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Rufe shivered, sitting on the floor in the corner of the hovel where he’d taken sanctuary the previous night, leg wound and smaller cuts aching, ankles bound, and hands still secured behind him.

If the wounds weren’t properly cleaned soon, the brigands wouldn’t have to kill him; he’d die of fever.

Had the outlaws killed the owners of this house?

The other villagers? What about Rufe made the brigands want to keep him alive?

His gaze fell on the sword lying on a low table across the room.

The sword! A gift from Dray, also known as Prince Draylon Aravaid, second son of Emperor Soland Aravaid, imprinted with the imperial seal.

To these men, from a kingdom long ago cut off from the empire, all Cormirans likely looked the same.

Did they mistake Rufe for Draylon, a known great fighter with dark hair and eyes, because of the nobleman's sword he carried?

They would likely kill him in a fit of anger when they realized their mistake, but maybe the wait would allow Rufe time to plan an escape.

He had to live. See his mother, father, and brother again. Had to see Draylon again. Was the horrid pressure in his chest, the churning of his guts, despair?

The men who’d accosted him stood outside around a campfire, drinking, perhaps twenty or twenty-five in all.

From the number of glass bottles, they must’ve raided the tavern before they’d burned the wooden structure to the ground.

The scent of roasted meat made Rufe’s stomach growl in protest. He’d not eaten since the few bites from the discarded saddlebags.

The sun would soon set, and thirst battled with hunger for priority in his mind.

If they planned to keep him alive, they’d give him food and water, wouldn’t they? Of course, they weren’t very smart. Why burn the town, sending villagers running, drawing attention to themselves, and depriving themselves of a warm, comfortable place to stay?

One man staggered into the ruined hovel, laughing when he saw Rufe.

He sauntered closer, wobbling on his feet.

The stench of his unwashed body assaulted Rufe's senses long before the man reached his corner.

The asshole grinned, showing several missing teeth.

He dropped to his knees, fumbling with his belt .

Oh, Goddess, no! So Rufe was to be abused, after all. The man opened his pants to reveal a rather small cock, but fully erect. Even a small one could do damage. The man wove his fingers into Rufe’s hair, pulling cruelly. He hissed something Rufe couldn’t understand and pulled again.

Would help come if Rufe cried out? What if the men planned to take turns with him, and this was only the first? He’d heard such horrific stories in the barracks. The man thrust, grinding his rancid cock against Rufe’s face.

Rufe screamed, drawing his legs up. He kicked with all his might to dislodge his attacker. The man slapped Rufe across the face, snapping Rufe’s head back. Oww! The impact with the wall would leave a lump on his already injured head.

Footsteps pounded into the house, and the leader shouted in anger. Rufe’s assailant suddenly flew backward. Sounds came of flesh hitting flesh, and the man screamed.

The leader—the only one Rufe noticed who appeared to speak Cormiran—kneeled, genuine concern in his eyes, wearing Rufe’s bearskin on his back as a prize. He lifted Rufe’s chin with surprisingly gentle fingers, turning his face right and left. “Are you hurt?” he murmured, his tones gentle.

Rufe shook his head. “You got here in time.”

The man let out a relieved-sounding sigh. “I apologize for one of my men attacking you.” He growled, raising his voice to be heard over punches and whimpers as his men continued the beating. “I promise it will not happen again. ”

Rufe noticed a tattoo on the man’s right wrist. His heart stuttered, and he couldn’t hide his shock. “You’re from the empire!”

The man shook his grizzled head, a bitter smile on his lips deepening the lines around his mouth, barely visible beneath a week’s worth of scruff.

He must have had some military training based on his stocky build and authority.

“I used to be Dragan, but not anymore, lad. Craician soldiers captured my family. We escaped, only to be marked and treated as traitors. Neighbors who’d once been kind grew cruel.

I came home one day to find my house burned to the ground with all my family.

The neighbors even boasted to each other about killing them, not knowing I survived. ”

Rufe had to ask, “What did you do?”

The man met Rufe’s gaze. “I found out who was responsible, killed them, then fled to Craice, which welcomes any trained soldiers with no love of the empire. I’ve served Craice ever since.

How sad when my family’s kidnappers were more merciful than my neighbors.

Name’s Lars, but I no longer use a family name.

