Page 40

As soon as we enter the battlefield proper, it’s clear that the biggest issue is distinguishing friend from foe.

Back in the settlement, mounted men lighting arrows or attacking civilians made their loyalties obvious, but out here, it feels like everyone is an enemy.

Swords clang, and men bellow and rage as they battle, their breaths heavy and puffing.

Mud squelches beneath my steed’s hooves, and it’s only as I begin to see the bodies and hear the low moans that I realize the ground is wet with blood, not water, and it’s no longer safe to ride without crushing people.

I swing myself off the horse, Ferox moving to my side. Then I’m stumbling, running after that thread of my magic until, suddenly, it dips down to the ground.

And there he is.

A guttural cry leaves my lips, and I fall to my knees.

Memnon’s not moving, his eyes closed. My gods, my gods, my gods?—

The panic is back, its mouth gaping wide, ready to swallow me up.

I draw in a deep breath. Memnon had been so steady with me earlier; that’s how he needs me to be right now.

So I pull myself together and scan his body in the near darkness, looking for injuries.

Memnon’s arm appears to be partially severed, but that does not seem to be what mortally wounded him. Lower down, his blood-spattered scale mail has been punctured right through his abdomen, though the weapon that did so is long gone.

My lower lip trembles. Gods, it’s bad. I know it’s bad, and I haven’t even gotten a good look at the injury itself.

Gingerly, I move aside his armor as best I can and lift his tunic beneath. His stomach is smeared with blood, and more oozes from that abdominal wound.

I slip my hand between his clothing and his skin, pressing my palm to where his injury still weeps blood. “ Heal the wound. Mend that which is broken, ” I murmur.

My magic slips out beneath my palm, coming out more slowly than it should. I draw on more of it. More and more.

I just need him to survive. Then it can all give out.

Beneath my touch, I feel my power sink into his skin. Memnon’s flesh shifts beneath my palm as it reforms and begins to seal back up.

I gather more power still, even as my muscles throb and my temples pound.

Ferox crouches on Memnon’s other side, his form tense. I hear a low growl come from him a moment before he lunges.

I drag my gaze from Memnon in time to see my panther leap over my shoulders, right at a looming fighter brandishing a sword—one I hadn’t heard or seen in my desperation to heal Memnon. I stare in horror as Ferox collides with our attacker, knocking them both to the ground.

There’s a scream, then a spray of blood as Ferox rips out his throat. I stare at my panther, tears welling in my eyes as I realize he just protected me and Memnon when we were defenseless.

Ferox continues to pin the man down for several inhalations, until he’s sure the man no longer draws breath, and then he returns to my side, licking his lips.

I press my head to my panther’s temple. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice wavering. Ferox butts me with his nose, rubbing his blood-soaked snout against me before he turns back around and scans the battlefield, his body held rigid.

Guarding us, I realize.

Another pang of warmth ripples through me. When this is all over, I’m going to get Ferox the biggest hunk of meat I can.

Memnon shifts beneath my hands, and my attention snaps to him.

He’s alive.

Gods, he’s alive .

A sob shudders out of me as I kneel there, blood and mud soaking into my pants. I press a kiss to his forehead and gather him onto my lap as best I can, my head bowed over him. I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel a tear slip off the bridge of my nose and fall onto Memnon’s face.

Beneath my palm, Memnon’s skin fully seals up, and my magic tapers off. I slip my hand from his abdomen then and move it to his other injury. Already, my power has healed most of his arm, the limb now fully reattached. The wound, however, still gapes open.

Gently, I lay my hand on it and force out more of my power, hating how little is left. What remains is thin and wispy, and it burrows into his skin sluggishly. Still, little by little, the injured flesh of Memnon’s arm mends itself.

Beneath me, my husband shifts, and I glance down just as his eyelids flutter open. At first, I’m sure it’s a trick of the light. I don’t dare hope for more. But then he reaches out and brushes his bloody knuckles against my cheek.

“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers to himself. He says it so intimately, like we’re tangled with each other in bed and not out here on this bleak battlefield.

Those words undo me.

Keeping a hand on his arm, I lean in and press a fierce kiss to Memnon’s lips. And now I’m crying against him, my whole body shaking with my sobs.

His arms come around me slowly.

I break off the kiss and lean my forehead against him. I was terrified you were going to die on me , I admit.

