Chapter 4
Aurora
The moment Theron left the tent, Aurora grabbed the nearest pillow, pressed it to her face, and screamed.
And when she’d run out of air, she breathed deeply and repeated the process until every last scream she’d stuffed down had been released.
Then she screamed some more. After all, the night was young and much of tomorrow would likely inspire a similar mix of fury, loathing, hurt, self-hatred, and a physical ache to commit bloody violence.
Breath ragged, she slumped to the floor, wishing she could simply crumble to dust and blow away on the night breeze.
She should have kissed his ring before he’d demanded she kiss his lips instead.
In hindsight, a political public humiliation was far better than making a spectacle of her deepest shame—that even though she hated Theron down to his marrow, her traitorous body wanted him in spite of her better judgement.
He’d imprinted himself on her, and with Passion’s help, she was certain she’d never be able to forget that.
It was monumentally cruel. First Drakon and now this…
detestable addiction. She’d never felt more like an animal, trapped by her baser instincts, her heart and her body at war, with her heart sure to take a beating either way.
If she were braver, she might have desecrated the goddess’ statue in retribution.
At least she knew one thing for certain—nothing riled Theron up as much as the cold shoulder and a heaping dose of silence. Orithyia had read him right on that count. If only he didn’t know exactly how to hurt her in return.
As she was about to give in to self-pity and crawl into bed, the tent fabric by the bed was slit by a sword.
Before she could scream, a paladin of Knowledge stuck her head through the tear and pressed a finger to her lips, urging Aurora to follow.
Her heart still galloping in her chest, Aurora put on her himation and slippers before following the paladin.
Together they slunk through the camp, avoiding the eyes of any still milling about outside in the dark.
Eventually the paladin ushered her into a black tent—Orithyia’s.
When she entered, the high priestess and Stentor stood in the centre.
Stentor bowed, now fully clothed and clean. It seemed the general was flouting Theron’s conditions for his punishment. Was that wise? Theron would love nothing so much as an excuse to kill the general.
“I’m grateful for your assistance today, Your Highness.”
“You’re welcome,” Aurora replied, confused as to what she was doing there.
The device had been destroyed. She had no way to give him what he wanted. Had they organized the entire cloak and dagger escapade simply so he could thank her? If so, perhaps she’d judged Stentor too harshly.
“We don’t have much time before the king returns to his tent. Luckily, I’m in possession of another artefact much like the last,” Orithyia said, waving one of her clerics forward.
Bile rose in Aurora’s throat.
It was three times the size, the spikes even longer. If she wore that, her arm would be ravaged. She’d be lucky if there was enough of it left to heal. More likely, the mangled mess would need to be amputated. There would be no hiding such wounds from Theron.
Aurora didn’t realize she was backing away until she was stopped by the body of the paladin standing guard behind her.
Orithyia scowled.
“We don’t have time for your theatrics. You promised the general a vision.”
“I won’t have an arm left if you put that on me!” Aurora retorted.
“Which is why it will be placed on your leg. Prepare her.” Orithyia snapped her fingers.
The paladin dragged her forward and sat her down on a stool. The other clerics pulled her clothes aside to reveal her left leg and tied a tourniquet around her upper thigh.
“Wait! Stop!” Aurora cried.
The clerics stopped in their tasks, looking up to Orithyia. The high priestess sighed.
“The general nearly lost his life to receive your vision. A fleeting measure of pain is a small price to pay for all he has agreed to do for you in exchange. You will need his soldiers to subdue Drakon and the rest of the Aurean beasts. They are willing to bleed and die for you, provided you can show the same dedication. But if the pain frightens you so badly that you wish to run back to King Theron and beg for his assistance instead, by all means. My paladin will see you safely back to the gold tent.”
That wasn’t fair. She’d shamed herself publicly and taken on a lifetime’s worth of self-loathing to spare Stentor from an agonizing end.
But Orithyia hadn’t misspoken. Aurora still needed the Viridian soldiers.
She didn’t trust Theron, or his promises of aid.
Her eyes locked on the sinister contraption, and her heart hammered in her ears.
She’d sounded so strong and sure when she’d told Theron that she was willing to endure pain and suffering to see Drakon dead.
If she backed out now, she might lose the support of the Viridians—and her only chance to save Fae.