I long ago lost the right to associate with my kin.

They’d be ashamed of the things I’ve done.

” The words sounded remorseful, but Lars didn’t turn away.

Rufe recognized the look of a man resigned to his fate. “You know the same might happen to me, right?”

Lars wrinkled his nose in distaste and spat, “Those barbarians still do that awful practice of marking anyone captured by an enemy as traitors?”

“I’m afraid so.” From now on, folks would spit at Rufe’s feet—if not in his face—the military would reject him, and few would hire him. He’d be an outcast, a bastard, and a possible traitor.

Lars asked, “Why? Once, a hundred seasons ago, one person returned, influenced by their captors, and slaughtered a noble. One person. And for that, they blame us all. But such a marking won’t happen to a highborn lad like yourself.

As soon as your father sends gold, you’ll return to your nice, safe life. ”

So, Lars did mistake Rufe for Draylon, the only thing keeping him alive.

The man who’d assaulted Rufe now lay sobbing on the floor, the others having dispersed, save for one who stood behind Lars. Lars snapped to the man in Craician, and he disappeared, returning with a few chunks of meat on a broken piece of crockery and a sloshing gourd.

Lars cut the ties on Rufe’s wrists, and Rufe shook his fingers, trying to work the circulation back into his hands.

They stung terribly. As soon as he could properly move his fingers, he grabbed the meat, shoving chunks into his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing.

He sniffed the gourd, which had no smell other than its own.

He lifted the gourd to his lips and drank deeply of stagnant water.

“I’ll leave you untied but guarded,” Lars said, cutting the bonds on Rufe’s legs. “If you try to escape, you won’t like the consequences.” The harshness of his gaze added to the threat.

“I’m too tired to do anything but sleep.

” If Rufe could manage to sleep with the cold penetrating his bones and the terror of what might come bouncing around in his skull.

He could be lying dead on the cold ground beside his captain, join his former comrades in death.

Would the God of War come for him if he died of cold or torture and not in battle?

Would the Unnamed Goddess come for him if the war god didn’t?

Oh sweet Goddess, protect me.

“Sleep, lad. You’ll need it.”

Surprisingly, Rufe did.

Rufe didn’t know what happened to the horses he and his company rode in on, they’d likely died in the fire, but he sat guarded under a tree, bearing witness to the brigands beating back buzzards and stripping the bodies of his fellow Cormiran soldiers.

Captain Anjoix, who’d led by example and whose wife would soon have their third child.

The young blond who’d tried to befriend Rufe.

Rufe could never be sure if someone wanted his friendship or ties to the emperor’s son, so he rebuffed the advances. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hard.

He turned away from the damage swords, carrion birds, and bloating had done to the bodies of men he’d known.

And wept.

What uniforms and armor the brigands could salvage, they did. Lars jerked a cloak off the ground and dropped the sodden wool over Rufe. No telling what happened to the previous owner. They were beyond caring, at any rate. “Can’t have you freezing to death.”

The other uniforms the men and a few women held against their bodies, passing clothing around for the best fits.

Oh, the damage these people could do, dressed as Cormiran soldiers.

They’d rounded up six frightened horses by afternoon, none a familiar black mare with four white socks.

Easily twice as many had to have died in the fire, confined to stalls in the stables with no way out.

Poor Rainfall, who’d also been a gift from Draylon.

The fire likely destroyed his packs, clothes, and other personal items in the stables.

He wouldn’t mourn the possessions, but he would mourn Rain. Poor, sweet-tempered beast.

That afternoon, Lars mounted one of the horses. Between himself and his men, he wrangled a bound Rufe in front of him on the saddle. “Can’t have you fighting me while we ride.” Some others rode double, having so few horses. Others walked.

They traveled west, away from Cormira, from all Rufe knew—toward Craice, an enemy of the empire.

Rufe didn’t know what to make of Lars, the ruthless leader of the remorseless killers, yet he occasionally showed Rufe some kindness.

Which all changed at sundown.

The men dismounted and put on what Cormiran uniforms they’d scavenged, the four with the most complete attire riding ahead of the others .

Snow drifted down from the sky, accumulating. They’d need to find shelter soon. Lars wrapped the bearskin around himself and Rufe, keeping Rufe warmer than he would’ve been on his own.