CHAPTER FOUR
My muscles are trembling with fatigue by the time I make it home. The vampire is once again leaning against our door, Carrick standing next to him, eyeing him distrustfully, my brothers positioned behind his large frame.
The street is quiet, our neighbors nowhere to be seen. But I catch a face pressed to a window in the apartment above ours. When I raise an eyebrow, the face disappears.
I return my attention to my brothers. “Go inside and make sure you’ve got everything you need,” I murmur. “Carrick will help you.”
Carrick’s face darkens further at that, but he follows my brothers into the house.
At this point, I have no leverage. But vampires are sly and cunning. It’s in their nature to ruin lives. A simple word in the wrong place, and I could spend the rest of my life as Bran’s slave.
Bran leans close enough that I can catch the faint scent of blood on his breath. The air around him is several degrees colder, which means he is a direct descendant of a First—one of the vampires created by Umbros himself all those centuries ago.
Typically, the older a vampire is, the more power they have. But that’s not always true. I’ve heard of centuries-old vampires who can barely manage a basic shield, while others just a few years turned will radiate raw, untamed power.
Those who are sired by the Firsts are powerful from the moment they begin to transition. And those who are naturally born of the Firsts?
I shiver. Bran gives me a pleased smile.
“Here are the terms of our agreement: You will enter the Sundering as a gladian. While you’re training with the other gladians, I will attempt to give you information that may help you in your task.
You will not strike at the emperor until after the Sundering, when I say it is time.
You will not tell the Primus of your plans.
You will not warn either him or the emperor. ”
He pauses, as if waiting for me to argue, and I stare at him. The Primus is the leader of the imperius—the emperor’s elite cohort.
“I may not be a trained assassin, but I’m not an idiot.”
“Once the emperor is dead, I will heal your brother and release both of them. You may join them in the north.”
“No. Evren can’t wait that long. I want him healed now.”
Bran slowly peels himself away from the door. “And lose my leverage? No.”
“We both know you’ll still be holding my brothers hostage. That’s more than enough leverage.”
His smile is small, pleasant, his fangs tucked neatly away. “A compromise. Your brother’s lungs will be healed once you have completed the Sundering.”
“No.”
His eyes harden. “Yes.”
My nails slice into my palms, and I release my clenched fists before Bran smells blood. He just ensured I can’t throw any of the challenges. I’ll have to win all three in order for Evren to be cured.
I let out a low growl. “There are thousands of people training to be in this exact position. And likely hundreds more who could get close to the emperor. Why did you decide to stalk me?”
He frowns at the word stalk. “Anyone who has made it this far and entered the emperor’s arena is already there for their own reasons. You, however, don’t want to be there. You were never planning to be there. Which makes your hands clean. Exactly what I need for my purposes.”
A chill slides down my spine. Every move I’ve made was to ensure I’d never have to fight for the emperor again. It’s bitterly ironic that those very steps have led me right back to this exact situation.
Can I really become a cold-blooded murderer?
Evren’s face flashes before my eyes, his lips blue, the muscles in his neck straining as he fights for air.
I take a deep breath. Vallius Corvus is a monster.
His obsession with conquering and collecting kingdoms to force beneath his own banner has cost countless lives—both in Senthara and across this continent.
And when force doesn’t work, he sends his imperius out to persuade foreign rulers to hand over their crowns.
His taxes are crippling. He provides few services to the poorest of his subjects, all while bragging about the progress he has created within the empire.
But most important …
He’s the reason Kassia is dead.
Meanwhile, Bran took one look at the Thorn—at my life—and decided I was nothing but a tool he could use for his purposes.
He thinks I’m weak. Broken. Easily manipulated.
He’s going to learn otherwise.
To his credit, Bran doesn’t draw it out. He rattles off our amended agreement, then leans down, one cold hand taking my chin and tilting my head with practiced ease. His sharp fangs sink into my neck.
My hand slides instinctively down toward my knife. Bran catches my wrist, squeezing until it cracks.
A scream rips from my throat, and he releases me. “Must you be so difficult about everything?” Sharp teeth slice into his own wrist, and I instantly shake my head, stepping back.
With a sigh, Bran moves too fast for me to evade. He shoves his wrist against my mouth, clamping his hand onto the back of my head and holding me in place.
“Shall I pinch your nose the way you pinched your brother’s?” Bran’s blood pours into my mouth, burning through my body. My wrist cracks again, the bones welding back together, and I cry out, the sound muffled against his skin.
