Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Titus
Twelve months earlier.
Birds circle overhead. Hundreds, perhaps thousands.
They dart through the sky, causing the last rays of light to flicker through their gliding wings in a frantic chaos of blinking madness.
They wait more patiently than our kings do for their prey.
Strong winds carry the stench of death over a large area.
I raise my foot and step over the arm of one of the fallen. Glancing downwards, I witness his last look towards the sky, where birds are poised to feast.
I have enough magic for one more body to burn. I wait one more moment, ensuring his soul leaves his body. I wish I could wait longer, but the battle rages on. I wave my hand over him, releasing my flames. The cotton fabric under his leather catches fire.
I turn my eyes away as it reaches his flesh. “Be at peace, brother.”
Many of my fellow soldiers think I’m a fool for not using my magic as a weapon. I could have burned through my enemies with my magic instead of my sword. Maybe one day, if all my hope and morals vanish, I will.
Dying gasps are more familiar to my ears than genuine laughs these days. The battle rages around me; vampires and fae clash as swords and magic tear and dig into flesh, bone, and dirt. War renders even the soil unsafe.
This is my daily life. Blood washes my hands more often than water does. The war between the vampire territory of Blackthorn, ruled by King Galen, and the fae kingdom of Solaria, ruled by King Aridel, is as endless as the sun chasing the moon across the sky.
Unceasing.
I see no end in sight. So, I embrace it. My sword becomes an extension of my arm, my fire magic a way to apologize and send off the dead with respect.
I know I will perish like the men and women I kill. My last cries will go unheard; my tears of mercy will sink into the dirt.
No requiems are sung for the dead anymore.
I’ve come to terms with that.
I shove my sword into the belly of a fae that runs towards me and pull it out before he can blink.
Why didn’t he wear armor? Was it ruined in the previous battles? Or is he perhaps a mere stable boy who had the hay held in his hands replaced with a dull blade?
Does Aridel’s army lack supplies, or does this boy desire peace? Maybe death was his path to freedom.
We’re ingredients in a boiling stew, forced to clang and clash, each one jostling against the other. We have been battling for hours, and the chill of the rising moon now replaces the burning sun. The majority of vampires and fae have long since used up their magic.
We are down to swords and fists. Hands can cause unimaginable damage, but our tongues can scar deeper.
Fae need hours to replenish their magic, and vampires need human blood. But it’s hard to find a moment to drink blood when magic and swords are racing to kill you.
I spot my younger brother, Tristen, as he swings his sword, just like I taught him. Metal clashes, then screeches as the blades fight for victory.
Another body falls. Tristen adds another tally to his death sheet.
I wonder how Ryker is doing. Gods, I pray he’s safe. He was sent on an ambush mission. I search the fields for Nero, Cyrus, and Ember, but the fighting has scattered us. Like the threads of a fraying sweater, we are barely able to stay connected and remain whole.
Another blade swings towards me. I deflect it and meet the eyes of a vampire. He swings again, his sword almost slicing my neck. His brown eyes are wild as mist, fogging his vision and thickening his terror.
“Hey!” I shout. “I’m on your side. I’m a vampire!”
He swings three more times until he blinks, lost and confused, his hands shaking. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he mutters. A deep seed of emotion blooms in his eyes.
I don’t like it.
I grab the back of his neck and press him to my chest, holding him as I try to steer us out of the thick of the fighting. “Go!” I push him. “Fall back. You’re injured.”
He looks down at his body. “But I’m not.”
We lock eyes. There, you understand. Your mind is gravely wounded, my friend. “Go rest.”
“Rest. I… I like the sound of that,” he whispers to himself as his eyes comb through the sea of dead bodies littering the ground.
“Go,” I order in a gentle tone.
He nods, stumbling as he walks a short distance. I want to grab him, to take him myself, but I can’t risk leaving my brother on the field.
Why’s he unbuckling his breastplate?
Our armor isn’t terribly heavy, but my leather straps are so crusted and stiff with blood that it makes my movements challenging.
Rumor has it that mages are trying to enhance fabric with magic, eliminating the need for metal armor.
Unfortunately, that technology hasn’t yet reached our land.
Soon, it will. I hope it makes the fighting shorter and the death swifter. Any mercy helps.
Mages and humans are the best at innovation; it’s fae and vampires who turn those inventions into weapons.
The vampire tosses his breastplate onto the bodies. He tips his chin up as he raises his hand.
