Chapter 47 #2
The hooded figures reached the burning barricade and passed through the flames without flinching. And then—
The screaming began.
It was not the cries of battle, not the desperate shouts of men fighting for their lives.
These were raw wails of fear, shrieks of agony so visceral they scraped against Leywani’s skull.
She could only watch, helpless, as the demons descended upon the slaves with ruthless precision—silent shadows slicing through flesh like scythes through wheat.
When Leywani couldn’t take any more, she squeezed her eyes shut and clapped her hands over her ears, but it didn’t help. The screams burrowed into her bones, endless and inescapable. Her vision burned with tears, but she couldn’t shut out the horror.
Even after the last body fell and silence reclaimed the valley, the screams rang inside her head, rattling her to the core.
Back in the tent, Leywani sat stiffly, her clammy hands folded on a table half-covered in maps and scrolls.
Her racing heartbeat hadn’t calmed since they’d left the battlefield.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the hooded figures gliding through the flames, heard the slaves’ screams, their terror thick in the air like smoke.
She had never witnessed such carnage. When the Rasennans came for the Freefolk, most had been taken alive; few had fallen resisting.
But this… this had been a massacre.
Her stomach twisted, a sharp, churning ache that made her head spin and bile rise in her throat.
Velthur took one look at her and poured water into a cup. “You’re in shock.” He pressed it into her hands. “Here. Drink.”
The cool liquid slid down her parched throat. “Where’s Katell?” she croaked.
Velthur didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for a plate and filled it with food, his movements unhurried. Finally, he said, “You won’t be seeing her for a while.”
Leywani’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Why? Where is she?”
“She’s with Dalmatius and the Sixth Legion.” His tone was even. “On their way to crush the next rebellion stronghold.”
Leywani’s stomach lurched. More blood. More death. More slaughter.
And Katell at the centre of it all, powerless to stop it.
Velthur placed the plate in front of her, his dark eyes assessing. “Eat something before you pass out.”
But she couldn’t. How could she swallow anything with the taste of ash and screams still thick on her tongue?
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t like repeating myself.” His voice was quiet, but the steel beneath it left no room for argument.
She took another gulp of water, but it did nothing to wash away the horror lodged in her throat.
Velthur took a seat across from her, close enough that every movement set her on edge.
His presence filled the space, quiet yet suffocating.
The leather breastplate he wore moulded to the contours of his frame, depicting sculpted muscles she had no doubt were real underneath.
Despite their ride to the battlefield, it remained immaculate—just like him.
His gaze flicked to the scrolls scattered across the table, and with unsettling calm, he broke the seal on the first one.
He read the missive, then rolled it up with care and set it aside.
He repeated the process with the next scroll, as if the mundane task demanded the same focus as a battle strategy.
With trembling hands, Leywani nibbled a piece of flatbread, tasting nothing. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, even though Velthur’s attention remained fixed on the scrolls before him.
She had no idea what Velthur intended for her, but instinct told her to brace herself. The bruises had faded, but the memories hadn’t. She’d survived her husband, and she’d survive whatever came next. So she stiffened her spine, preparing for the worst.
Her eyes drifted to him, just at the edge of her vision. In the dim torchlight, his golden-brown skin caught the glow, making the darkness of his eyes even more striking.
She looked again, and this time, his gaze was already upon her. Two bottomless pools that revealed nothing yet seemed to strip her bare, seeing far more than she was willing to give.
Her pulse quickened as he studied her in silence. She wanted to drop her gaze, to escape the weight of his stare, but forced her head high instead, refusing to show even the smallest sign of weakness.
She was under no illusions. He held all the power. They were inside his tent, sitting at his table, eating his food. She was his to command and use as he wished—the Emperor’s words had implied as much—but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower in fear.
“Leywani, was it?”
She nodded, wary.
“Sounds Parthian.”
“It is,” she admitted after a beat. “My grandparents came from the tribes bordering the Freefolk Lands.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Did they ever teach you about the Parthian demon of wrath and violence?”