He pulls his arm away, casually sealing his wound with the flick of his tongue.
It has been a long, long time since I last drank vampire blood.
Cool sheets. Warm skin. The sharp, coppery taste of my own blood as he kissed me like he would never let me go.
I push the memories away. My entire body is buzzing, my bruises gone. I’d almost forgotten just how miraculously vampire blood heals fresh injuries.
Bran smiles at me, my blood coating his teeth. “Delicious, hmm?”
Fury surges through me. Reaching for my water flask, I swish my mouth, spitting leftover blood on the ground between us. “I’ve had better.”
His eyes turn cold. “Some gratitude would not be unwelcome.”
I tuck my water flask away. “For healing the wrist you broke?”
He curls his lip at me. “It’s time to go.”
Bran doesn’t attempt to wrangle an invitation inside, and I slam the door in his face. In the kitchen, Carrick sits slumped at the table, Gerith and Evren waiting quietly across from him, canvas bags by their sides. They’re pale, shell-shocked. My heart twists.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell them. Ducking into my room, I search the back of the closet for the whispering mirrors I bought six years ago. The mirrors I bought because I missed Tiernon so desperately when he wasn’t around, I wanted to be able to talk to him daily.
My mouth floods with bitterness and I swallow it down, placing one of the mirrors into my bag, along with weapons and clothes.
“Don’t do this, Velle,” Evren says behind me. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he stands tall. Thanks to Bran’s blood, he looks stronger today than he has for months. Years.
I haul my bag over one shoulder and hold out my arms. He steps into them.
“It’s going to be fine.”
My brother shakes his head, burying his face against my shoulder. When did he get so tall?
“I don’t want you to die.”
I ease him away until I can look down into his face. Something in my chest wrenches at the devastation in his eyes. “I swear to you, I will do whatever it takes to stay alive, Ev. You’re going to go and get healed, and then I’ll come and find you.”
“Do you promise?” Gerith asks, leaning against the door.
“I promise. But if they hurt you—if they go back on their word—run. Look and listen for any opportunity you can. If you need to escape, go. I’ll find you. I’ll always find you. Promise me.”
Both of my brothers look spooked. But they promise.
“Did you talk to Leon?” Evren whispers, his brow furrowed.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m hoping he will come with me.”
“He’ll keep you safe,” Evren says, but his voice cracks. He meets my eyes, and I wrap my arms around him, squeezing tight.
Gerith’s gaze drops to my ankle, his eyes worried.
I wink at him. “I drank vampire blood.”
His nose wrinkles and he gags dramatically. I can’t help but smile. “My ankle feels better than it has in years.”
“But it’s not fixed.”
“No.” Vampire blood is miraculous for fresh injuries. But my ankle was never set properly by a healer all those years ago.
Gerith gags some more. Evren laughs. It’s forced, but it’s a laugh.
“Vampires rarely give their blood to humans,” I say. “You’re just jealous.”
Leaning over, I hand Evren the second mirror. “Take this. I’ll be able to talk to you every day.” As long as I win enough money to replenish the aether in my mirror.
Three challenges. That’s all the Sundering is. I win the tria proeliis, and I can leave. As long as I kill the emperor too.
I have the strangest urge to burst into unhinged laughter.
Kill the emperor.
The very idea is absurd.
Grabbing my bag, I steady myself and follow my brothers into the main room.
Carrick is waiting, and I gesture for him to follow me into the kitchen.
“If something happens to me …”
“It won’t.”
“If it does—”
“I know. I’ll find them and make sure they’ll be safe. I’ve got contacts in the north, and I’m going to try to make sure someone will keep an eye on them. Gods, Arvelle …” He swipes a hand through his hair.
“I have to look at this as an opportunity. It’s everything I’ve wanted for my brothers. Evren will be healed. Both of them will be safe, and unless the emperor succeeds in adding Nesonias to his empire, they’ll never have to fight in the Sands.”
“Velle.” He’s looking at me like I’m a ghost.
“As fascinating as this is, it’s time to go,” Bran’s voice comes from the open door behind us.
Carrick leans close. “Keep your head down, your eyes open, and fight for your life,” he mutters.
I nod. “Goodbye, Carrick.”
His face is tight as he watches us leave. And I’m more than happy to go. The last thing I need is anyone else looking at me like I’m already dead.