Page 2 of Artemysia

“Once my dagger is out, it wants blood.” - Delphine

Ghost Elk Tavern, Stargazer City

M y pulse races in this cramped, old pub lit by beeswax candles. If I hear Congratulations, Captain Delphine Julian one more time, I might throw up the expensive brandy I’ve been drinking all night with my squad to celebrate my promotion. My body aches from the skirmish earlier today.

Sweat builds in uncomfortable places. I’m overly warm under the low, thatched roof of the Ghost Elk. It stinks of old cheese and spilled ale in here.

I need out.

Captain . I’ve worked my ass off to get here, and now, at twenty-two, I’m the youngest to ever make the rank. It’s exhilarating to defy the higher-ups who branded my style of leadership as “idealistic,” with a few going so far as to say I’m too soft for the role.

But the joke’s on me, because starting tomorrow, I’m responsible for the lives of a hundred men and women under my command, and it’s terrifying. It weighs on my chest like a sack of stones.

Breathe, Delphine .

I swallow down the fear and don’t allow it to show.

Pressing through the loud, drunken crowd, I make my way toward the exit. The swelling on my ribcage feels hot under my cloak—a Syf snapped me in the ribs today with the spine of his saber before I decapitated him. I don’t look forward to examining the bruise there.

At least I didn’t lose a single soul on my squad, and we obliterated the dozen Syf who raided a village just outside Stargazer City.

I hate the killing.

But it’s the only way to keep myself and others alive.

When two recent recruits block my escape to congratulate me, my stomach twists into knots of anxiety.

“You took down half that band yourself.” The young blonde cadet slices an imaginary sword across her partner’s throat.

Her partner bobs her head in wide-eyed agreement. “Highest number of Syf kills in all of South Kingdom,” she says. “It’s why I enlisted here in Stargazer—in hopes of being assigned to your squad.”

The adulation in their eyes should be enjoyable, but a stab of guilt strikes me instead. I never want to get used to a way of life where slaughter or be slaughtered is the norm. But…I’m scared that part of me already has.

After a day of killing Syf, I don’t curl up and cry anymore.

Raising my bottle, I clink their glasses. “The two of you kept our elk together during the fight, and your spear slowed down the biggest Syf.”

“Did you see his wingspan? One-and-a-half times the length of my arms. On each side! Why have wings if they can’t fly?” the blonde asks.

“The males use them in their mating rituals,” her friend chimes in enthusiastically, loosening the violet silk cravat tied around her shirt collar that denotes her rank as a cadet. Her red hair is braided in a neat rosette at the base of her neck.

“That’s what the textbooks say. We don’t know for sure,” I mutter.

It occurs to me that this was the two cadets’ first fight, and in recent years the enemy has become stronger, killing more of us with each encounter. But out there in the field, each strike of my blade drives away the crushing torment of those I’ve lost to Syf. My mother. Fellow soldiers. Lovers.

With a twinge in my heart, I admit there was a good chance these two women might not have made it back tonight, even though our force outnumbered the Syf.

It’s why we constantly enroll new recruits.

I pass them the rest of my brandy and tell them to have at it. “Good job today.”

They soak up my praise, looking at me eagerly as if expecting a speech of some sort, so I tack on a brazen attempt at inspiration.

“The largest rockslide can start with the tiniest pebble.”

They stare, unblinking.

Overkill? Or motivational leadership? Those who have been on my squad the longest have dubbed these sayings “Delphinisms.”

“Thanks, Captain,” they chime together, not looking the least bit appalled. Whew.

“Enjoy the feast with the king at Stargazer Castle tomorrow,” the redhead calls back over her shoulder as they walk away.

So young. So hopeful. So dead.

I stumble to the back door and slip outside.

Air . I need air. A gas lamp flickers, throwing uneven shadows onto the cobblestones.

The cool autumn night gives me the reprieve I need, but I dart farther down the alley, not wanting anyone to see me panic.

I’m good enough. I can do this. I’m not an imposter—I’ve been doing this. Right?

No. There’s no one else to blame if I make a decision that gets my company killed. Those two new cadets who hold me in such admiration and awe?

It’s my job to ensure they don’t die.

The strain in my throat doesn’t ease as I fold over my knees. I brace my shoulder against a large wooden barrel in the alley, trying to heave a breath to sip the frigid night air slowly in and out of my unbearably tight chest.

With the second moon of the evening low in the sky casting its dim lavender glow into the alley, I almost miss the shadowy figure on a stack of crates next to the barrel that’s supporting me.

The Syf are more active at night .

My hand drops to my sheath, but it’s empty. I left my sword in the pub.

Instead, I slip my dagger from the holster on my thigh and peer cautiously around the barrel, every inch of my body tensed for action.

A hooded man sits on one of the wooden crates, stooped over. His sleeves are pushed back and his muscular forearms rest on his thighs. He eyes me sideways with hardly a turn of his face.

Rather than acknowledging me, he leans back and kicks his legs out, picking up the stein next to him for a long sip. He directs his gaze back across the narrow alley to the dark window of a tailor’s shop, as if the suited mannequins on display are the most fascinating sight ever.

He clearly wants me to go away. So of course I take a step forward.

He wears the embroidered dark gray cloak and riding boots of the South Kingdom Military Academy. But instead of the standard high-collared white shirt and brown breeches like I’m wearing, he’s in all black, down to the leather blade holster strapped across his chest.

I don’t recognize him.

He isn’t wearing a cravat either, so I don’t know his rank.

My eyes narrow. There are those who steal our uniform and exploit the benefits of our military status without ever risking their lives to fight the Syf.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, adjusting my dark green cravat around my high collar. I’m still officially a commander until tomorrow, when I’ll be given the gold of captain.

