Page 139 of Morning Star (Red Rising Saga 3)

“You’re still beautiful.” He pulls her down gently by her chin and kisses her lips delicately. He doesn’t care for her. Like Mustang said, we’re just sacks of meat to him. But while Antonia’s as wicked a thing as I’ve ever met, she wants to be loved. To be valued. The Jackal knows how to use that.

“This was Barca’s,” Antonia says, handing the Jackal Sevro’s pistol. The Jackal runs a thumb over the howling wolves engraved in the hilt.

“Fine work,” he says. He strips his own gun from his magnetic holster and tosses it to a bodyguard before holstering Sevro’s. Of course he takes my friend’s pistol as a trophy.

His datapad flashes and he holds up a hand for silence. “Yes, Imperator?”

The grotesque Ash Lord appears in the air before the Jackal as a disembodied, gigantic head. Dark Gold eyes peer out from beneath twin thickets of eyebrows. His jowls hang over the high black collar of his uniform. “Augustus, the enemy is under way. TorchShips in front.”

“They’re coming for him,” Cassius says.

“How many?” the Jackal asks.

“More than sixty. Half bearing the red fox.”

“Do you wish me to spring the trap?”

“Not yet. I will assume command of your ships.”

“You know the arrangement.”

The Ash Lord’s wide mouth makes a straight line. “I do. You are to continue to join the Sovereign as planned. Escort the Morning Knight and his package to the Citadel. My daughter will take custody of him there. Go now, for Gold.”

“For Gold.”

The head disappears.

The Jackal glances over to the Obsidians who pulled me down the cargo ramp. “Slaves, attend to Praetor Licenus on the bridge. You are no longer needed.” The Obsidians leave without question. When they are gone, he eyes the thirty Boneriders. “The Morning Knight has given us an opportunity to win this war today. The Telemanuses will come for my sister. The Howlers and the Sons of Ares will come for the Reaper. They will not have them. It is upon our shoulders to deliver them to our Sovereign and her strategists in the Citadel.”

He addresses Antonia and Cassius. “Set aside your little grievances. Today we are Gold. We can bicker when the Rising is ash. Most of you lived the darkness of the caves with me. You watched by my side as this…creature stole what was ours. They will take everything from us. Our homes. Our slaves. Our right to rule. Today we fight to keep what is ours. Today we fight against the dying of our Age.”

They lean into his words, awaiting his orders hungrily. It’s terrifying to see the cult he’s built around himself. He’s taken bits of me, of my speaking pattern, and transposed it onto his own behavior. He continues to evolve.

The Jackal turns from his men as Lilath brings back my slingBlade, red-hot from engine’s heat, and hands it to him hilt first. “Lilath, you’re to stay with the fleet.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’re my insurance plan.”

“Yes, my liege.”

Antonia’s not sure what they’re talking about, and she doesn’t like it one bit. The Jackal twirls my razor in his hand. And then looking between me and Mustang’s he’s struck by a thought. “How long were you imprisoned by Darrow, Cassius?”

“Four months.”

“Four months. Then I believe you should do the honors.” He flips the red-hot razor to Cassius, who smoothly catches it by its hilt. “Cut off Darrow’s hand.”

“The Sovereign wants him…”

“Alive, yes. And he will be. But she doesn’t want him coming in to her bunker with his sword arm attached to his body, now does she? We’re to take all his weapons. Neuter the beast and let’s be on our way. Unless…there’s a problem?”

“No problem,” Cassius says. Stepping forward, he lifts high the razor, metal throbbing with heat.

“Is this what you’ve become?” Mustang asks. Cassius suffers her gaze, shame on his face. “Look at me, Darrow,” Mustang says. “Look at me.”

I will myself to forget the blade. To watch her, taking strength from her. But as the superheated metal cleaves through the skin and bone of my right wrist, I forget her. I scream in pain, looking back where my hand was to see a stump lazily dripping blood through charred capillaries. Smoke from my burning flesh slithers into the air. And through the agony I can see the Jackal picking my hand up from the ground and holding it in the air. His newest trophy.

“Hic sunt leones,” he says.