Page 47

I’m so consumed by it that I hardly notice the arrows that pelt me as I walk across the misty expanse of grassland, Ferox at my side.

Gradually, I feel my magic depleting. I want to howl against this injustice. There are still countless enemy warriors. My power cannot fail me yet.

I sense it then. A whisper in my ear, or maybe a stirring in the air and earth.

Blood.

So much blood. It soaks the ground and dampens the grass. It’s splattered across skin and armor and strewn across the field like an offering.

Within that blood, I sense…magic. Magic I need.

I stretch out my arms and beckon it, following my intuition.

For a single breath, nothing happens, and I wonder if I imagined it all.

But then the blood from a fallen warrior lying a few paces from me sizzles against his face and clothes.

The smoke that rises from it is pale orange and streaked through with black, as though it, too, got a little singed.

It comes to me, entering my palms before exiting them just as quickly, funneled into more curses.

Need more.

People are screaming, howling, begging. Or else they’re running. Trying to get away from me.

I call out to the blood farther and farther afield. I see it sizzle away, then sense the lines of that power snaking through the earth as they make their way to me. The blood-borne magic enters the soles of my feet, sinking into my flesh and veins before it leaves me once more.

I hold my hands to either side of me, palms out, watching the flow of my black-streaked magic arc across the field, exploding against warrior after warrior.

“ Witchhh… ”

The voice seems to come from nowhere and everywhere. From the ground and in the air. Next to my ear and in my bloodstream.

“ Queeeeen… ”

Goose bumps break out along my skin, even as I continue murmuring curses.

The voice pauses, almost as though it’s peering at something. When it returns, it is pitched lower. “ Empresssss… ” Then, spoken most intimately of all: “ Soul mate… ”

My gaze darts around, trying to locate the voice, but all I see are spears and swords and clashing warriors.

“ You taaake…what’sss miiiine. ” the disembodied voice says.

“No,” I say aloud. “Not yours. Their blood is mine .”

I’ve no sooner spoken than the remaining Dacians retreat, my intended victims streaming off the battlefield while Sarmatians chase them away.

Cheering. We’ve won, I think. Pleased—I should be pleased.

I’m not.

My targets have escaped me. I want to chase them down, wipe them from existence, then use their blood to kill their brethren.

Through the roiling darkness within me, I notice a rising chant.

“Empress! Empress! Empress!”

I falter.

Do they mean me ?

I stop drawing power from spilled blood to better listen. However, it’s as though that blood-borne magic was the only thing propping me up. Without it, my body seems to cave in on itself, my strength fleeing me, my senses returning.

Fuck, what have I done ?

Across the battlefield, I see Memnon turning on his steed, and I meet his gaze briefly as my vision darkens and my legs fold.

“ Roxilana! ” Memnon roars.

It’s the last thing I hear as the rest of that darkness sweeps in and swallows me whole.

I wake to the feel of soft blankets beneath me, a warm, furred body at my side, a hand on my cheek, and a crackling fire somewhere close by. I cannot remember feeling this secure, except for perhaps the murky past that was my childhood in Brittania.

“There you are,” Memnon says softly as I blink away sleep. His fingers brush against my cheek, and he gazes at me with open adoration. “My ferocious, lovely queen.”

“Hello.” My voice comes out as a croak, and I go to lift my arm, but it feels leaden.

Ferox rises next to me, peering at me, then rubbing his cheek against my head.

“How are you feeling?” Memnon asks, his gaze sharp.

It takes me an instant longer to sense that all my limbs are heavy, and there’s an ache that seems to radiate from deep within me.

Magical overuse.

I grimace. “Not great.”

Memnon strokes my skin again from where he sits next to me, then whispers a spell. Some of the ache lifts, though the heaviness lingers.

“Unfortunately, I can take away your pain, but I cannot speed up this recovery,” he reminds me apologetically. “Your body will have to do that on its own.”

I glance down at the body in question, surprised when I see that I’m clad in a light stola, my skin clean and smelling faintly of oil. This is not how I dressed myself last…

“I dressed and washed you,” Memnon says, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. Across our bond, I sense something paining him.

I wet my lips. “What happened to me?”

“You overused your power.”

Yes, I remember that part. But how did I…?

It all comes back to me with horrifying clarity. The battle, Ferox injured. My attempts to save him thwarted by that Dacian.

And then—red. Red like rage. Like blood.

So much blood. And magic, twisted, unholy magic, flowing into my veins, then right back out to kill and kill and kill.

