Page 25 of Horns of Wicked Ebony (Deathcaller Duet #2)

I nodded, the pride that should have bloomed dying like a bud caught in a late-spring frost. “I should probably be the one to tell Zurronar about…” I trailed off as darkness ignited in Rokath’s eyes.

The reminder of Izgath, who he’d burned on a pyre after we had been caught almost coupling, when my true identity had been revealed, when our mate bond had snapped into place, was clearly still a touchy subject with him.

“You were always mine,” he growled, the possessiveness in his tone heating my low belly.

“I know,” I reassured him. I didn’t have the energy to spar with him, nor was it an appropriate time when his emotions were stretched to their limits. “Now, I’ll always be yours. Promise.”

He leaned down and kissed me with a tenderness that surprised me. Instead of him claiming me, he merely let our lips linger together for a brief moment. “Let’s go.”

I slipped my hand into his as we emerged from our accommodation. It was these simple touches that grounded me the most—in knowing Rokath was here and our love wouldn’t leave me bereft of him.

He whistled for Grem and Zeec to follow. Clouds covered the skies, and a breeze rustled through the spaces between the temporary buildings around us. The sullen atmosphere perfectly matched my mood.

We passed into an open avenue a moment later, a sudden gust of wind whipping the pennant flags about. The sickly smell of burnt fabric and flesh hit my nostrils, and I jerked up the scarf to cover my nose.

Rokath halted, craning his neck in the direction of the Angel’s camp. “There’s still smoke. ”

“Well, I did use seed oil to start the fire,” I commented. “It’s extremely difficult to put out. Water usually isn’t enough.”

Rokath snorted and shook his head before continuing forward. “I should have known I wasn’t the only one capable of receiving your fire.”

“You really should have. I don’t know why you would have thought otherwise, honestly,” I quipped, some of the ache in my heart easing as our banter began.

“Perhaps I should teach you to channel it in other ways so I am not the sole target,” he replied, opening the entry to the command center and allowing me to pass.

“But it’s far more fun when you are,” I pouted, then broke into a grin.

Rokath rolled his eyes and steered me past the throne of bones and into the map room. Trol was there, along with a few other officers.

“Halálhívó.” He closed his fist and brought it to his forehead before saluting Rokath. The others did the same. Then, they all dipped their heads to me. Clearly, our successful mission had garnered me some additional favor with them.

“Find Banand and Zurronar and tell them their presence is required here,” Rokath told one of the Parancsok.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, then dipped out of the tent.

“The rest of you are dismissed.” They quickly gathered their belongings and departed, leaving us behind with Trol.

“I checked on Rapp earlier. He’s still sleeping,” Trol said before Rokath or I could voice the question.

At least he wasn’t still dying. Sleeping was a good sign.

I hope.

“Thank you,” Rokath murmured, sinking into one of the chairs. I found another and dragged it beside him. Since we were inside, I slipped the scarf off my head and plopped it on the table in front of me .

Rokath flicked a corner of it out of his way as he studied the map.

Then, with a grumble, he raked a hand over his scalp and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Trol, I hate to ask this of you, but I think Rapp will need to return to Fured with us to recover. Do you feel capable of holding here until we return with reinforcements?”

“Whatever you need, Halálhívó,” he swore. “I know your friendship with Rapp runs deep.”

Rokath picked his head up and met the gaze of his Hadvezér. I remained a silent bystander in their exchange, watching with rapt fascination at the changes in Rokath. “Do not think I don’t value you too, Trol. I picked you from the academy for a reason.”

Like us, Trol had burgundy eyes. His hair was cropped close to his head, and he always wore tight fitting leather armor that left his arms bare.

Unlike Rapp and Rokath, no ink decorated his skin.

I’d only had a few brief interactions with him, and I realized I didn’t know what rare magic he possessed.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your power?” I blurted out, unable to smother my interest.

Trol turned his attention to me, though not with the same gruffness he showed the soldiers.

A hint of a smile rose to his lips. “I am a Rifter. Basically, if you combine the best parts of Destructors and Nightmares, that is what I do. I create slashes in the air or on the ground that seem so real that the Angels avoid them. There are consequences of them falling into them, of course.”