“He’ll…he’ll know if I return with such severe wounds to my body,” she said weakly.
Merciful Triad, why could she never be truly brave and strong?
“Which is why the Viridian army’s healer is with us in the tent. If that is all, we must make haste,” Orithyia said, motioning to an older woman in the armour of the Viridian royal army. “Do you consent to having a vision for General Stentor?”
Her throat suddenly dry, Aurora swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Bite down on this,” the paladin behind her said, proffering a wooden cooking spoon.
Aurora placed the wood between her teeth with a trembling hand, terror sweat coating her body as her magic surged.
“Have your soldier cast his wild magic,” Orithyia told Stentor.
“Already done,” he replied.
“Position those spikes carefully. We can’t have them piercing the bone,” Orithyia commanded.
The clerics placed the mind’s eye stone in her hand and locked the artefact around her leg.
She supposed she should be glad the stone couldn’t transmit her fear as well as the sight of her visions.
When the device activated, mind-searing pain engulfed her.
She bit down on the wooden spoon and howled in agony.
Then she was blessedly free of her physical body, torn from the tent and onto a battlefield.
Fire blazed all around her in the dark of night. Tents had been set alight, the heat stinging her skin. Screams of men and beasts alike rent the air. The heavy pounding of hoofbeats made the ground beneath her feet tremble. Trapped in the middle of the melee, Aurora searched for an escape.
But no matter which way she looked, bronze glinted in the firelight.
Clerics, attendants, nobles and soldiers alike were felled, some pierced by arrows, other with heads and limbs cut clean off.
Attackers sped through the camp, trampling the dead and wounded under the hooves of their bloodstained lopers.
Aurora choked on the acrid smoke, stumbling away from the heat of the nearby flames.
Pain lanced up her left leg, making her clumsy.
The ground beneath her feet was wet and cluttered with debris.
All it took to send her tripping was to place her next step wrong.
She landed on her side. An intricately embroidered tunic filled her vision.
But as she looked up to their face, her gaze was caught on the sight of a neck slit wide open and a face made unrecognizable by gore.
She scrambled away, looking at her hands.
It wasn’t water which she’d trekked through, but a river of blood.
A war cry captured her attention. In a clearing where the tents had been fully trampled, a warrior in full Viridian armour hacked one of the attackers to pieces, nearly cutting the enemy loper’s head clean off.
Another attacker sped towards the warrior, his sabre gleaming with fresh blood.
The Viridian let loose a torrent of flame, shrieks whipping by as the burning loper raced away.
She recognized the Viridian in spite of the chaos.
Stentor. As he turned his head, searching for more enemies, an arrow pierced his throat.
Blood ran like a waterfall from his mouth as he choked.
Several more arrows pierced him in quick succession.
He fell from his loper. The beast shied and ran off.
The next attacker who rode through the camp trampled the general’s body before he turned his eyes on Aurora.
Fear pierced her heart at the same moment as agony radiated up from her mauled leg.
She was back inside Orithyia’s tent. Tears streamed down her face, her body cold as white-hot pain forced another cry from her lips.
A cleric removed the artefact, its sharp spikes leaving her leg a gory mess of blood and gouged muscles.
Dark red pooled beneath her as her head swam.
“You promised me a vision! What in the Loom was that?! Are you threatening me?” Stentor raged.
“I can’t…control what I see,” Aurora moaned.
“Then what the fuck was that?!”
“You know as much as I do!”
She was having trouble holding her head up. Would the healer let her die just because she’d foreseen Stentor’s death?
“There must be some mistake—some trick! Her Majesty should have executed you while she had the chance, you filthy, lying bitch!”
“Calm yourself, General. As we well know, there are ways to twist the oracle’s visions to suit ourselves.
Did she foresee your death, or merely a substitute dressed as you?
What you know now is that one night on the road, we’ll be attacked.
Make your preparations accordingly,” Orithyia said, her voice even and soothing.
Stentor scowled, barely mollified. He pointed at her and glared.
“You had best hope you’re wrong, oracle. Because without my soldiers, you’ll be no more than the king’s traitorous whore.”
The general stormed out.
Aurora’s vision faded at the corners as a chill stole up her spine.
“Help,” she whispered as her strength fled her.