Chapter 4
Kovograd, Zagadka
Kassandr Rurik braced against the whip’s stinging lash.
Wildfire raced across his bared back, and he jerked against his leather restraints.
Within him, his beast snarled and lunged, desperate to be let free.
But that’s what his father wanted, and Kassandr would not give him the satisfaction of losing control.
His father and half brother had gathered in the red room, a smaller, more intimate setting than the grandiose great hall, to witness this special punishment.
As its name would suggest, the room was red, from the hand-painted walls to the carved, arched roof.
Between the flickering light from the hearth and the dozens of candles lit about the space, the room seemed to glow.
But Kassandr could think of nothing but blood.
A dais was located on the west side of the room, where his father, the high prince of Zagadka, sat with Kassandr’s half brother Oleg.
While the high prince watched Kassandr’s whipping with stern displeasure, Oleg seemed to revel in it, drinking wine from a jeweled goblet, and snacking on grapes imported from the Southern Continent.
Avoiding his father’s disapproving eyes, Kassandr focused his gaze on the three arched windows behind the man.
Their frames were carved with red swirls and botanical patterns, reminding him he was back in Zagadka.
Kassandr used this comfort to keep his mind from the fact that he was clad in naught but his breeches, his wrists cuffed to twin posts.
But it was impossible to forget Kresimir with the whip at the ready, pacing restlessly. The whip dragged across the floorboards, and Kassandr decided that anticipation of the next lash was a punishment all of its own.
As he gazed out the window, a russet leaf drifted by.
The Autumn Crone’s reign was ending, with Father Winter’s stirrings felt in the timber flooring beneath Kassandr’s bare feet and in the dank, chill air.
Despite this, Kassandr’s back was aflame.
He shifted, trying to relieve some of the pressure from his wrists, but no position brought him comfort. That was the point of this, after all.
Again, Kassandr’s beast yowled, urging him to burrow down within himself, away from the pain. But he couldn’t go there now, not without handing control to the raging beast inside him. And that would mean they won.
“Tell me again, son, why you think yourself wiser than me?” The fury in his father’s voice had been a slow-building storm throughout this ordeal, and now it neared its crescendo.
“They took Nostislav.”
Kassandr’s throat was so scratched from bellowing that he scarcely sounded like himself. It was maddening, this game they must play. Did his father truly think Kassandr’s answers would change? No matter how many strips of flesh Kresimir’s whip tore from his back, they would remain the same.
While Kassandr described Nostislav as “like a brother,” the truth was far more complicated.
The love Kassandr held in his heart for the man was far from brotherly.
And though Nostislav had never shown any inkling of returning his affection, Kass had never given up hope that one day, that might change.
But no matter how one-sided Kassandr’s longings might have been, when Nostislav was taken, it hadn’t been a question.
Kassandr would do whatever it took to get him back.
To return from íseldur without Nostislav was the worst sort of pain.
At the very least, he had answers. Nostislav was buried in the place called Svaldrin, Magnus had told him.
It was little consolation that Kassandr had torn the vile man’s throat out a few minutes later.
It was too easy a fate for those who’d killed Nostislav.
And yet Kassandr hadn’t returned from íseldur empty-handed.
He’d returned with a chilling understanding of precisely what fate Zagadka would suffer should they remain complacent.
After the time he’d spent in íseldur, Kassandr understood—Zagadka needed allies; it needed to ready itself for the inevitable.
Sooner or later, King Ivar would come for them.
But more than all that, he’d brought her.
The brush of air against his blazing back had Kassandr bracing against the whip’s brutal onslaught. His roar of pain echoed off the red walls as his vision bloomed white. Heaving for breath, Kassandr fought back his beast as it lunged and snarled within him.
Kill, it growled. Kill. Kill!
“Do you know”—the high prince’s voice pierced through pain’s veil—“we have received a letter from íseldur. From King Ivar himself.”
His beast faltered at that, and Kassandr’s brows drew together.
“He accuses us of treachery. Of playing at diplomacy while plotting his death. Did you know that, my son?” The fury in his father’s voice broke free in the last few words.
