Of course, it wouldn’t be a feared dragon if it hadn’t scorched me with its fire and rended me with its claws; if it hadn’t viciously whipped me with its tail. With my body broken and burned, I knew I didn’t have long. As the poison took hold and it fell to the icy ground, roaring with all the fury of a summer firestorm, I fought through excruciating pain, drawing on the very last of my strength to take my sword to its neck.
Dragons have a vulnerable part, just below the angle of the jaw, where their scales are thinner than anywhere else.
I read that in a book somewhere.
Turns out, the book was somewhat accurate. But it didn’t explain that a dragon’s blood is as hot as lava, and deep cerulean in color.
It spurted all over me, burning my already scalded flesh, and I was certain I was as good as dead.
I remember collapsing into the snow, surrounded by the burning blood of a dragon.
I died. I know it, because I saw the Death Goddess herself, and at the time, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in my life.
That was until I met Finley.
A sigh escapes me as I walk toward the wall and select a sword. This one is made from Solkrian bluesteel. It’s simple in construction, with a perfectly balanced heft and a blade made from thousands of layers of folded steel.
It’s the sword I slayed the dragon with.
I’ll use it again, to slay anyone or anything that poses a threat to Finley.
Even if they’re of my very own blood.
A suit of black leather armor hangs on the other side of the room.
Battle-armor.
I quickly don it. The leather is supple and flexible, yet thick enough to deflect a glancing blow from a sword or dagger. Not that I need it—I heal quickly enough—but if I’m going to be stealing into Lukiria with the intent to mete out justice, I might as well look the part.
That’s how they speak of me, isn’t it? A bloodthirsty warmonger. A mad general. Apparently, I’ve used the Khaturians’ arcane magic to gain unnatural strength and immortality.
I tighten the buckles and fasten the ties. The leather is form-fitting, molding perfectly to the shape of my body. I hang the sword at my waist. It feels comfortable and familiar, only now, I wield it as easily as one might carry a feather.
And yet, Finley sleeps.
To the chaos and fury of my thoughts, the sound of her slumber is peace.
Let her rest for now. Soon enough, I’ll have to ask her to endure again.
I almost feel guilty. She’s been taken from her simple life in Ruen and thrust into my dangerous world. I could almost feel terrible about it, but she’s faced it all with no complaint.
And now my fate is tied to hers.
I close my eyes and tip my head back, listening to the sounds of the castle; men stirring, servants going about their morning duties, horses snorting, the wind rising and falling, howling past the rooftops.
Everything is more acute than before. The sounds are sharper. My body is lighter.
Actually, I feel invincible.
That’s her doing.
Her sweet, glorious blood.
If my power is drawn from Hecoa, and she is a child of Eresus, then it makes perfect sense.
Death feeds on Life.
Life cannot exist without Death.
Outside, I hear the grindstones. Blades are being sharpened and whetted. Fortifications are being prepared for the onslaught that we expect to come tonight.
The Khaturian shamans will be here soon. When Finley and I visited Niize, I asked them to come down from the mountain to protect the castle. I’ll ask them to see to Kaithar, too, for they might know something about treating Lycan bites.
Gods, Kaithar, I hope you don’t succumb.
I’m not the sort of man who relies on prayers, but now I visualize Hecoa’s smooth, eternal face in my mind. She’s silver like the stars and completely impervious to time itself.
Her obsidian eyes see right through me as I recite an invocation in my head.
Eternal Goddess, it appears I’ve become somewhat of your ilk. And so I must tell you my wishes.
That my people remain safe from harm. My friend Kaithar included.
That Finley’s mother is alive and can be granted succour and deliverance from the ones that have tormented her.
That I will have the strength to vanquish evil and protect all that is precious to me. And if the one most precious of all were to risk falling into your domain, you will send her back, for she is mine.
As always, the Goddess remains silent.
Even when I fell into her domain, she was silent. Almost oblivious to the trials and tribulations of mere mortals such as I.
Only, I’m not quite mortal anymore.
I wrap my hand around the familiar hilt of my sword. This one is my favorite, even though it has no name. We Rahavans make a habit of naming our swords, but this one, the dragon-killer, remains without.
Nameless, I call it. I’ll take it to Lukiria. A nameless blade that’s held steadfast in battle, and most recently, felled the undead that returned from their icy graves on the mountain.
They sent my own dead soldiers to attack me. As I cleaved through rotting flesh and brittle bone, I recognized many of them.
Is this also your doing, Goddess? Or is it an abomination; an affront to your very existence?
Someone in the empire is using magic to raise the dead.
A necromancer.
How dare they desecrate my loyal, faithful soldiers, who died for the sake of the empire?
Who would be so desperate that they would resort to necromancy to attack me? And who would have the means to invoke forbidden magic in the Rahavan Empire itself?
My thoughts turn to my brother, Ansar. Son of Leticia, the first daughter of the Talavarra family. My father married her not long after my mother died—for strategic reasons, of course.
I was seven years old at the time.
The Talavarras control the rich, fertile lands of the south. And unlike my mother’s family, who have never set foot in the capital, the Talavarras are well and truly ensconced in the machinations of the Rahavan Court.
Duke Rhaegar Talavarra is one of the most powerful men in the empire, perhaps second only to my father, the emperor. It would actually make perfect sense for Ansar to succeed the throne and not I. And indeed, when I turned vampire, I had no objections to my half-brother inheriting the crown.
But Ansar’s always resented me; a sentiment that’s perhaps been fueled by Rhaegar and Leticia.
He’s seen how I’ve changed, even if he doesn’t truly understand what I am.
Suspicion snakes through my mind, threaded with anger.
Could the Talavarras be responsible for this?
And what role does my father, the master schemer, have to play in all of this?
I’ve had enough. I don’t like the feeling of being manipulated; of being made a pawn in someone else’s machinations. That’s why the very first thing I do when I arrive in the palace will be to pay the old bastard a visit.
And he will understand that up until now, I’ve been very restrained.
45
FINLEY
I wake slowly, in a haze of disbelief and wonder, the memory of Corvan’s touch lingering on my bare skin.
And the sheets are so soft and silken and warm, and I’m naked. I’m encased in pure luxury and it feels unnatural, because I’m not used to it.
Was all that has passed just a dream?
It’s so unreal, it easily could be, but as I trace my fingers along my neck, I feel the faintest of indentations in my skin.