9. Before Reign of T（error） #3
The strongest of the elite Royal Mages were thought to be related, some families more powerful than others, but it was unclear how many Royal Mages the Empire had.
Some estimated only a handful, since no more than two or three ever attacked at the same time; others hypothesized there were hundreds of them, but only the strongest warriors, related to the Emperor, battled in the Storm Wars.
Sharing the same bone structure and uniquely colored eyes, Tarantula and Aleksander were definitely cousins, maybe even brothers.
What strange, deceptive games they play.
Trying not to throw up from the intensity of sudden understanding, I pressed the mask back onto his face. His machinations were obscene.
I brought my knife up to an old ridge in the middle of his neck, choosing the best angle. Enough is enough. Time to end it all.
Beneath my hand, Tarantula’s chest rose and fell, his heart beating strong, even though my other dagger was still buried deep in his gut. Royal Mages were notoriously hard to kill, but “heads will fall” was a popular saying because decapitation worked.
The blade cut through the top layer of skin like butter.
He deserved to die.
For Aurora.
It was just a throat, the same as a dire fox’s, and all I had to do was push my blade clean through.
A little deeper. I’d sever his windpipe, hack through the spinal cord.
I’d done it countless times before, and it was practically muscle memory.
For her. I pushed my dagger deeper, rage an endless static in my head.
My hand shook.
“Please don’t do this,” Mom begged. “You’re not like them.”
Tarantula was less honorable than the most rabid dire coyote and more monstrous than any growling dire bear. Ending him would be a service to all Antichthon. My facial scars tingled.
“Kill him, Zora,” I whispered, tensing every muscle as I began to—
I shoved the unconscious body.
Swearing, I kicked snow and stumbled away. Heaving with desperation, I hung my head, clutching my pounding temples.
“Zora?” Mom said hesitantly as I gasped louder, fighting through a surge of raw panic.
“I can’t . . . kill him.” My voice cracked. The only friend I’d ever had was dead by his hand. I was a monster for not ending a monster, but doing so would surely make me into one.
Right. Right?
Mom shook her head. “You’re brave, Zora. You have the heart of a dire lion. There is fierceness in justice, humanity, and kindness. You are not cruel like them . . . You are stronger.”
Then why do I feel so weak?
Mom was too kind for her own good, and my inclinations were violent. One of us chased peace, and the other adrenaline. The spectrum of womanhood: she worried about my safety, while I hunted to ensure hers. Now, because of me, we were both damned.
Wiping desperately at the tears that hadn’t stopped falling since I’d discovered Aurora, I tried to stop the tremble in my hands.
“We’ll take him as a hostage,” I whispered miserably, slightly mollified that I could still torture him.
A few minutes later, with blood and tears frozen across my face, Squire balanced on top of my head as I yanked Tarantula’s heavy arms behind his wide back. I tied them together with the rope he’d used to secure the furs.
Grunting, I slowly dragged him by the feet out of the woods. The black dire horse stood at the edge of the rushing river, waiting. Panting, I positioned Tarantula with his back slung across the horse’s wide flank, the hilt of my dagger protruding up from his stomach.
Gathering piles of snow, I packed them over Aurora, hiding her from the animals, while Mom sang one of the old god’s hymns:
“Up the Mountain Ravine we travel,
Our souls drawn to the wondrous view,
But the rocks are jagged, not gravel,
And our bodies will fall, into the blue.”
Squire chirped mournfully while I fell to my knees, head bowed, hands clasped with tears frozen on my cheeks.
Mom laid her hand on my shaking shoulder, muttering prayers no one used anymore.
She was the only person I’d ever met who believed the old god had not abandoned us, despite all evidence to the contrary.
The wind picked up, sharp and biting. We needed to get out of here before Pestilence came back from wherever he’d disappeared to. Mom insisted I take the saddle, but I wouldn’t hear of it.
The entire way back to the Commune, I wondered why I couldn’t kill a man who deserved to die, and I wondered if Aurora would ever forgive me.
When we finally got back and delivered Tarantula to the council, Manto was ecstatic. He insisted on immediately documenting the capture. Despite my protests and worry for Mom, he ushered me into the master painter’s office, which was how I found myself posing while woozy with grief.
Marge battled the canvas with her brush as I kneeled on one leg, holding Tarantula’s torso up by his tangled curls, my bicep straining. His platinum earrings clattered together as I bore his dead weight like a prize, dagger still protruding from his stomach.
There was no duty of care for the damned, but I wasn’t sure which of us was worse off. I was gutted to the soul.
The rumor that Royal Mages were more difficult to kill than normal people was true, because Tarantula should have been dead from blood loss, but every time I touched his pulse, it beat strong beneath his feverish skin.
He was a corpse. He was a god. A corpse of a god? Iron flooded my mouth as I bit down too hard on my tongue.
Squire rested peacefully, snoring on my straining shoulder as my muscles cramped with despair.
Marge gestured with her brush. “Lift him higher.”
I yanked harder, curls coming out in my fist, still despairing over why I couldn’t kill him. His existence was a stain on my hands. An awful, wounded sound wrenched from my throat, and Squire peeked an eye open as he wobbled, chirping with distress.
“It’s done,” Marge announced.
Thud. I threw Tarantula down onto the stone floor, wiped my hands off on my pant leg with utter disgust, and spit on him. My mucus was bloody.
Numbly I headed back to Manto’s office on stiff legs. I needed to arrange protection for Mom because the Emperor’s threat was clear—I had to leave the North. Manto would have to find a new hunter.
They will not win.
I was now old enough to serve in the military; I’d reached the socially proper age to die, violently, for the Commonwealth. Lucky damned girl. Hurting one man wasn’t enough for me, not anymore. I needed to scream while kneeling amid the ashes of the fallen Draconis Empire.
It was time to head south and join the Crimson Army.
Rule of survival: Fight.