My brows rose up my forehead, curiosity piqued. “Like what?”

“They’re razor sharp. So essentially they are shredded to pieces if they fall in completely. Should they brush against the edge, it’s like being sliced by a sword.”

“Wow,” I responded. His power was unlike anything I’d ever heard of—which was similar to all those with burgundy eyes. “So that’s how you were able to force them back so far?”

He nodded. “Though, the larger the rift, the less time I am able to hold it. I have to plan carefully where to deploy one and when with each battle.”

“Which is exactly why you are invaluable, Trol. After this, you deserve a break yourself. You’ve been out here far too long without reprieve,” Rokath added.

Trol waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll get one when I get one. What matters most is that the soldiers who have been out here the longest have breaks for themselves. They fight far more than I do.”

A breeze lifted a few strands of my hair as two more people entered the command center, ending our conversation. “Halálhívó,” Banand and Zurronar greeted Rokath first, then Trol. Finally, both their attention landed firmly on me. “Szélhámos.”

The honorific sent goosebumps skittering across my skin. To be recognized for my power…well, it wasn’t something I’d ever dreamed of happening.

“Sit,” Rokath commanded, and they both did.

Turning to me, he asked, “Do you know how to write?”

A scoff slipped out before I could stop it. “Of course I know how to write. My mother taught me.”

“Did you know that writing for females was forbidden a century ago, save for the priestesses so they could communicate?” Rokath spoke into my mind.

My stomach plummeted. That explained why we never learned it in school.

My mother had always insisted our handwriting had to be extremely elegant.

She’d told us that we were never to show it to anyone unless we wanted our style stolen.

The other girls in the village would have copied me for sure, which was my young mind’s logic as to why I never spoke of it.

I’d never thought more of it .

“Well, it’s a good thing I did since we’re changing society, ” I quipped.

“Aye,” Rokath rumbled back. He fetched parchment and ink, handing both to me. I arranged them neatly in front of me, waiting for whatever he wanted me to do.

He turned to the two males I’d rescued. “Assyria will take notes on your debriefing. Let’s start with the most important pieces of information you managed to overhear.”

Banand and Zurronar—looking far healthier than he had when we’d rescued him—went back and forth listing out what they’d heard, sometimes pausing to discuss the exact meaning since much had been in Angelic.

Rokath would ask them to repeat the phrase if they could remember it, and then have me correct whatever I’d written.

Trol jumped in intermittently, asking for clarification.

Apparently, nearly a year of captivity was a long time to gather intel. I shook my hand out on more than one occasion, muscles cramping from how much I wrote.

Once they’d offered all they could, Rokath switched topics to the Angel’s treatment of them. As they recounted their torture, my stomach twisted. Salt burned my eyes as both remained stoic and strong despite the obvious pain they’d endured. Much like me, they’d have deep, invisible scars.

I didn’t write a single word down; instead, I sat in solidarity with them, a witness to their suffering.

When they finished, I cleared my throat and held Zurronar’s gaze. The resemblance to Izgath was uncanny, though their eye color was not the same. They sported the same trim build, and while Zurronar’s hair was still a mess, the style was reminiscent of his brother’s clipped sides and top knot.

“I have some news about your brother,” I began, voice wavering.

Rokath stiffened beside me, our bond tightening.

But then, he exhaled, chest deflating, and reached for my leg under the table.

He gave it a light squeeze, leaving his hand there.

Warmth bloomed in my heart at the supportive gesture.

That he fought for control with himself to aid me in this difficult conversation spoke volumes.

“Which one?” Zurronar asked. Both of his brothers were in the army, though I assumed the other still lived. I wasn’t sure of his name or which unit he was in.

“Izgath.” I swallowed roughly.

How am I supposed to tell him his sibling died because of me?

I twisted my mother’s ring around my finger, trying to decide where to begin.

“I first met him when he came to conscript in Stryi. You’ve seen my magic, so you know I can become anyone.

I snuck into the army, and eventually, he discovered my true identity.

When we returned to Uzhhorod to join the rest of the soldiers…

” I trailed off, trying to find the right words.