Page 45

Despite Sarmatians’ penchant for war and their ongoing dispute with the Dacians, I don’t expect battle to happen.

Not until it does.

We have only resided at our new settlement—a grassland bordered by a creek, rolling hills, and many, many burial mounds—for a week or so when preparations for it begin.

Revenge has been on every warrior’s lips since the Dacians ambushed us, but up until now, it was spoken more as a wish.

Now, it’s a sobering reality.

Every time I think of it, my pulse quickens and I remember Memnon’s bloody, broken body lying in the tall grass.

I’m still wrestling with my own horror over the blood I’ve spilled and Memnon’s unholy cruelty to our enemies, but I also don’t think I can endure another skirmish hidden away in the safety of camp while he battles it out.

So when the day of battle comes and Memnon suits up for it, I follow him over to the chests and grab my own weapons—daggers for close combat, a bow and arrows for long-range fighting. My gut twists as I touch each one, and I tell myself they’re precautionary.

“Little witch, what are you doing?”

When I glance up, Memnon is watching me, his expression unreadable. Across our bond, however, I can feel pride and protectiveness warring for dominance within him.

“I’m coming with you,” I say with as much authority as I can, forcing my voice not to quake. I strap on my gorytos, then secure my sheathed blades to my waist.

Memnon moves to me, placing his hands over mine to quell my movements. “I know the last battle still haunts you, the killing still haunts you,” he says gently. “You don’t have to do this.”

My gaze meets his. “I cannot let you go out there unprotected,” I admit hoarsely. Again, the image of Memnon bleeding out flashes behind my eyes.

His expression softens. “What happened last time is not normally how these battles go,” he reassures me.

I give my head a shake. “For good, for ill, and for always, my life is bound with yours,” I remind him, reciting our wedding vows. “I’m coming with you. You’ll have to curse me to stop me.”

He stares at me a bit longer. Then, seeming to make up his mind, a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. He clasps me by the back of my neck and pulls me in close. “You will not die. Swear this to me.”

I nod quickly, foolishly, like fate is something I can outmaneuver. “I swear I will not die.”

His hand slides from my neck and settles low on my belly. “And you will protect our child as well.”

I swallow, the weight of that responsibility settling on my shoulders. “I swear that too.”

“You will wear my wards,” he says, his voice commanding.

I raise my eyebrows. “Only if you wear mine.”

His eyes shine in the low light of the tent, and he inclines his head ever so slightly. “Always, little witch.”

“Okay,” I agree, nodding back to him.

“Then it’s settled,” Memnon says. “You’ll wear my wards, and I’ll wear yours. And side by side, we shall fight.”

I only start trembling once our camp is a dark smear at our backs. Fog clings to the ground, stirring as our horde’s horses pass through it, making the land look ghostly, like the dead have come to watch.

I ride at the front of the amassed warriors, Memnon at one side, Ferox at the other. Despite my best attempts to keep my panther safe back at the settlement, the stubborn creature refused to stay behind. So here we are, the pair of us heading back out to battle.

Next to me, Memnon’s body no longer wears the languid ease it did during training, though I don’t sense much tension coming from him. Certainly not the corrosive fear that’s flowing through my veins.

“You can still turn back, my queen,” Memnon says.

I draw in a deep breath, trying to steady myself. It’ll be okay. All I have to do is keep an eye on Memnon. And not die. That should be easy enough.

“I’m not leaving you,” I insist.

He glances over at me, his eyes full of that once-unnamable emotion I now recognize as love.

I give him a tight smile, hardening my spirit.

Somewhat comforting is the knowledge that Katiari rides with the group. If she can be brave enough to face down enemies without the use of magic, surely I can do this with my power.

Memnon halts, and the rest of us follow suit.

I strain my eyes, searching for what caused us to pause. Eventually, I see them.

Dacians. They look like specters out in the mist. And what I can see of them…there are many. Far, far too many. More by far than there are Sarmatians.

One of the Dacians breaks off from the group, his horse cantering forward, fog swirling at the creature’s ankles. The hairs on my arms rise at the sight of him.

Come , Memnon says, ride with me.

Getting closer is the last thing I want to do, but when Memnon urges his steed forward, I can’t help but coax my own horse to follow, Ferox silently joining us.

The mounted figure pauses in the middle of the field, and I can feel his eyes on me. My crown, my face, the Roman tunic I defiantly wear, and the Sarmatian armor resting over it.

