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My gaze darts around, trying to locate the voice, but all I see are spears and swords and clashing warriors.

“You taaake…what’sss miiiine.” the disembodied voice says.

“No,” I say aloud. “Not yours. Their blood ismine.”

I’ve no sooner spoken than the remaining Dacians retreat, my intended victims streaming off the battlefield while Sarmatians chase them away.

Cheering. We’ve won, I think. Pleased—I should be pleased.

I’m not.

My targets have escaped me. I want to chase them down, wipe them from existence, then use their blood to kill their brethren.

Through the roiling darkness within me, I notice a rising chant.

“Empress! Empress! Empress!”

I falter.

Do they meanme?

I stop drawing power from spilled blood to better listen. However, it’s as though that blood-borne magic was the only thing propping me up. Without it, my body seems to cave in on itself, my strength fleeing me, my senses returning.

Fuck,what have I done?

Across the battlefield, I see Memnon turning on his steed, and I meet his gaze briefly as my vision darkens and my legs fold.

“Roxilana!” Memnon roars.

It’s the last thing I hear as the rest of that darkness sweeps in and swallows me whole.

I wake to the feel of soft blankets beneath me, a warm, furred body at my side, a hand on my cheek, and a crackling fire somewhere close by. I cannot remember feeling this secure, except for perhaps the murky past that was my childhood in Brittania.

“There you are,” Memnon says softly as I blink away sleep. His fingers brush against my cheek, and he gazes at me with open adoration. “My ferocious, lovely queen.”

“Hello.” My voice comes out as a croak, and I go to lift my arm, but it feels leaden.

Ferox rises next to me, peering at me, then rubbing his cheek against my head.

“How are you feeling?” Memnon asks, his gaze sharp.

It takes me an instant longer to sense that all my limbs are heavy, and there’s an ache that seems to radiate from deep within me.

Magical overuse.

I grimace. “Not great.”

Memnon strokes my skin again from where he sits next to me, then whispers a spell. Some of the ache lifts, though the heaviness lingers.

“Unfortunately, I can take away your pain, but I cannot speed up this recovery,” he reminds me apologetically. “Your body will have to do that on its own.”

I glance down at the body in question, surprised when I see that I’m clad in a light stola, my skin clean and smelling faintly of oil. This is not how I dressed myself last…

“I dressed and washed you,” Memnon says, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. Across our bond, I sense something paining him.

I wet my lips. “What happened to me?”

“You overused your power.”