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Someone from the line wails, and I feel that cry. I have seen—and committed—a lot of atrocities over the last night. But none of them come close to this.

“From this moment on,” Memnon says, “consider yourselvescursed.”

Memnon drops the severed head, the appendage hitting the ground wetly. He moves to the line of captives, who are now writhing in their bindings, trying to escape the Sarmatian king. Their feet must be tied as well because they get no farther than a few arm spans by the time Memnon reaches them.

One by one, my husband grasps their heads, his darkened magic entering their noses and mouths. Many of them thrash against him, but as soon as his power takes hold, their forms go preternaturally still and their eyes unfocus.

I’m shaking again, shaking from renewed horror. They may be the enemy, and gods how I hate them, but what Memnon is making them do…

Please, Memnon, I plead.Stop this cruelty.

Right in the middle of his work, Memnon bows his head.You’re awake.

I don’t think he expected that, and for a moment, I am sure he is ashamed.

Please, I beg again.

This is war, my queen, he says.I am sorry you must see it.

But he is not sorry he mustinflictit. That is clear enough.

He hesitates only an inhalation longer, then raises his head and resumes his malevolent work. Once he’s finished, he straightens. The men at his feet are subdued, their eyes glassy, distant.

Memnon nods to Sattion, who stands nearby. “Cut the prisoners loose and let them each take a horse.”

There are no more whoops from the group. There is no glee or triumph, just somber silence broken only by the sounds of men moving through the grass, a few low moans from the injured, and the sound of rope being sawed through.

Sarmatians gather the needed horses, many of which are speckled with blood. It’s unnervingly civil, how the beasts are handed off to the now-freed prisoners, who patiently wait for their steeds.

I watch, horrorstruck, as these former captives hoist themselves into the saddles and ride off. My mind is filling in their futures—how they will return to their people and open fire on them with their bows or skewer them with their swords.

Perhaps there is justice in this retribution, but still, it sickens me.

My skin pricks as Memnon pivots his attention to me. Scarred and bloody, muscled and armored, he looks every bit the barbarian Romans told terrible tales of.

His men are still talking to him, but he ignores their words, striding across the battlefield toward where I sit.

Fear rises in me, and I try to scoot away, but my limbs are still far too heavy and hurting to move.

Please don’t run from me, Roxi, he beseeches.

It’s not like fleeing is a viable option for me in this state. Unfortunately.

When Memnon reaches me, he kneels and scoops me up as though I weigh nothing.

Put me down, I say.

My husband’s grip tightens, and I feel a flash of hurt across our bond.You’re still too weak to walk, he states.

Then have one of your warriors help me.

I will not ask someone else to take care of my wife in my stead. You can hate me, but you will do so in my arms.

If I had the energy for it, I would scream.

Memnon carries me to a warhorse and swings us both into the saddle, using his magic to assist him. He maneuvers my legs so that they’re on either side of the steed and presses my back against his chest.

You overused your magic, he explains as he does so, his voice so gentle.The leaden sensation will go away, but it takes a while. Until then, I’ve got you.