Page 62 of Flameborne: Fury (Emberquell Academy #2)
~ YILAN (Yee-LAHN) ~
If there was one thing that could be said for the Nephilim it was that they cut disgustingly fine masculine figures.
Shoulders broader than bhoars, thighs like tree trunks, biceps that could crush weynuts.
And if the size of their armor sheaths weren’t optimistic , cocks that could compete with the trunk of a—
I sank deeper into the shadow between the extravagantly carved armoire and the canvas wall as two royal soldiers marched into the massive King’s tent, hurriedly kneeling and clasping fists over their chests and bowing their heads.
“Sire, the General has returned and pleads for an immediate audience.”
I inhaled sharply. Melek was here? Finally!
At the messenger’s words, the King grunted, looking up from where he’d been pinching the ass of a nervous slave.
This disgusting pig of a sovereign appeared fit, strong, and relatively young, though I knew the angelic blood running in Nephilim veins kept their bodies from aging normally.
Yet, despite his apparent vigor, he spent most of his days sprawled in the furs while his people fought and bled.
Today alone I had already been forced to listen to his bestial howls as he inexpertly pumped his seed into one of his human vessels.
Twice.
Please, God, let the General distract the King. I cannot bear another round of hide-the-royal-scepter.
“Send him in,” the King muttered as he let go of the slave who scuttled away.
In the moments that the guards leaned out of the tent to call the General, the King’s heavy brows pinched down over his nose in an expression that, admittedly, set off his rugged features beautifully, and made his golden eyes shine out from the gloom, as if tiny suns existed within the shadows there.
Then the tent flap twitched aside, and suddenly he was there.
General Melek Handras.
He must have come straight from the battlefield, half a day’s travel away.
He was huge—forced to duck his head to enter the tent through the flap they called a door.
When he straightened inside I instinctively drew back.
The only male bigger was the King himself, and that pig didn’t cut nearly as impressive a figure.
The famed General Melek seemed to be carved from rippling steel that had been refined in the fiery furnace of war until every impurity had been burned away.
His hair was short on the sides with strange patterns shaved in, but the warrior’s length—a thick chunk of hair that a Neph soldier left uncut from the day of his first kill in battle—flowed from a leather tie at the back of his skull, rippling behind him as he strode into the tent because he had made his first kill decades earlier.
Though he looked much younger thanks to that angelic blood, Melek Handras was at least forty in human years.
As he started towards the King, every male in the tent shrank a bit.
I drank in the sight and my heart beat faster.
I’d been waiting for this man. Targeting him for weeks. Wondering if somehow I had missed him in my constant traverse through the shadows of this camp. But no. There would be no mistaking anyone else for this creature. Melek Handras didn’t just walk into a space… he possessed it.
As Melek debased himself, folded his massive body to take a knee before the King, my mouth went dry.
He was stripped to the waist except for the empty weapon straps crossing his massive chest. He had removed his weapons to stand before his ruler and I grieved the loss.
I’d longed to see the gleam of his famed twin spears rising behind him.
The legends claimed he’d had those lances smithed entirely from metal, each of a single piece, in an effort to stop losing spear heads in the ribs of his enemies.
It was also claimed he notched the handles for every kill, and that his kills were so numerous those nicks offered the traction needed for his grip on such a slick surface.
Melek was the reason I was here. He was quite possibly the most daring and desirable man alive.
Pity I had to kill him.
The King, being the petty, juvenile creature that he was, didn’t immediately call the General to his feet.
Every face in the room was bowed in obeisance to their idiotic King, so I could indulge myself by leaning slightly closer, drinking in the sight of the soldier who had single-handedly conquered every land between mine and the Eastern coast.
And drink him in, I did. Like a fine wine.
That wide, square jaw that twitched when he clenched his teeth.
Full lips that would be stunning when pulled into a smile—provided he hadn’t lost teeth.
High cheekbones emphasizing those stunning eyes, which were shadowed by brows that were rugged and heavy, but lacking the thickness of mental-density so apparent in the man he served.
“Rise,” the King muttered finally, sitting up to swing his legs off the lounge and facing the man who truly led his people.
