Page 11 of The Curse of Gods (The Curse of Saints #3)

Aya knew Sitya had never been a grand city.

Its proximity to Kakos had all but ensured that.

But it had carved out a space for itself nonetheless as a stalwart of the Midlands coastline, equal parts citadel and trade center.

And while she had never visited the southern port, she had memorized its depiction in the maps that lined Gianna’s formal meeting chambers—a necessity when leveraging a network of marks and spies.

There were no palaces where upper merchants pretended to be kings, no booming tourist center that drew in those desperate for distraction and coin.

No, Sitya’s renown came from one thing: a large Zeluus-fortified wall that curved around the base of the city and jutted into the sea, its entrance just wide enough for two ships to pass through.

The Gateway of the Anath, they called it.

A gateway now blown open, leaving Sitya ready for ruin. And ruin Kakos had.

Aya stared at where that wall had once stood, the only remaining evidence of its existence the crumbled bits that lay near the base of the city.

Even from this distance, she could see the damage to the trade depot that stood on the left side of the harbor.

Large sections were missing, as if a god’s hand had gouged out the cement walls.

Beyond it, where the city stretched into the hills, terra-cotta-roofed homes were smudged black and brown, burned or destroyed entirely, creating haunting gaps in a once crowded hillside.

It seemed the only part of Sitya that Kakos had spared was the fortress.

It sat proudly on the right side of the port, its stone walls untouched except for the banners hanging from its battlements, a crescent moon turned and resting on its two points etched in silver, glinting against the deep navy fabric.

The mark of the Decachiré, the forbidden dark-affinity practice that had mortals reaching for godlike power, was now Kakos’s sigil.

Aya shifted against the thick rope around her wrists, the material chafing against already raw skin. She eyed the lip of the skiff.

It was too far for her to jump. Even if she could overpower Andras in her weakened state, she wouldn’t make it into the water before Evie had her back in her clutches.

So instead, she looked toward the battlements, where she could see a line of guards standing sentry, monitoring the harbor.

Please gods, let them kill us.

She pressed her thumb hard against the scar on the inside of her palm. Will would forgive her for this, she thought. He would understand that death was better than whatever else awaited them on shore.

Knowing it did nothing to lessen the ache in her heart.

Please gods, let them kill us.

She kept up that silent, steady prayer as they sailed into the port, their white flag a beacon against the darkening sky.

She wasn’t sure why she bothered; she didn’t expect the gods to listen.

Even still…it seemed especially cruel that for all of Kakos’s sins, ignoring a clear sign of surrender was not one of them.

But even as their skiff docked in the port and two guards rushed aboard, swords drawn, the Kakos soldiers did not strike.

“State your purpose here,” the first man grunted.

For a single breath, hope unfurled in Aya’s chest. Perhaps Andras had lied. Perhaps his own would not recognize him, and then—

That hoped curdled as the second warrior stepped forward, his pale face brightening as eyes landed on Andras. “Andras Kilonor? Is that you?” he asked, his blade lowering slightly.

“In the flesh, Jensen.”

“We heard you were dead,” the first warrior muttered.

“Disappointed, Lowar?” Andras quipped. He tightened his grip on Aya’s rope. “I have a gift for His Majesty.”

Aya cut a glance to Evie, but the saint remained passive beside her. Lowar’s brow furrowed, his gaze darting between the three of them. “Who are the prisoners?”

Evie laughed, the sound lilting and light. “I assure you, there is but one prisoner here.”

Andras ignored Lowar, focusing instead on Jensen. “We need to get to the king. How many men can you spare?”

Lowar scoffed. “You think you can just show up here with two strangers after disappearing for months—”

“Stand down,” Jensen ordered, his hand latching onto Lowar’s shoulder and forcing him back.

He was quiet for a moment, considering, before he jerked his head back toward the docks.

“You’ll need to take it up with General Dav.

No one in or out without his approval, those are the orders.

” He looked between them again, before adding, “He’ll be in the prisoners’ bay.

A new shipload just came in. We’ll escort you. ”

“Lead the way,” Andras replied. He yanked Aya forward, forcing her to fall into step behind him.

Aya’s gaze swept her surroundings. Signs of the attack still marred the port like fresh bruises—decimated ship bays, chunks of brick along the boardwalk, warped metal pushed aside to clear a path.