I’m met with silence as he raises his glass to his lips. When he tosses his head for a swig, his hood shifts back just enough to reveal the sharp angles of his face.

I look him over suspiciously, stepping around his outstretched legs to face him. “Why aren’t you drinking with the others?” I press.

“Would you want to answer your own questions right now?” he bites back.

His response catches me by surprise, and I tighten my palm around my dagger.

No, I wouldn’t. I’m out here having a mini panic attack. But he can’t possibly know that, so I compose my expression and stifle the urge to react.

He goes on. “You can put your knife away. I could disarm you from here.”

If he’s challenging me, then he obviously has no idea who I am.

I twirl my blade and regrip it, staring down my nose at him. “Are you a new recruit? Otherwise you’d know no one disarms me, unless they want their ass handed to them.”

The edges of his lips twitch into the start of a grin, but he doesn’t let it continue onto anything more.

“You’re full of questions. How about this?

If I disarm you, I don’t have to answer.

” His voice comes low and controlled. I can’t tell if he’s threatening me or if he’s having a good time vexing me.

“And if you can’t disarm me?”

“Then ask away and I won’t lie to you,” he says.

He pushes off the crate to stand, leaving his stein behind.

He’s taller than I expected.

Not short myself, I draw up in my heeled riding boots so I’m staring at his full lips. He still has a few inches on me. Broad-shouldered. Lean and powerfully built.

His gaze sinks through me, gleaming and icy. Gray eyes, the likes of which I’ve seen only on a wolf. There’s a bloody slash across the left eyelid.

He finally shifts the hood of his cloak off his head. Based on his gruff, husky voice, I assumed he was older.

But…he’s young. And gorgeous.

Dark hair, the upper half pulled back into a topknot, the rest of the soft tendrils hanging loosely at the nape of his neck. Fine features. A blade-straight nose cuts through his angular face.

He sways a little. Is he drunk? Injured? A bit of both. His weight is shifted off one of his long legs in a way that tells me he’s hurt.

I reposition my feet, ready for a fight in case the drunk part of him is senseless enough to start one.

My limbs are lanky, but I’m strong and fast, and confident in my mastery of hand-to-hand combat.

The alpha males always want to challenge me, until they’re on the floor doubled over after being outmaneuvered.

I level an assessing look at him. He’s definitely one of those men.

By his casual stance, he thinks he can overcome me.

They all think that.

“If you disarm me, I’ll refrain from kicking your ass, dagger or not,” I say, grinning.

“That’s so sweet.” His soft mouth turns down his tapered chin.

Bristling, I huff an exasperated sigh. All my life, I’ve been told I look sweet and kind, and the terrible truth is, I am .

It used to work against me as I moved up the ranks, commanding the rough-and-tumble men and women who were physically bigger than me, but now I’ve turned it into an element of surprise.

I let them underestimate me.

I flick two fingers in his direction, gesturing for him to come at me.

He gives a low, scraping chuckle. He moves unnaturally fast, but I sidestep in time, light on my feet.

I block his forearm, knocking it aside as I duck and spin on my heels.

My elbow jabs into his liver and, on the upswing, I knuckle him in the throat.

He scowls but recovers—and now he’s serious.

He lunges at me. I throw my arms around him and use his momentum to swing him around.

Our legs tangle. The next few minutes consist of grappling, limbs locked, as we try to take each other down.

Crouching low, I drive my shoulder into him. My face is buried in his chest as he locks his arms around me to stop me from wrestling him to the ground.

Swallowed up in his grip, our bodies heat.

I shouldn’t notice how good he smells. Woodsy clean, like the juniper trees bordering the mountains to the south.

He twists and kicks me off, striking me in the ribs where the Syf bruised me earlier today.

I cry out as I fall back, and for a split second, he hesitates, his eyes rounding.

Now he knows I’m injured . I’ve revealed my weakness, but I roll off the ground and back on my feet.

Taking advantage of his surprise, I hit him with a combination of a roundhouse kick and an elbow to the jaw. He doubles over, paying for his hesitation. I wrangle him into a headlock, my dagger at his throat.

“Once my dagger is out, it wants blood,” I say smugly.

He struggles to regain control, but I maintain my chokehold.

“One more move and I’ll cut off your topknot,” I warn. Lose strands of his hair fall over my hand, and it’s as soft as it is glossy.

He lifts his palms in the air, and he’s given up .

“I do need a haircut,” he mutters.

Despite myself, I laugh under my breath and back away. He presses a finger to his mouth where my fist landed, frowns, and licks the blood off his lips.

“Something to remember me by.” I grin.

My breaths come easily now. There was no way he could’ve known I needed this—that I had nervous energy to burn off—yet here he was, willing to engage.

The adrenaline of the fight and the subsequent win have calmed me.

I’m doing what I’m good at, and I’ve forgotten why I was lurking in an alley at midnight instead of celebrating what I’ve wanted to achieve since I joined the Academy ten years ago—to be captain of the squad I love. I’m ready for whatever comes next.

Except…I relaxed too soon.

A strange light glows in those smoky irises, perhaps just a glint reflected off the gas lamps at the end of the alleyway, but a flick of his wrist later, he’s thrown my dagger against the side of the building.

It clangs onto the stony ground. My feet pivot to rebalance, but he’s pinned my forearm against the wall, and when I swing my free hand to jab him under the ribs, he strikes it away with uncanny swiftness.

Holy hell. His reflexes are inhuman. Has he been playing me this whole time, pretending to let me have the upper hand? He pitches forward and seizes my throat. As my air is cut off, his eyes darken and his lips curl up into an indecent, cruel grin.

I’m left wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake engaging this stranger.