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“She will be fine, Ferox. Our queen has simply overspent herself.”

My eyes fall closed, my lids so, so heavy.

When I rouse again, I hear, “…a few confessions from the prisoners so far.”

“What have they said?” Memnon’s voice rumbles against me, and I realize I must still be in his arms.

“They were Dacians. Word came from Rome that you took a wife, and their king, Zoutoula, wanted to weaken us while we were distracted with festivities. They said was to avenge the death of their previous king—the one you killed.” A long, heavy silence follows. I try to open my eyes, but they feel leaden, as do my limbs.

“Where’s the leader of this raiding party?” Memnon asks.

“Dead, just over there,” the warrior responds, adding. “We think it’s Bastiza, the king’s eldest son.”

Gently, Memnon lays me out on the grass. “I’ll be gone just a moment,” he whispers against my skin, though I’m fairly certain he doesn’t know I can hear him. “Ferox,” he says, “I know you don’t take orders from me, but attack anyone besides me that thinks of getting close to her.”

I can’t see Ferox’s reaction, but his warm fur brushes against me as he lies down at my side.

A warm, calloused palm presses itself against my head. “Gods protect my mate from harm.” Memnon whispers the ward beneath his breath.

I can sense the subtle touch of his magic as it drapes over me like a cloak. And then he’s gone, his boots squelching against the bloody ground.

I cannot say how long it takes me to pry my eyelids open, but by the time I manage to do so, the first rays of morning paint the sky pink and orange.

I’m still outside the walls of the tented city. From what little I can see and sense, blood dampens my clothes, skin, and hair. My entire body trembles, though I don’t really feel those tremors, just the heavy, throbbing weight of my limbs. If I weren’t so damn exhausted, I might be alarmed.

With effort, I get my arms under me and push myself up into a sitting position, my body swaying until Ferox sits up as well, leaning against my side, his body helping to keep mine upright. I lean my tired head against him in thanks.

All around us, Sarmatian warriors prowl the battlefield, some checking on what must be the wounded, others clustering around a line of kneeling men with their hands bound behind their backs.

I stare at the line of captives, my anger rising. Even now, I can smell blood and raw flesh on the wind. These men are responsible for this carnage. They were the ones who set upon us while weslept. They lit our homes on fire and cut down our people. They sought to hurt us,annihilateus.

I glance over at Memnon, whose battered armor glints in the sunlight. He’s coated in blood; it soaks his torso, it’s smeared across his face, and it drips from his hair. He looks monstrous, so it makes no sense that pride swells in me at the sight of him bathed in gore.

Like the rest of his men, he strides through the grass, weaving between the dead. When he gets to one of the corpses, however, he pauses, studying it with a grimace. After a moment, he withdraws a dagger from his side and crouches next to the body. Bringing his blade to it, he begins to saw through flesh. I hear the distant squelch of blood, and it makes my stomach churn.

When he’s done, he wipes his blade on the body’s clothes, then picks up something. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s gripping is ahead. I have to force down my rising sickness as I stare at the thing’s hideous visage. Memnon stalks over to the group of captives.

“Is this what you wished for?” he asks, holding the slack-jawed head up. “Your leader’s death?” The silence that falls across the field is absolute. Not even the bugs or birds break it.

“Look at him!” Memnon commands, shaking the head. “Tell me it was worth it!”

The captives remain grimly silent.

“No one crosses our people and lives!” Memnon bellows. The Sarmatians gathering around him whoop and howl, adding to the macabre moment, and some of the captured soldiers shrink in on themselves.

“And you”—his gaze sweeps over the prisoners—“you unfortunate few—you won’t simply die,” Memnon says, shaking his head.

The first tendrils of unease coil in my belly.

He paces down the line of them. “I trust you have heard of my power?”

A chill works through me at the malevolence in his tone. I’ve never heard him like this.

“In case you haven’t,” Memnon continues, “let me tell you now: I can bend your mind to doanything.”

That chill deepens as my unease grows. I remember back in Rome how not even Nero, the emperor himself, could escape Memnon’s power.

“You will leave this place and return to your people,” Memnon orders. “And there will be one thought and one thought alone in your mind:slaughter. You shall do to those you love what you have tried to do tomyloved ones. And then you willdie, either by your brethren’s hands or, if they won’t kill you, then your own.”