Did the King know his own imposing form was little more than a statue to his own pride? That everyone knew his accomplishments were attained by another man? Or was he so stupid that he believed his own bard-songs?
“Speak.”
The General’s lips tightened and he smacked his glistening, dirty chest with that fist in a warrior’s salute that made my eyes roll. If I could, I would have hissed in his ear that his King did not deserve the honor of those who lived to fall.
“There is evidence that the Fetch have finally chosen to join us,” Melek said without preamble, biting off the word that simultaneously made me smile and my upper lip curl back from my teeth.
The Fetch we had been named by those who feared us, in an attempt to diminish the shadow we cast over their cowardly hearts.
So, Fetch we had become. Let any man tremble when they sensed our presence. But Melek didn’t tremble. He seethed.
“Reports of theft in the battle ranks have tripled, with similar accounts here in camp,” he muttered. “Two of our strategists have disappeared without a trace. And a dozen animals have been poisoned—while in guarded pens.”
I mentally applauded my brothers. The assassinations were strategic, but the rest merely a way to fuck with the Neph.
The King’s upper lip curled back. “Find them.”
Every man in the room went still, watching Melek, waiting for him to answer that ridiculous order. I had to bite my lip to stifle a laugh.
Find them, he said. Like we were mushrooms in the dark, just waiting to be plucked.
I eyed Melek, slowly tilting my head to see him more clearly.
How would he deal with his infantile and uninformed King?
“Sire, we watch for them, of course,” Melek said carefully. “But… as you know, the Fetch are… difficult to pin down.”
I very nearly snorted at the understatement—delivered in a tone as dry as the Raven Desert itself.
“So set traps. We have hunters. Let them hunt.”
Every man in the room shifted his weight or eyed his neighbor at the King’s thickheaded ignorance.
And they claimed this man carried the blood of the divine?
“Again, Sire, we search for them, of course. But they are… very skilled. And we cannot risk them informing our enemies of our plans. I ask your permission to call the hounds.”
My skin prickled at that. The Nephilim hounds were notorious—creatures of the dark who’d been blood-magiked, a hybrid monstrosity melding wolves and falcons.
They were believed to walk in the physical world but see into the next realm, thus no skill of silence or obscurity could deter them.
They followed the scent of one’s soul. Not just to identify the soul’s owner, but to devour it.
At least, that was what was whispered in the dark among the Nephilim’s enemies.
Soulless creatures that they were, they yearned for the connection to the divine that a soul offered, and hence were as likely to devour anyone in their path in possession of one as the enemy they’d been set to find.
I’d never seen one and had desperately hoped they were a myth, a rumor started by the Nephilim themselves to create unease in their enemies and discourage thieves.
Nervous, I caught myself shifting my weight uneasily and tugged the hem of my tunic closer to my thigh so it wouldn’t find the light.
The King grunted. “The last time we loosed the hounds I lost three girls before they were leashed again.”
Melek’s full lips pressed thin as he nodded.
“It is a risk; however, I believe we were cocky in our attempts last time. With the right instructions to the handlers, I believe we could keep our own humans safe.” Then Melek lifted his gaze to lock eyes with his King, and once again my breathing shallowed.
The man was stunning. Yet, something was wrong.
When a fallen angel mated a human woman, their children were born massive, and regardless of hair or skin color, their eyes were always a deep, pure gold that glowed like sunlight. All the Nephilim had those incredible eyes.
But because the Nephilim were always born male, their only recourse for reproduction was to mate another human woman—usually violently. That meant that each subsequent offspring in a line had less and less angelic blood running in his veins.
While their royal lines always possessed eyes of gold, the servants and lowborn of their people—furthest from the fallen angels—had eyes of deep emerald, with every shade between represented in the ranks of their society.
Until, many branches down the family tree, the children were merely human with eyes of any normal color and none of the Nephilim’s size or power.
I had always been taught that only the golden-eyed among the Nephilim were allowed to carry significant rank.
Yet, to my shock, Melek’s eyes were a startling, bright glow that was more green than gold.
By every legend, those eyes should mean he was mostly human and lacking in the supernatural size and strength for which their kind were so feared. Though clearly that was not the case.