Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
Titus
Eating was one of my greatest joys. Stale bread or a hot out-of-the-oven baked sourdough meant I was alive.
I appreciated stale bread; it soaked up all the flavors of the stews we were given on the field; it proved you could take something discarded, better labeled as trash, and turn it into something purposeful.
Like an orphan turned into a soldier.
I rub my stomach, suppressing the growls. Selene’s aid has given me reason to eat again. We’ve been training for a few days, skipping lunch, which Selene said was usual for her.
I keep waiting for Galen to check on her, or for Sable to jump out from around a corner and try to stab my heart. Neither has happened, which makes sleeping a most difficult task. Selene, however, wakes looking refreshed, as if the constant state of chaos is her peace.
Lack of sleep is nothing crispy bacon can’t fix.
Speaking of which, yum! My nostrils flare following the aroma.
I glide my tongue over my fangs, anticipating the crunch of the meat; it’ll bounce through my ears and then dive to my belly.
My boots glide eagerly, like rocks skipping water, along the polished floors of Blackthorn Castle.
But a glance at my shirt sleeve makes me frown. I glare at the hole in my hem as I would at an enemy I spotted. I should have bought a new one. I’m not used to luxuries.
It’s nice walking on clean floors, having boots that don’t dirty everything.
Yet it feels like a limited-time attraction not suited for this battle-worn soldier.
I’d rather have rips in my shirts than gaping, bleeding wounds in my back that came at the hand of my royal advisors. I run a hand through my hair, making sure I don’t feel the imaginative weight of the crown Everett told me I could have.
I don’t think men should pledge allegiance to another man. They should fight to the death for a purpose far beyond that.
“General.” Two soldiers dip their chins as they pass me. Breakfast scents linger on their clothing.
Red flashes in front of me. I dodge to the right to avoid the collision.“Titus, my man.” A grinning warrior with curly red hair rushes to my side and tackles me in a hug.
I stiffen. It feels too… fatherly. Caring.
Enough with the hugs and welcomes. I want food.
I clap his back in acknowledgement. The sting in my palm surprises me. He’s got the physique of a bull: stocky, shorter, but wider than I am. I’m like Ryker when it comes to socializing with others. I prefer the shadows.
I grit my teeth, step back, and listen to him babble. Hurry so I can eat, please. “My wife just had our first child,” he tells me. His glow highlights his freckles.
His arms are bigger than tree trunks. I step back. He smiles, and the hulking tree turns into the kind you’d want to sit under.
“Thanks to you killing that pointy-eared fuck, I got to be home to hold my son. I owe you my life.”
His eyes don’t share the joy of his words. What are you searching for?
Grind your teeth; don’t defend Everett.
Why not? If I agree with this speech, I’m just a sword, no longer a man.
I touch his shoulder. “I am happy you can hold your son.” It takes those born with magic much longer to have children compared to humans. Some vampires try lifetimes only to be refused by the gods.
“But Prince Everett was a man, the same as you and I; he fought for his family as you do yours.”
Defending others will be what kills me.
His eyes narrow.
Yeah, I see all your weapons. The small dagger on your back, the two long swords at your side, they are a bit overkill, eh? The breakfast meat is already slaughtered.
My lips set in a firm line. “I have witnessed evil and vanquished it in battle. Everett was not that.”
“He was a fae.”
My toes flex against my boots. “As you are a vampire. Prince Everett followed his king’s commands, as we do ours. We’re warriors; it makes no difference in the shape of our ears. I do not blame the sword for how sharp it is. I blame the maker for how he swung it.”
“Are you not the man who holds the sword?”
“My hands have never been my own.” I fear they never will be.
I’m a cog in a machine. Alone, I do nothing; I am nothing. But with my fellow warriors, we can accomplish much. The problem is that all Galen seeks is more land.
“You sound like a fae sympathizer.” He doesn’t step back in offense; he’s firm as dungeon irons.
Tristen would have me by the balls over this conversation.
“What’s your son’s name?” I ask.
His eyes soften as a smile touches his lips. “Griffen,” he replies with pride.
“I don’t want Griffen to grow up in a world where death is his neighbor. The only way to change that is to start looking at fae as our friends.”
“Some would argue killing them is safer,” he counters.
Why are you looking at me that way? As if you’re waiting for me to bite the bait?