“We did nothing of the sor—” Kass’s breath seized in his lungs as Kresimir’s whip tore across his back. The beast inside him raged, clawing at its cage. But Kassandr allowed the pain to engulf him, unwilling to grant them victory.
“We must send the girl back,” came Oleg’s nasal voice. Kassandr longed to sink fangs into his half brother’s flesh. Of course Oleg would side with their father—he’d made no secret of just how unsuited he thought Kassandr as the heir.
It was not supposed to be like this. The throne was meant for Kass’s older brother, Radomir.
In truth, Kass would have abdicated were it not for Oleg, who shared his father’s belief that Zagadka could remain safe by keeping to the old ways.
They had no interest in modernizing, nor in gaining allies.
But Oleg did not know what Kassandr did with new, frightening certainty—there was no hiding from these Urkans.
They would come, and the only question was, would the Zagadkians stand and fight, or would they flee?
“We will not send Saga back—” The whip cracked against his back, cutting through Kassandr’s words as easily as his flesh. Pain screamed through him, becoming his world, and his beast shoved with increasing desperation. How much longer could he keep it at bay?
Sucking in a breath, he forced out, “We must do what is right.”
“When have you ever done what is right, Kassandr?” Oleg, again, the spite so evident in his voice. “You do only what pleases you. You see a pretty thing and you take it for yourself, with no concern for the safety of your people.”
Despite Oleg’s words, Kassandr was unshaken in his choice. Taking Saga had been much like chasing after Nostislav—he felt down to the marrow of his bones it had been the right thing to do.
“The Urkans will come for us,” Kassandr argued, bracing as his beast threw itself against his rib cage. “Who better to have by our side than the one who was raised by them? Think of the knowledge she—”
“King Ivar thinks Zagadka tried to kill him!” exclaimed his father, rising to his feet and beginning to pace.
“If we send the girl back,” said Oleg, “we might prove our innocence. Perhaps with an extra boatload of grains; a tribute of ore and silver. Let us try for peace before we resort to violence.”
The rage of his beast melded with Kassandr’s own. “You are no fool, Father. The Urkans will come for us now, or they will come for our children. Better we die fighting than throw our descendants to the wolves.”
Silence followed in the wake of his bold words, but Kass could sense his father’s anger gathering. Even Kresimir paused in his pacing, as though readying himself for the high prince’s wrathful order.
“It seems my son has not learned his lesson!” bellowed his father. “He shows no remorse for bringing danger to our doorstep. Another ten lashes, Kresimir.”
Boots thudded, and Kassandr managed a single deep breath before losing himself to the whip’s fury.
His beast yelped and howled, snapping its jaws and gnashing its teeth.
He was so lost in the pain, he could not find his way through it.
The slavering beast grew louder, stronger.
Tattoos pulsed and stretched out along his bare arms, and Kassandr knew he was losing the battle to his beast. But the whip suddenly stilled, leaving him disoriented.
Before he could question why Kresimir had stopped, her scent hit his nostrils, so potent it was dizzying.
Saga Volsik’s íseldurian rang through the silence. “Oh, I…I must have the wrong room.”
Kassandr blinked, trying to claw his way back to himself.
Mine! howled his beast, ceasing its thrashing.
He was strung to a pole, his back a pulpy mass of hot agony, and Kassandr winced.
She’d followed the clues he’d left for her—the mention of the red room when last they’d met; the strategically lit torches leading her straight here.
Saga must have discovered her unlocked door; that her guards were not at their usual post. But he hadn’t meant for her to find him like this.
“Excuse me,” she said tremulously, and the door clicked shut.
Kassandr gritted his teeth as he tugged against his restraints. Had she left?
But the door swung open once more, determined footfalls striking the floor. “No. I—I cannot leave him like—” Saga sighed in frustration and tried again. “You must release him. Let him see a healer.”
“What does she say?” asked his father in Zagadkian.
“She tells you—to release me,” was Kassandr’s broken reply.
His father’s laughter was like knives in his skin, and Kassandr could feel Saga’s apprehension.
It had taken much courage for her to leave her rooms and reach this place, and now, because of Kassandr’s poor planning, she’d be further distressed.
His beast let out a plaintive wail. He longed to comfort her.
To let her know the ruination of his back was nothing he hadn’t faced many times before in his life.