Page 52 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)

Thierre knew that it was bad.

He didn’t need the shackles crushing his wrists – or the cuts to his face, his neck, the stab wounds to his chest and stomach, his life’s blood oozing to the stonework floor, even the bolted, padlocked door with a horde of guards lusting to finish the blades’ work – to know that his predicament had plummeted to new levels.

Instead, a glance from Thierre’s good eye – the one not bloated shut – at the people assembled before him was all it took.

To know that he was not long for this life.

Thierre coughed, a gob of blood expelling from his split lips, as his flesh wrung yet another shiver from him. He lowered his too-groggy head, blood pulsing, pooling at his feet.

Yet Thierre had trained to withstand such things. So, despite his body begging him to surrender to, at the very least, unconsciousness, he held on.

And listened. His sister kingdom rulers did not disappoint.

‘What says he?’ Steward Atriposte turned his back on Thierre, the ruler’s heavy cloak dyed Kolyath’s infamous blood-red.

‘Little,’ Commander Jarett reported, cold fury in his eyes at Thierre’s resistance. Lamentably, Thierre recognised the spark behind that look. What it meant for him.

More torture. The man lived for the pleasure of his violence.

Stupendous. Thierre sighed, a hacking cough following.

King Decimus of Ozumbre spoke next, eyes on Thierre.

‘How long will this take?’ Ozumbre was a volcanic land with a dry, oppressive heat, and the ruler was dressed for such, his sleeveless jerkin diverging from Atriposte’s calculated finery as King Decimus crossed his arms over his battle-worn vest, his greyish skin visible.

The people of Ozumbre had lived for so long under the shadow of their fiery peak that they mirrored their environment, reminiscent of the ash that rained from the volcanic sky.

‘If your Commander is not up to such an important task, esteemed Steward, then might I suggest Ozumbre’s royal spymaster?’ Decimus’ teal gaze flickered with amusement. ‘Or your own Commander Sullian?’

Thierre could not suppress his tremble. Ozumbre’s spymaster was well-known for hacking limbs from his interrogation subjects. He tried to swallow. If the sadist was permitted, the next time Thierre’s father received him would be piece by blood-soaked piece.

Commander Jarett bared his teeth. ‘Sullian is not required.’

‘Are you so sure of that, brother?’ Light footfalls sounded behind Thierre.

By the Oracles, he thought. How many of the fiends are here?

He watched, helpless, as Atriposte’s Commanders, Jarett of the Steward’s guards and Sullian of his army, glared at one another. Sullian laughed bitterly, his scarred face full of scorn for his brother.

Decimus’ eyes lit up, the King of Ozumbre delighting in the spectacle of Kolyath’s Commanders and their vitriol.

Thierre supposed the man knew something of sibling discord, given Decimus’s own brother, his twin Diabolus, was Commander of Ozumbre’s own army.

And the only enemy kingdom senior official missing from this cell.

Jarett turned his spiteful gaze from Sullian’s mocking to the Ozumbre King. ‘Speaking of brothers, sister kingdom sire – where, pray, is yours?’

‘Doing as I was,’ Sullian interrupted, one hand at his back as he waved another at whatever was beyond the room’s door. ‘Readying the forces, a task I shall return to shortly.’ He bowed before his Steward. ‘But first, I proffer a gift.’

Readying their forces for what?

A blue twinkle caught his eye, then another, and Thierre latched onto it, that hue, and the memories that glided back. Cahra’s longsword. The mere sight of it warmed him.

Or was that the fever of sepsis setting in?

He laughed at the futility of his situation, of dying at the most leisurely of paces – and now, of course, the omen-bringer’s sword.

At least the blade might help keep him alive; that, and him never having crossed paths with King Decimus face to face before, so the room knew him as Lord Terryl and not an iota more.

Yet even that cover may not save him for long.

Jarett’s gaze snapped to Thierre and his muted laughter. He marched over, unsheathing a dagger and pointing its tip at Thierre.

‘Something to say, merchant lord?’

Commander Sullian picked up Cahra’s sword, touching his finger to the pommel’s Sigil of the Seers. The man smirked as he casually held the blade, its sharpened point angled nonchalantly at his brother. Jarett snarled at Sullian.

‘A lord?’ a frayed voice pondered, reverberating, from the shadows. ‘A lord…’

Oracles, who now? Not Diabolus. Thierre squinted in the dim light.

‘A lord.’ The off-white cloak of a figure emerged and all Thierre could make out under its hood were two lavender orbs. ‘No.’ It raised an arm. ‘The lord is a fabrication.’

Oh, HAEL.

In a heartbeat, Jarett’s cold anger boiled into a torrid rage. He advanced, intending to slash Thierre’s throat, roaring, ‘ In His Excellency’s kingdom? ’

Only Sullian had the sense to hold Jarett back. ‘Then what is fact, Oracle?’

The white figure withdrew its hood, the man beneath it tutting as he said, ‘Now, now. It is rude not to introduce yourself, Prince Thierre of Luminaux.’