Page 3 of Degradation (The Brethren Lords #3)

Devin

T he wind bristles through my hair, there’s a chill to it, a hint that the hot summer is almost over and winter is finally on its way.

I like winter. I like the darkness, the storms, the fact that all those damned cheery faces and happy smiles of summer are finally packed up and gone.

I can see my brother, Magnus, stood, alongside all the other elite, watching this little parade as we finish.

He’s keeping his face measured, controlled, but I know inside, he’s more than furious.

Around me are a hundred other men, soldiers, warriors, all trained and ready to fight, ready to do what is necessary to defend ourselves and our way of life.

My new uniform is tight, itchy. The thick fabric of my ceremonial dress clings to my muscles, and I can feel a trickle of sweat making its way down my spine beneath my shirt.

My boots are so well polished I can see my face in them.

I stand head and shoulders above everyone else, and I’m more than aware of the presence my physical appearance has on the people around me.

I can feel the glances of the Lords, the Ladies, all the people watching this little event.

They’re sizing me up – literally. Trying to figure out if I’m as big of a threat as I appear to be.

I’m a Blake after all, and not just a Blake, I’m my father’s son, in every sense of the word.

I bare his semblance, his build, everything about me attests to what he was.

My brother’s Magnus and Conrad look like damned mice compared to the sheer brute of what I am.

And I suspect that’s the reason I’m here. Why I’ve been chosen.

Our family are reapers. We’re not meant to serve in this way and yet, if the rumours are true, the Chapter Lord chose me personally.

I can hear his croaky voice as he drones on about duty and honour.

He’s stood on a dais, facing us all, wearing his long robes that billow behind him.

He’s an older man, in his fifties, with sparse grey hair and a pudgy, wrinkled face.

He’s been our Chapter Lord as long as I’ve been alive.

And while most of that time, he’s been conservative, boring even, in his leadership, something has clearly changed of late.

Maybe he hit his head, maybe he’s realised suddenly that he won’t live forever because he’s been making moves, making changes, and a lot of them have not been so popular with the masses.

It’s another reason I’m here, that all the men around me are here. He made a ruling two years ago that all the men have to go for training once they reach adulthood, that it’s compulsory, we have to learn to fight, to defend.

He’s raising an army. He’s preparing for war.

Only, no one seems to know who exactly we’re fighting.

We’re meant to be secret. We’re meant to be elite. We don’t want to alert the wider world to our presence because the consequences would result in our downfall. We have power, prestige, money too, because we exist in the shadows. If we announce ourselves, all of that goes.

“Scott Miller.” He calls out, and a soldier steps forward. Marching to the front, before saluting to receive his papers.

I wait my turn. It doesn’t take long. And then I’m marching up, receiving my own orders.

As I turn to leave, I can feel it, all those eyes on me. Yeah, they can look their fill, they can stare all they want. None of them are a match for me, for us, for the Blakes.

I stalk over to where my brother is stood, and he beckons me further away. Conrad is no doubt fucking around somewhere because only Magnus was granted the honour of an invite.

He snatches the papers out of my hand, then scans the contents.

“This has to be a joke,” He mutters.

“It’s not.” I reply.

We haven’t seen each other in three months. He doesn’t even ask how I am, how the training went, not that I expected a cuddle or anything. Neither of us hold such weak notions as sentimentality.

He scans his eyes over me, that same look of derision apparent on his face. “You’re a Reaper,” he states. “That’s your role, that’s how you, me, the Blakes serve.”

“Apparently, our Chapter Lord thinks otherwise,” I say. I can hardly be a Reaper when I’ve been picked as part of Gunther’s personal guard.

He narrows his eyes, and I wonder for a second if he might just lose his shit entirely. That that cool, calculated demeanour might crack.

“We’ll speak to the Senate…”

“No,” I growl, cutting across him, like fuck I’ll let that happen. I’m not some schoolboy they can all pass around, can make decisions for. “It’s an honour. This position is an honour. I want to serve. And besides, you and Conrad are more than capable of doing all the reaping you like without me.”

He shakes his head, muttering something about how ‘that old fucker playing games again’ and I can tell he’s not convinced.

There’s a voice in my head that says this deployment might actually be a good thing.

A chance for me to get away from them both, Magnus and Conrad.

I can create a name for myself, can have some damned breathing space – and maybe, just maybe, that’s what Magnus fears.

He’s never been able to control me the way he wants, the way he can Conrad.

These orders will place me even further from his grasp.

Will give me an independence he can’t fight.