Chapter 85
GRAESON
Time stood still as Graeson watched Kalisandre look out toward the hill. The truth was no longer deniable as she witnessed the man sitting atop a black stallion, the horns of his helmet gleaming in the sunset.
This army wasn’t Sebastian’s. It never had been. Sebastian might have been their commander, but their true ruler—the one orchestrating this entire battle—stood before the castle’s gates.
As if sensing their attention on him, Domitius snapped his reins, spurring his horse into action. The heavy iron gate slammed shut as he disappeared beyond the hill, swallowed by the shadows.
A tumultuous storm came to life in Kallie’s eyes. She made to move, but Graeson grabbed her hand before she could head after Domitius.
"Kal, wait."
"Let me go!" she urged.
"So you can do what?" Graeson demanded, his heart thundering. "Charge through his army of soldiers, who are clearly under his command?"
Kalisandre had to have noticed it too—the way the enemy soldiers fought with an inhuman focus. None of Graeson’s victims flinched or begged for mercy when his blades were at their necks. They simply gave their lives to the cause, allowing the soldiers behind them to take their place.
At first, Graeson hadn’t given their behavior much thought.
But as the fighting wore on, it gnawed at him.
Most men fought to survive, but these soldiers—both the winged ones and the wingless—were practically sacrificing themselves, as if their lives were nothing more than offerings for someone else’s victory.
When he had seen Armen grab Kallie, Graeson charged. He cut down one enemy after another.
As he drove his sword through a soldier’s stomach, the man’s gaze locked onto Graeson.
Before the light within them went out, a familiar milky haze coated the soldier’s brown eyes.
It had made no sense. Kalisandre was on their side, yet there was no mistaking what he had seen.
It was the mark of being manipulated. He had seen it in Kallie’s past victims. But Kallie was not the one controlling them.
Then Graeson heard Armen say that Sebastian was just a pawn, that they all were. And between the fits of laughter, Armen sputtered, so softly that Kalisandre’s mortal ears could not hear, "He lives."
Armen’s words were sticky and incomprehensible at first. But then Graeson looked up. And there was the bull king, sitting astride his horse, wearing that accursed helmet.
Kallie tugged, trying to free her hand from Graeson’s tight grip. "I have to do something!"
Thousands of men stood between them and Domitius. By the time they fought their way through the horde, Domitius would be long gone. He peered down the alley.
There was one other way, though.
Graeson took a deep breath. "I’ll take you," he said, loosening his grip.
"Excuse me? I’m not going back to the camp! I will not abandon Frenzia! I will not—"
"Come on," he said, slipping his hand into hers and pulling her behind him.
"Where are we going?" Kallie demanded as they slipped down an alley.
Graeson stopped at a ladder that led to the roof. "To go kill that fucking bastard once and for all."