained endless.

I glared at the Imperator. And the Bastardmaker. I wanted to kill them. I wanted to kill every last wolf in this room with my bare hands.

“I sincerely apologize for my brother’s brutish behavior,” said the Imperator, his voice full of mock shock and sincerity. He shook his head, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Waryn is, at heart, a soldier who’s rough around the edges. And, well, the Soturi of Ka Kormac mean to be gentle, but we by nature are made of stronger material. So are our tunics. Brother? Maybe you can rectify this. Pay her grace for a new one?”