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“You are a witch,” he says. “You have magic, and you can use words and writing and ingredients to heighten the power you were born with. But me…” He pauses to grab the wooden canteen of wine we’ve passed around all evening and takes a swig of it, like he needs a little extra courage for what he’s about to say. “My kind—my father’s kind—we are called sorcerers,” Memnon says, setting the wine aside.

Sorcerers. I’ve heard that term used before. I assumed it was another word forwitch, though there has always been a certain darkness to the former term.

“If I use too much of my power,” Memnon continues, “it can take over, like it did today, and…my magic is bloodthirsty.” A charred log pops in the silence, and my flesh puckers.

He searches the dying flames. “My men were right earlier. I gave them the order to stay away,” he says, harkening back to a previous conversation this evening.

“Why did none of you follow her?” Memnon demands.

“My king,” Itaxes beseeches, “you ordered us to retreat anytime you use your magic. You swore that lingering would mean certain death.”

“Then die a warrior!” Memnon roars. “Better that than a coward, to let my bride chase after me.”

Now Memnon says, “Had they tried to get you, they would have died the same way the Romans did. It has happened before.”

“What happened today has happened before?” I echo, aghast. How could I have been so close to Memnon all these years yet still know so little about him?

“Because I didn’t want you to know,” he confesses. He won’t look at me. This whole conversation has been pried from his mouth. “I’ve killed my own men before. I cannot explain it or atone for it. My power takes on a life of its own, and through me, it has done godless things.” He swallows, his eyes finally rising to mine. “And you…you ran right into it.” Memnon’s voice breaks, and his eyes shine too bright. “I am sorry, Roxi,” he says, his voice hoarse, “so sorry.”

I nod, searching his face. “Your magic didn’t hurt me.” Or Ferox, for that matter.

He gives me a sad smile. “It is incapable of doing such a thing. Every bit of me loves you. Even the wretched parts.”

It’s quiet between us, with only the fire’s final crackles filling the air.

“So which is it?” I finally murmur. “Are you kind and gentle or ferocious and violent?”

Memnon searches my face. “I’m all of it,” he admits sorrowfully. The weight of that confession looks heavy. “And I am sorry for it.” He bows his head. “But all of me—all my power, all that you love and fear about me—I lay it at your feet. It is yours.”

CHAPTER 18

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Sarmatia

It’s a hot,cloudy day when we pass an innocuous stone set to the side of the road. It’s not as massive as some of the Roman markers that dot these roads, nor is it carved or inscribed with precise Latin letters that speak of things I cannot read. The only detail that sets this large rock apart from any other is the red, familiar-looking dragon painted onto it.

My husband rides up to the stone and, after pressing a kiss to his fingers, slaps its surface. One by one, the others do this as well, until only I remain.

Tentatively, I steer my horse to the large rock and, reaching out, trail my fingers over the brilliant-red body of the dragon. I realize then why the image looks so familiar. Memnon has an identical one tattooed onto his chest; I traced it with my finger just last night.

My eyes rise to Memnon.

“Welcome home, my queen,” my husband murmurs, his eyes heated.

We’ve officially entered Sarmatia.

Memnon’s kingdom is not what I imagined it to be.

There are few paved roads here and fewer buildings still. The world around us is a flat expanse of grassland as far as the eye can see, and it has been that way in the days since we entered Sarmatian territory.

It seems unlikely that the great Sarmatian civilization that haunts Roman nightmares could amass in such a desolate place, and yet?—

“There it is!” Rakas shouts, cutting through our late-afternoon silence.

I close my fist, snuffing out the magic I was playing with, and glance around while the men stir in their saddles. Their eyes sharpen as they gaze into the distance, and they seem to fully come alive then.

Itaxes whistles. Zosines lets out a whoop. Even Sattion flashes a rare smile. And Memnon, beloved Memnon, is bursting with excitement. It feels warm, like undiluted wine in my veins, obscuring my own churning emotions.