“Wait!” I scream. “Don’t!” I trip and land on something soft. My poleyns become warm and sticky, making my leathers wet and soaking my knees.
My throat tightens with dread when I look down. I’ve fallen on a fae corpse; my mouth parts as I gasp, pushing my chin into the sliced-open entrails. Stench and rot choke me. I stand up clumsily, trying to ignore the atrocities of war, and focus on helping my fellow soldier.
He thrust his sword down directly into his heart. A fatal blow to any magical creature. His knees fall before I can make it to him.
My eyes burn with dryness, but I can’t blink. My hearing dulls into a sharp whistle. My body tingles. My throat rolls, but I can’t swallow. “Rest now, brother,” I manage to rasp.
I grip my sword. My morals leave. I want to lash out. I spot easy prey, a fae bent over a dying one, hands held as they voice their goodbyes. I could raise my sword and allow him to join his friend. He’d be easy to ambush.
Stop!
Think!
Your wrath is misdirected.
Sparing souls will be what kills me. A clever man seizes opportunities to eliminate his foe.
The hairs on my neck stand on end, shaking the sweat that clings to them. It drips down my back.
Gods, I want to rip off my armor so my skin can find relief from the weight and rashes it causes.
I turn just in time to see a fae warrior staring me down.
His green armor is stained red, where the embossed leaves have been etched into the metal, and now blood fills the pattern.
His left arm’s armor is torn off. His face is covered in grime like my own, but his eyes are sharp—a predator trying to survive a cruel winter in order to see spring flowers where easy prey roam.
Why do I feel like I’m looking into a mirror? What is scarier? Deep down, I know he feels the same way.
I inch back. Don’t do that; now he knows you’re scared.
A strange sense overtakes me. He’s a kindred spirit.
I never pause during battle. The moment you do, you are dead, but like I allowed the fae to say goodbye to his fellow soldier, this fae allows me to watch him.
Why didn’t he stab me in the back?
I pause; my breath is labored, and my muscles ache. I clutch my sword, willing my body to pour more adrenaline into my veins.
I desperately need a pint of blood!
That’s why it’s vital that vampires don’t solely rely on blood. You need to be skilled with a sword in order to survive. The king often overlooks this, which costs him thousands of vampire soldiers.
I widen my stance, feeling the mud grow slick from all the blood covering it.
“You should have struck!” I shout, my mouth drier and more porous than the rocks volcanoes produce.
Can he even hear me over the fighting?
He continues to watch me, like an owl assessing something that caught its wide, ever-watchful eyes; his large sword is in one hand, but his other palm is open with the smallest hint of magic.
Shit! How the hell does he still have access to it?
Have the fae sent in reserves? If so, we’re all dead.
My neck starts to turn in search of my brother, but years of training snap my focus onto the biggest threat.
“Why didn’t you?” His reply surprises me.
I never talk to fae before I kill them. It makes them seem more like me: a soldier, duty-bound to follow orders, even when he loathes them. Killing your kind—I’m not talking fae or vampire. I mean, a person—that’s never easy.
I won’t blame, nor hate, the man or woman who bests me. It’s just the way war is.
One day, it will slay you.
He moves his index finger.
What is that? I shake my arms out. Something odd seems to have feathered over my skin. All the cries and shouts of the battle become a faint buzzing in my ear.
He steps closer but maintains a fighting stance. Fae and vampires blur behind him as the fighting continues, but the soldiers move slowly; each hit and swing of their weapons is like lifting a mountain.
What’s happening?
“You could have executed the fae easily,” he states smoothly.
He’s been stalking me. I nod and start pumping blood into my fingers. “He was saying goodbye.”
“Why did you grant his desire?” he questions.
He really is like a goddamn owl! High and mighty, perched on a branch, just watching and questioning. He treats our conversation as if we are two nobles sitting at a table of finery; I imagine the scent of meats and ale instead of death and the battle surrounding us.
“Why do you assume I wouldn’t?”
“This is war.”
“War doesn't grant me permission to be a savage beast.” I begin to circle him. We both understand: only one will remain. It is an unspoken vow we just made, a dance we enter, unknowing who will win.
“It seems so odd.” The fae mirrors my steps. We’ve been reduced to two circling predators.
“What?” I ask.
“To murder so many just for land.”
I almost stumble. Had that been his plan?
“The land is a symbol,” I acknowledge.
“Some say symbols caused this war.”
My mouth moves; words fly out without my permission. “Others argue symbols ended it.”
Why did I say that?