“I would never leave for the afterlife without you,” he murmurs hoarsely, stroking the back of my hair. “I don’t know if you remember, but I made you a promise long ago that I wouldn’t die in battle.”

I do remember.

I hope you die, I said , so I never have to hear you again.

Just because you said that, Memnon responded , I’m going to make sure I live.

I pinch my eyes shut, pressing my lips together.

“Ssshhh,” he says softly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

I nearly laugh at the ridiculous statement. “I’m supposed to be the one reassuring you.” The sob caught in my throat distorts the words a little.

“Tomorrow,” he says, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear, “when I’m moving inside you, you can reassure me all you like. I do so love praise.”

My brows pull together, and then I begin to laugh in disbelief. He’s half dead and weak from blood loss, and he’s making sex jokes.

Once I start laughing, I can’t seem to stop. I laugh until it becomes sobs, and the tears I tried to fight back slip down my cheeks.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I say, even as I sense the final dregs of my magic seeping from my palm into Memnon’s skin. Black dots smudge my vision.

“Whatever I want?” Memnon voice sounds far too thrilled at the prospect.

Beneath my hand, the last of Memnon’s arm wound seals itself up, thank the gods.

I lean in close to him, darkness swarming my sight. “So long as you live to see the end of battle, whatever you want .”

The words are no sooner out of my mouth than my eyes roll back and I collapse onto my husband.

I wake briefly, my body cradled against a firm, familiar chest, a wet snout pressed against my hand.

“She will be fine, Ferox. Our queen has simply overspent herself.”

My eyes fall closed, my lids so, so heavy.

When I rouse again, I hear, “…a few confessions from the prisoners so far.”

“What have they said?” Memnon’s voice rumbles against me, and I realize I must still be in his arms.

“They were Dacians. Word came from Rome that you took a wife, and their king, Zoutoula, wanted to weaken us while we were distracted with festivities. They said was to avenge the death of their previous king—the one you killed.” A long, heavy silence follows.

I try to open my eyes, but they feel leaden, as do my limbs.

“Where’s the leader of this raiding party?” Memnon asks.

“Dead, just over there,” the warrior responds, adding. “We think it’s Bastiza, the king’s eldest son.”

Gently, Memnon lays me out on the grass. “I’ll be gone just a moment,” he whispers against my skin, though I’m fairly certain he doesn’t know I can hear him. “Ferox,” he says, “I know you don’t take orders from me, but attack anyone besides me that thinks of getting close to her.”

I can’t see Ferox’s reaction, but his warm fur brushes against me as he lies down at my side.

A warm, calloused palm presses itself against my head. “ Gods protect my mate from harm .” Memnon whispers the ward beneath his breath.

I can sense the subtle touch of his magic as it drapes over me like a cloak. And then he’s gone, his boots squelching against the bloody ground.

I cannot say how long it takes me to pry my eyelids open, but by the time I manage to do so, the first rays of morning paint the sky pink and orange.

I’m still outside the walls of the tented city. From what little I can see and sense, blood dampens my clothes, skin, and hair. My entire body trembles, though I don’t really feel those tremors, just the heavy, throbbing weight of my limbs. If I weren’t so damn exhausted, I might be alarmed.

With effort, I get my arms under me and push myself up into a sitting position, my body swaying until Ferox sits up as well, leaning against my side, his body helping to keep mine upright. I lean my tired head against him in thanks.

All around us, Sarmatian warriors prowl the battlefield, some checking on what must be the wounded, others clustering around a line of kneeling men with their hands bound behind their backs.

I stare at the line of captives, my anger rising. Even now, I can smell blood and raw flesh on the wind. These men are responsible for this carnage. They were the ones who set upon us while we slept . They lit our homes on fire and cut down our people. They sought to hurt us, annihilate us.

I glance over at Memnon, whose battered armor glints in the sunlight. He’s coated in blood; it soaks his torso, it’s smeared across his face, and it drips from his hair. He looks monstrous, so it makes no sense that pride swells in me at the sight of him bathed in gore.

Like the rest of his men, he strides through the grass, weaving between the dead.

When he gets to one of the corpses, however, he pauses, studying it with a grimace.

After a moment, he withdraws a dagger from his side and crouches next to the body.

Bringing his blade to it, he begins to saw through flesh.

I hear the distant squelch of blood, and it makes my stomach churn.