I squeeze my eyes shut, a whimper trapped in my throat.

I wasn’t supposed to kill. So why did I go feral with violence?

“Whoa, whoa,” Memnon says, either hearing my thoughts or sensing my mood change. “I will not let you hate yourself.”

I cover my eyes with a shaky hand. “I killed so many people. Again .” I drop my hand to stare Memnon in the eyes. “I couldn’t stop myself,” I admit. “Every death made me want more, not less vengeance.”

Across our bond, I feel… empathy .

“That’s true bloodlust. It happens a lot on the battlefield.”

I make a pained noise, and Memnon presses his forehead against mine, wrapping an arm around my back to hold me there. “The magic complicates things. You have seen me in the throes of it.”

I have. I swallow, staring at him.

“I hadn’t realized it could consume you the way mine consumes me.

But you are not broken, and you are not evil,” he insists.

“You’re a powerful queen, protecting your people from our enemies.

Nothing, nothing is more honorable than that.

And out there in battle?” Memnon gives his head a shake. “You were breathtaking?—”

“Brother?” Zosines’s voice comes from the doorway.

Reluctantly, I drag my attention to the entrance of our tent. Zosines hesitantly steps inside, his gaze moving from Memnon to me. His eyes flicker with something like reverence, and he bows his head.

“Why are you standing at the door like a stranger?” Memnon says playfully. “Come in.”

Zosines’s eyes never leave mine as he comes forward and kneels before me.

My brows draw together as he bows his head. “Thank you, my queen.”

I glance at Memnon uncertainly.

“Do you not know?” Memnon says with a slight curl of his lips. “Our warriors witnessed your power and saw how you ended our enemies. You’re a hero, my queen.” Pride shines from his eyes.

“A hero?” I echo. I still don’t understand when I face Zosines again.

The warrior’s head rises just a little, and he looks at me with unmasked awe. “You brought down the wrath and might of Sarmatia. The Dacians will think twice before attacking us again, now that they know to fear both our king and our queen.”

I give him a weak, watery smile, my emotions a conflicted mess.

Zosines’s attention moves from me to Memnon. “The celebrations are about to begin. As the slayer of now two Dacian kings, your presence …” Zosines lets the rest of the statement go unspoken, but his meaning is clear: the Sarmatian king should be there.

“I will go there once I know my wife is well.”

Ignoring how my arm throbs in protest, I grab his hand and give it a squeeze. “Go, I will meet you there in a little while.”

Memnon gives his head a shake. “You do not need to come at all,” he insists. “You’re still recovering.”

“I am not infirm. I can show up to a celebration.”

Memnon’s gaze drops for a moment to my belly before rising to mine once more, thinking about the baby.

Slowly Memnon nods. “Then I will see you in a little while, my queen. Until then, take care of yourself.”

He presses the back of my hand to his lips, then lightly touches my stomach. Zosines watches it all intently, his eyes missing nothing.

Memnon stands, letting my hand slip through his. And with that, he and his blood brother leave.

The revelry is in full swing by the time I drag myself from my tent, Ferox at my heels.

My limbs are still heavy and I feel like fresh death, and if it weren’t for Memnon cleaning and changing me while I slept, I’m sure I’d look it too.

However, I refuse to languish in my tent all evening while the rest of camp is having fun.

When I reach the main clearing, braziers snap and crackle with fire. Someone plays a lyre, and Sarmatians dance wildly to the plucked tune, cups of kumiss and wine in their hands.

Ferox and I pass by them, only as we go, the revelry grows quieter and quieter. Awareness pricks at my skin. Everywhere I look, eyes are on me. I do not see Memnon, nor Tamara, Katiari, Zosines, nor any other familiar face.

A warrior steps forward, still clad in his battle leathers, his clothes and skin bearing all the sweat, mud, and blood of battle.

He looks me in the eye, his dark irises boring into me. “Aye,” he says, lifting the horn he holds, “cheers to our empress! Destroyer of Dacians and our savior of the day!”

A shout goes up, one that has my gaze sweeping over the amassed revelers. Cups clink and liquid sloshes. And they’re cheering for me. “Empress! Empress! Empress…”

My heart beats fast.

Why are people calling me empress ? I ask, reaching out to Memnon.

On the other side of our bond, I feel his slow smile. Our people saw their queen dressed like a Roman, dealing out death to their enemies, and some clever fool thought it was fitting. After a moment, he adds, Do you like it…Empress?