Page 1 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)
T he practice sword felt heavier than it should have in my hands. Every movement was precise, controlled, deadly—but empty. I went through the forms Marcus had drilled into me years ago in the ludus, muscle memory guiding blade and body while my mind drifted to darker places.
Thrust. Parry. Riposte. Turn.
The training yard was empty at this hour before dawn, just as I preferred it.
The other dragon riders would be sleeping still, dreaming of glory and conquest. They didn't wake screaming from nightmares of Octavia's face disappearing into flames, didn't spend their nights staring at the ceiling and wondering if the empty ache in their chest would ever heal.
Block high. Counter-attack. Spin.
A month. It had been a month since the Storm Festival bombing, since I'd watched my dearest friend vanish in an explosion of stone and fire.
A month since Septimus and Tarshi had simply.
.. disappeared. The official records listed them among the missing, presumed dead.
The unofficial whispers around the academy suggested they'd been resistance fighters who'd died in their own bombing.
I brought the practice sword down in a vicious overhead strike that would have cleaved a man from crown to groin. The wooden training dummy absorbed the blow with a hollow thud, sawdust leaking from the fresh gash.
They were all wrong, of course. Septimus and Tarshi hadn't been resistance fighters—not the way these people meant. They'd been manipulated, used, betrayed by a man we'd all trusted. But explaining that would mean revealing my own connections to the resistance, my own lies about who I truly was.
So I let them whisper. Let them think what they wanted. It was safer that way.
Diagonal cut. Backstep. Thrust.
"You're up early."
I spun toward the voice, sword raised defensively before I recognized the speaker.
Marcus stood at the edge of the training yard, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the slowly lightening sky.
He wore the simple brown tunic and trousers of a servant, his hair tousled as if he'd just rolled out of bed.
"Couldn't sleep," I said, lowering the weapon. It was the truth, though not the whole truth. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant seeing Octavia's face, hearing her laughter, watching her die over and over again.
Marcus moved closer, his eyes taking in the gouges I'd carved into the training dummy, the sweat soaking through my practice tunic despite the cool morning air. "Another nightmare?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Marcus had been having them too—I could see it in the shadows under his eyes, the way his hands sometimes trembled when he thought no one was looking.
We'd all lost people in the bombing, but Octavia.
.. Octavia had been special. She'd been the heart of our little family, the gentle soul who'd kept us grounded when the world tried to tear us apart.
"Want to talk about it?" Marcus asked, settling onto a stone bench at the edge of the yard.
"What's to talk about?" I drove the practice sword point-first into the packed earth and left it there, quivering. "She's dead. They're all dead. And we're still here."
"Guilt doesn't suit you, Livia."
I turned to face him, anger flaring. "Guilt? You think this is about guilt?"
"Isn't it?" His voice was gentle, understanding, which only made the fury burn hotter. "You think you should have saved her. Should have somehow prevented what happened."
"I should have," I snapped. "I knew something was wrong. Jalend warned me to stay away from the festival, but I went anyway. I brought her with me. If I'd listened—"
"Then Octavia would still be dead," Marcus interrupted, rising from the bench to face me. "And probably that little girl too. The one you and Jalend pulled from the rubble."
"Miri," I whispered. The child's name was carved into my memory alongside all the other details from that terrible day. "Her name was Miri."
"Miri lived because you were there. Because Octavia was there. Because you both chose to help rather than run." Marcus stepped closer, his hands finding my shoulders. "Octavia died saving people, Livia. She died being exactly who she chose to be."
The words hit harder than any physical blow.
I felt my carefully constructed walls crack, grief threatening to pour through the fissures.
I'd been holding it back for weeks, focusing on routine and training and the million small tasks that kept me functional.
But standing here in the pre-dawn light with Marcus's hands warm on my shoulders, I felt the dam beginning to crumble.
"I miss her," I whispered, the admission torn from some broken place inside me. "Gods, Marcus, I miss her so much."
"I know." His arms came around me, pulling me against his chest. I breathed in his familiar scent—leather and soap and something indefinably masculine that had always made me feel safe. "I miss her too."
