Page 26 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)
His eyes swept across our ranks, and when they found mine, I felt pinned like an insect on a board. "You are the sword of civilization," he said. "You are the shield that protects the innocent. Let no false sentiment stay your hand when the moment comes to strike."
Cassius’s voice rose, filled with righteous fury. “We will answer their savagery with Imperial steel! We will march north and burn their demonic corruption from the very soil they infest! For the glory of the Empire!”
A roar of approval erupted from the ranks, a single, terrifying sound of unified voices baying for blood.
The sound washed over me, a physical wave of hatred, and I felt sick.
The speech ended to thunderous applause, but I found my hands frozen at my sides. Around me, my fellow recruits cheered and shouted their approval, their faces bright with fervour. But all I could think about was the word "false" in front of "sentiment."
As if compassion was something to be ashamed of. As if mercy was a flaw to be overcome.
Then Legate Cassius raised his hand for silence, and a different kind of tension rippled through the ranks.
"Before we march," he announced, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard, "His Imperial Majesty has seen fit to recognize exceptional leadership among our recruits.
By Imperial decree, Jalend of Thessia is hereby promoted to Wing Commander and will lead the Fourth Dragon Wing in the coming campaign. "
A collective intake of breath swept through the formation. Wing Commander—it was an extraordinary promotion for someone barely out of training. I felt my heart skip as murmurs of surprise and, in some cases, resentment rippled through the ranks behind me.
Then, a new figure stepped onto the platform, and the breath caught in my throat.
Jalend. He wore the gleaming silver armour of a Wing Commander, his dark hair stark against the polished metal.
He moved with a stiff, unnatural grace, his face a pale, emotionless mask.
He took his place beside Cassius, a beautiful, terrible stranger, about to lead an army to slaughter an entire people.
My heart felt like it had been ripped from my chest. This was impossible.
He couldn't be here. He couldn't be leading this. I searched his face for the man I knew. Looking closer, I could see that he looked pale, his face a mask of stone, his eyes hollowed out as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. He looked like a ghost.
He stepped to the front of the platform, the very image of Imperial authority, and the drums fell silent.
He scanned the sea of faces, his gaze empty, and for a terrifying moment, I thought his eyes met mine. There was no recognition, only a deep, chilling despair that made my heart ache.
“Forward,” he commanded, his voice flat and dead. “For the Empire.”
The drums thundered, a deafening beat that drowned out all thought.
The legion began to move as one, a great beast of steel and leather stirring to life.
Trapped in its belly, I had no choice but to urge Sirrax forward, my eyes fixed on the rigid line of Jalend’s back as he led us toward a war built on lies, my heart breaking with every step.
The formations began to move, and I moved with them, my body following orders while my mind reeled.
The great bronze gates of the Academy groaned open, and we spilled out onto the wide, stone-paved avenue.
The roar of the crowd hit us like a physical blow.
They lined the streets, packed onto balconies, their faces upturned and shining with a terrifying, fervent adoration.
They threw flowers that crushed under Sirrax’s claws, their petals staining the stones like drops of blood.
They cheered for us. For the soldiers marching to slaughter innocents.
For the beautiful, hollow-eyed man at the head of the column.
The dragons would parade through the city, a spectacle of power and intimidation for the citizens of the capital.
Citizens lined the streets, throwing flowers and cheering, their faces shining with pride and hope.
The cheers of the crowd were a dull roar in my ears, a meaningless noise against the frantic pounding of my own heart. I saw faces alight with patriotic fervour, others pale with fear. They were cheering for a lie, celebrating a genocide, and I was part of the pageantry.
Children darted between the ranks, pressing small gifts into soldiers' hands—dried flowers, lucky stones, hastily scrawled prayers to the gods. An old woman pressed a small loaf of bread into my palm, her weathered face creased with worry and love.
"Bring our boys home safe," she whispered, and I nodded because I couldn't trust my voice to answer.
I caught sight of a little girl on her father's shoulders, her small face contorted with fury as she screamed, "Kill the demons!" I felt Sirrax shudder beneath me, a low growl of disgust rumbling in his chest. They are blind , he sent, his thought a sharp shard of ice in my mind.
The city gates loomed ahead, massive and ancient, carved with scenes of past victories. As we passed beneath them, I felt the weight of history pressing down on me. How many armies had marched through these gates? How many had returned?
Sirrax moved with a fluid grace, an obsidian god of war, but I could feel the tension in the muscles beneath me, the tightly coiled power he held in check. My eyes were fixed on the man riding at the head of the column.
Jalend did not look at them. He rode with his back ramrod straight, his gaze fixed on some distant point only he could see. He was a statue carved from grief, a perfect, beautiful lie leading us to damnation.
He was a stranger. The man who had touched me with such desperate tenderness, who had whispered my name in the dark, was gone.
In his place was this cold effigy of imperial command, leading us to commit mass murder.
The betrayal was a physical thing, a blade twisting in my gut.
He knew. He knew the Talfen weren't demons.
He knew the Emperor was a monster. And still, he was doing this.
He had chosen the Empire. The love I felt for him warred with a new, rising horror.
What had they done to him? What had broken the man I knew and left this empty shell in his place?
He suffers , Sirrax’s thought was a low growl in my mind. This is cage for him, as for us.
The thought offered no comfort, only a deeper twist of the knife.
We were all trapped in the gears of the Emperor’s war machine, grinding forward toward an unimaginable horror.
As we passed through the city’s northern gate, leaving the familiar stone walls behind, the drums beat a steady, relentless rhythm.
It was a funeral dirge for the people we were marching to destroy, and for the man I was afraid I had already lost.
As we passed under the final triumphal arch and onto the northern road, a single red petal, thrown from the crowd, landed on his silver shoulder guard. He didn't brush it away. He didn't even seem to notice it. He just kept riding, a hollow man leading a hollow army toward an unforgivable sin.