I’ll bite; sometimes, that’s the only way to catch the predator by surprise. Be warned, I fight back when lured in. “I’m sure fae think the same of us. Years living in a war camp taught me that chain reactions topple everyone. If we don’t break that mindset, we’re all bound to end up buried.”
“What if some fae don’t want to be friends?”
Now I know you’re fishing for something. What is it?
“Some see a rock in the road as an enemy, whereas others simply walk around it. I chose to judge character. Is it the rock’s fault that it was kicked around and landed there, or is it the fault of whose boots punted it? Everett obeyed orders because he hoped the war would end.”
His head tilts. “You think that’s what their prince wanted? An end?”
Everett’s sharp jaw, plotting eyes, and pointy ears flash in my mind. My lip tugs up. “No. He wanted a new beginning. That’s why he let me kill him.” I begin to turn, but he grabs me. Hard.
“You’re too modest, Titus. You bested him.”
“I’d rather be a modest man than one who exaggerates.” I glare at his hand on me. Instead of letting go, he presses another hand to my chest.
He peers over his shoulder with sharp eyes, then says words considered treasonous, “I’d stand by your side over the king’s, because I’ve seen you fight by mine.”
I scan the hall. The fact that we’re alone brings no relief.
I feel bad I don’t know his name, but that’s a soldier’s life. We’re not blessed to live long enough to sit by the fire and learn each other’s stories. Those who do live that long don’t speak of the horrors they survived.
I study his hands, his stance, the corners of his eyes as I search for wrinkles.
How old is he? His red hair has no grey. He speaks with a youth’s foolish tongue, but with the manner he carries himself and all those weapons, he’s seen enough shit to fill a library.
Vampires age like humans until they’re thirty years old. After that, we age one human year for every twenty-five vampire years. So by the time we’re 1000 years old, we’d look like a seventy-year-old human, give or take.
I’m twenty-eight. This guy looks in his thirties. He could be thirty human years or nearly 200 years for a vampire. King Galen looks a solid thirty-seven. Last time I checked, he was 205 years of age.
His fingers turn into needles, sticking my clothing into his palm. He’s holding me as if I’m a shiny new weapon he seeks to strap onto his heavy belt. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
You’d commit treason, stand by my side, and not our king’s. Yeah, I get your point, but I’m not going to repeat it out loud.
“You’re a father now; you have a son to consider,” I warn him. “I’m not worth dying for.”
He snorts a laugh. “Your worth is more than your hands that hold your sword, son.” He jabs a finger over my heart. “You and I know peace is an intermission before the next act. I’ve lived through a lot of acts, Titus. I’d like to see a new show.” He slowly nods.
“There will always be war.”
“Let me rephrase that: I’d like to see a show where war for land is not the main plot. Give me a war with a purpose that doesn’t just benefit a king; give me a war in which it is an honor to fight. As you said, we’re all the same. If we don’t all stand as one, we will die as many.
“I’m not the only one who feels this way, so I’ll ask again: do you understand what I am saying?” Even though I’m looking down at him, his authoritative tone makes me feel like a child again.
What rank is he?
He’s dressed similarly to others, in battle-worn leather. The marks and weathering shine like badges of honor. But he carries himself the same way a wild cat moves: with pride.
A feline whose mane is torn, patches of fur ripped away in ancient feuds; arms, shoulders, and back scored with wounds, yet the massive beast moves smoothly, with unshaken grace.
“I understand,” I respond hesitantly.
“Good.” He presses my leather sleeve smooth. “Soldiers were raised to have each other’s backs. We’re different from kings.” He gives me a side hug.
I whisper in his ear, “Be careful no one hears you speak like this.”
“I was going to tell you the same thing.” He smirks. His friendly pat on my back steals the air from my lungs. “The nobles have no idea what’s going on; they don’t leave these walls. The majority of us are sick of that. I thought it was time you knew how others felt.”
“They praise me as a hero who killed a prince.” I hate it.
“They praise you as a brother who let them come home, Titus. We’re watching as you sit in silence on the side. We weighed your character. I want to hold my son tonight, so I hope you know the risk I’m taking when I tell you this: you have the majority of support when the time comes.”
He’s scaring the shit out of me. He shouldn’t be talking like this.
Maybe it’s a trick I walked into. My face must convey that. He steps so close I can count all his freckles. “You know what’s funny? Some vampires think all fae look the same. I don’t.” The air starts to push in on me.
He’s got air magic! He can hush conversations.