It’s only as we near the man, however, that I make out his features. He’s older than Memnon, with a graying braid running down his back and a thick beard obscuring the lower half of his face. Like Memnon, he wears a circlet under his peaked helmet.

He must be Zoutoula, the Dacian king himself. He looks old enough to have ruled his people for decades, but Memnon killed the previous Dacian king a year ago when his power Awoke.

Since the attack, he must’ve learned his son had fallen in battle, and then—then he must’ve witnessed his own warriors cutting down their loved ones. He likely had to order their deaths just to stop the carnage.

The Dacian looks at my husband with abject hatred, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Wretched beast,” Zoutoula opens, “the days I have fantasized about your death.” He takes in Memnon’s face, grimacing.

“You gave me a wedding gift,” Memnon says, unruffled, “and I sent you my many thanks for it.”

Zoutoula snarls. “For the honor of my father, Dacia’s former king, and my son ,” His voice hitches, “who should have been Dacia’s future king, I will make your death slow, and then I will have my warriors defile your body in every imaginable way.”

At his words, my magic rises, coiling around Memnon and instinctively shielding him.

Is my wife being protective of me? my husband says, his tone light.

He will sooner die than touch you , I vow.

Zoutoula must notice me bristling because his gaze swings to me.

His features shift, just a little. There’s still plenty of hatred there, but there’s also a calculated gleam in his eye as his gaze touches on my diadem, then my face, and I know he’s plotting some grisly death for me.

That knowledge tastes like iron on my tongue, and I’m absurdly grateful for the numerous wards Memnon placed on me before we left camp.

Zoutoula says, “It was a mistake to bring your pretty wife to battle. If she lives by the end of it, she?—”

There’s a flash of Memnon’s magic, then a choked noise from the Dacian king. His eyes grow wide, and a line of blood seeps from his throat like a macabre necklace. Then his head slides one way and his body another, the two toppling to the ground and causing his horse to rear up.

I glance wildly from the grotesque remains to Memnon, whose hair has lifted and whose eyes already glow.

One day, people will learn not to threaten you in front of me , he says, his magic deepening his voice.

Before I can even fathom a response, he adds, Ready yourself. It’s time to fight, my queen.

Already, dozens of arrows from distant Dacian archers are releasing, the group of them arcing across the field right for us.

I lift a hand, my eyes fixed on the projectiles. “ Away ,” I incant.

A gust of my magic cuts across the grass, blowing the arrows far off course.

Well done , Memnon says, the glow of his eyes dimming.

Memnon pulls his sword from his sheath and holds it high, shouting a war cry, then charges forward. At my back, I can hear Sarmatians bellowing and howling. Though this is my first planned battle, muscle memory from training has me urging my horse forward into a gallop.

I slip down my bond with my panther. Watch your step, Ferox, and stay to the edges of battle so you don’t get trampled .

Even draped in my wards, I worry about my big cat’s safety.

My pulse races as I return to my own head. The massive Dacian army charges at us, the distance between us closing alarmingly fast.

My hands itch to reach for my bow and arrow, but I hold myself back.

I’m here to protect Memnon—and Ferox. Katiari too. I don’t need to attack or kill to achieve that.

Only, more arrows rain down on me and the warriors at my back, and though my wards hold fast, several pelt me hard enough to throw my body sideways.

I’ve barely righted myself when I hit the front line of mounted Dacians.

War cries fill the air and spears lunge at me. One connects with my shoulder, and I scream as the jarring impact nearly topples me from my steed.

More blades and hands. This is a nightmare, one I cannot wake from—and then I break through the back of the massive horde.

I completed my first pass through the ranks of enemy warriors.

I mean to keep that thought to myself, but across our bond, I feel Memnon’s exaltation. Well done, my queen!

I smile at his praise and turn my horse around. My eyes search him out. I spot Memnon ahead of me, his horse racing back the way we came. He’s already looking at me, grinning, rather than facing our foes.

Don’t let me distract you , I say, my earlier fear rising once more.

Impossible not to be distracted when you’re so beguiling , he responds.

Is Memnon…flirting with me? On the battlefield, surrounded by enemies?

Yes. Tell me you like it.

I knock away another round of arrows.

Gods, please stop.

You wound me, my queen , he says, cutting down an enemy in front of him. Fine, I’ll stop. But only for now.

Memnon raises his sword once more and bellows another war cry, and the Sarmatians fighting alongside us join in.