The boardwalk itself had been patched over, slats of new wood covering the obvious holes.

But that seemed to be the only repair Kakos had done since descending on the city.

They followed Jensen down the docks, Lowar bringing up the rear, the point of his sword grazing Aya’s back.

The warriors they passed shot them curious gazes, but others…

others stared resolutely ahead, as if afraid to draw attention to themselves.

Those people, Aya noticed, weren’t dressed in Kakos livery, but in gray tunics and trousers.

Midlands prisoners, most likely, forced to work the port.

Jensen led them to the far end of the docks, where a large ship was waiting in a bay, its navy banners flickering lazily in the breeze that had begun to stir. A group of soldiers stood just before it, and behind them…

Aya’s stomach clenched.

Behind them stood a line of prisoners, each tied to the next. Their clothes were in tatters, their faces dirt-smeared and gaunt. There had to be at least fifteen of them.

“Prisoners of battle?” Evie questioned as she took in the group.

“Humans,” Jensen corrected. “Captured from Milsaio.”

Bile rose in Aya’s throat as she caught sight of a little girl.

She was staring lifelessly ahead, her pink dress torn at the knees, her blond hair hanging in limp strands around her face.

She couldn’t be older than eight. A woman with similar features stood beside her, her panicked gaze darting around the docks. Her mother, if Aya had to guess.

“General Dav,” Jensen called, tearing Aya’s attention away from the prisoners.

A man with jet black hair turned to face them. He was tall, with pale skin and sharp features that added to the severity of his face. He turned to Andras, and there was no hint of warmth as he said, “Nice to see you made it out alive, Kilonor.”

“Barely General.”

“Though you’re either foolish or naive to sail into this port with no notice.”

“If advanced notice were possible, General, you would have received it.”

The general’s gaze followed the rope in Andras’s hands to Aya. She met his stare unflinchingly. “Who’s this?”

Andras glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve heard of the Second Saint, no?” he asked with a grin. Dav stared for a beat, whatever gratitude Andras was clearly hoping to receive nowhere to be found.

Dav’s face flushed, his eyes flashing dangerously as he growled, “You brought Gianna’s spymaster here ?”

The warriors behind Dav closed in, forming a small circle around them. Aya stayed perfectly still. They were outnumbered, ten to their three, and for once, she was glad for it.

Andras opened his mouth, but it was Evie who spoke first. “I do think you will find her more useful to your king alive than dead, General.”

“And who the fuck are you?” Dav spat.

“You know me as Saint Evie, though Evie will do. I have come to pledge my allegiance to your cause.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment before Dav shattered it with a gruff laugh. “Seven hells, Kilonor, where did you find this one?”

“She speaks the truth,” Andras replied. But Dav was shaking his head, barely concealed amusement dancing across his sharp features. “I saw her return with my own eyes!” Andras insisted.

Laughter rippled through the circle of troops.

“The First Saint is dead,” Dav argued.

“The gods certainly wished it so,” Evie retorted. Aya recognized the gentleness in her tone. It spelled danger. But Dav was still looking at the saint in bemusement.

“You expect me to believe the First Saint has returned, and has decided to pledge herself to the very cause she sought to destroy five hundred years ago?”

“General…” Andras started, but Evie held up a hand, and he fell silent at once.

“It is true that I once naively believed the gods were just in their decrees against the Visya. That we were no more than stewards of the realm they had created,” she stated. Aya saw her eyes move to the guard on Dav’s left before resettling on the general. “I was wrong.”

It happened in the span of a blink. One moment, the guard was standing still, and the next he was lurching forward with a choked gasp, his eyes bulging with the veins in his neck beneath Evie’s power.

Dav swore as he jerked away from the man, whose lips parted in a panicked gasp as his fingers clawed at his throat.

Dav reached for his sword as he turned toward Evie, even as Andras stepped between the saint and general.

“Seize her,” Dav barked to his troops. But the warriors had all gone deathly still, their bodies rigid as Evie’s palms opened at her sides, trapped by whatever vicious magic Evie wielded.

“History has lied to you,” she murmured. “I did not die from the effort of opening the veil. I died at the hands of petty gods who were threatened by my power.”

Startled shouts echoed across the docks as the sky above them darkened. Aya watched as the line of prisoners jostled one another, the guards at each end of the line drawing their swords and shouting for order.