For a long moment we just stood there, holding each other in the growing light.
I let myself be weak, let myself grieve for the friend who'd been stolen from us, for the future we'd planned that would never come to pass.
Marcus's hand stroked my hair, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of my emotions.
“Am I interrupting?”
I looked up to see Antonius approaching. I pulled away from Marcus, wiping at my eyes with the back of a hand that was still shaking slightly.
“No, of course you’re not. Any news?” I asked, forcing my voice to steady. Antonius had been our eyes and ears in the city, using his connections among the merchants and labourers to gather information the palace wouldn't release.
He shook his massive head, his expression grim.
“More of the same. The city guard is everywhere, rounding up anyone with Talfen features. They’re calling it a security sweep, but we know what it is.
A purge.” The word hung in the cool air, ugly and sharp.
“Anyone with even a hint of Talfen blood is being rounded up, imprisoned. Some are just... disappearing."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Disappearing?"
"Gangs roam the streets at night," Antonius said, his deep voice heavy with disgust. "They call themselves 'purifiers.' They hunt anyone who looks different—pointed ears, unusual eye colour, skin that's too dark or too pale. The city guard does nothing to stop them."
I felt sick. "How many?"
"Hundreds, maybe thousands," Marcus replied. "Families torn apart. Children taken from their parents. All in the name of 'protecting' the Empire from future attacks."
The rage that had been simmering beneath my grief flared to life, white-hot and consuming.
This was what my failure had wrought—not just the deaths in the square, but a reign of terror that painted the streets with innocent blood.
Every Talfen dragged from their home, every child orphaned by vigilante violence, every life destroyed in the name of the Emperor's lies.
.. it all traced back to that terrible day when I'd failed to stop Kalen's manipulation.
"The resistance," I managed to ask through clenched teeth. "What's left of it?"
"Scattered. Broken. Those who weren't killed in the bombing are either in hiding or dead." Marcus's hand found my shoulder again, anchoring me. "Mira's gone. No one's seen her since that day. Most assume she died in the square."
Gone. Like Septimus and Tarshi, like Octavia, like so many others. The city was bleeding, and I was trapped here playing at being a noble while the Emperor carved his hatred into the flesh of innocents.
"I should be out there," I said, the words coming out in a growl. "Fighting. Protecting them."
"And do what?" Marcus asked gently. "Get yourself killed? Expose your identity?”
“I'm useless here, Marcus. Worse than useless—I'm complicit."
"You're surviving," Antonius said quietly. "And sometimes that's the most rebellious thing you can do."
I wanted to argue, wanted to rage at them both for their calm acceptance of an intolerable situation. But the fight went out of me as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind only the hollow ache that had become my constant companion.
"They're still alive," I whispered, the words torn from some desperate place inside me. "Septimus and Tarshi. I know everyone says they're dead, but I can feel it. They're out there somewhere."
Marcus and Antonius exchanged a look I couldn't interpret. There was no judgment in it, no pity, but there was something that looked like gentle concern.
“I have this.”
Antonius held out a folded piece of coarse paper.
“Another notice from the city guard. Posted less than an hour ago.” My stomach twisted into a cold knot.
A list. It had to be another list of the identified dead.
My hand wouldn’t move to take it. It was Marcus who reached out, his fingers sure as he accepted the paper and unfolded it.
His eyes scanned the columns of names, his jaw tightening.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken dread, punctuated only by the distant sound of the city waking up.
“They’re not on it,” Marcus said finally, the words rough with a mixture of relief and frustration. “Neither of them.” The breath I’d been holding escaped in a rush, leaving me dizzy. Still missing. Not confirmed. It was a sliver of hope so thin it felt like a razor’s edge.
“It doesn’t mean they’re alive,” Antonius rumbled, ever the pragmatist. “Just that no one has put a name to their bodies.”
“Don’t,” I snapped, turning on him. “Don’t you dare take that away.” He held my gaze, his own dark eyes filled not with malice, but with a deep, aching pity that I hated. “Hope is all we have left. And I’m not letting it go. I know they're alive. I can feel it in my bones."