She hesitated. Her mother’s mother, her nan, had told her stories in secret when she was younger.
Camp Bessi’s elders forbade anyone from speaking of the gods, but her nan had whispered them anyway, passing down the old ways in hushed voices behind closed doors.
Even then, Leywani had sensed the danger in those tales—the reverence in her nan’s voice, laced with both fear and awe, as she spoke of things long buried.
Demons were mentioned only in daylight—and always in whispers.
“They’re just stories to scare children,” she murmured, but the words rang hollow. She didn’t believe them. Not anymore.
Velthur leaned back, his fingers tapping against the table, the rhythmic sound unsettling her. “And yet we both saw some today—Laran’s demons. The Makhai. You saw what they’re capable of.”
Leywani swallowed hard. “How many… did they kill?”
“Once the rebellion is crushed, the count will be in the thousands.”
Thousands. The word lodged itself in her chest.
“What will you do with me now?” she whispered.
He met her gaze, his dark eyes steady. “I need you to deliver a message for me.”
“A message?” She frowned. “To whom?”
A hint of a smirk ghosted across his lips. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Leywani bit her tongue to keep from snapping at him. She hated the way he spoke in half-answers, always leaving her grasping for control she didn’t have. It reminded her of her husband, who’d kept her ignorant of camp affairs and hunting trips, bending every part of her life to his will.
Velthur pushed his chair back, the soft scrape of wood against the floor making her flinch.
“Eat and get some rest.” He adjusted the folds of his deep purple cloak.
“My men are keeping watch outside. No one will bother you as long as you stay here. If you need anything, ask Lecne. Be ready to leave at first light.”
First light?
He turned for the exit, and Leywani’s heart pounded faster. “Wait!” She curled her hands into fists in her lap to keep them from trembling. “Where am I going?”
Velthur paused at the tent’s entrance. The torchlight flickered against the sharp planes of his face, casting shadows that made his expression impossible to read.
“Get some sleep,” he said over his shoulder. “You have a long journey ahead.”
And then he was gone.
Leywani didn’t see Velthur again that night, but sleep was elusive. She tossed and turned, trying to banish the image of the Makhai and the echo screams from her mind. By the time the first sliver of dawn crept through the tent’s entrance, exhaustion clung to her bones.
She had just finished lacing her boots when the flap rustled and Velthur swept inside, his presence filling the space. In one hand, he carried a waterskin; in the other, a heavy cloak.
“Put this on,” he ordered. “The mornings are still cold.”
She took the cloak from him, the fabric thick and well-worn beneath her fingers. He left without another word, expecting her to follow.
Outside, the camp stirred with the slow rise of dawn—soldiers dousing dying fires, packing supplies, tightening the straps on their armour.
Two horses stood waiting, their breath visible in the crisp morning air, saddlebags secured at their sides. Lecne and Aulus were already mounted, watching their approach.
Velthur wasted no time. He strode to the same horse she’d ridden the previous day and, before she could react, lifted her onto the saddle as if she weighed nothing. The moment she settled, he swung onto his own mount with effortless grace.
They rode out of the camp, leaving behind the legion’s banners, the rows of tents, and the soldiers preparing for another day of war.
Leywani’s pulse thundered. She didn’t ask where they were going. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Velthur had been true to his word since she’d arrived in Eluvia, and that unsettled her more than cruelty ever could have. The terrifying guard she had first encountered in Kisra—the one who’d beaten Katell and held a knife to her throat—was nowhere to be seen.
But she knew better than to let her guard down.
They rode in silence all morning, the steady rhythm of hooves their only companion. The land stretched open, hills rolling beneath a sky heavy with the threat of rain. Still, Velthur pressed them forward without pause.
By midday, they reached a river broad and deep enough to carry a fishing boat. Velthur finally drew his horse to a halt.
Leywani swallowed and tightened her grip on the reins. Her hands were stiff from the cold, her body aching from hours in the saddle. Yet discomfort wasn’t what tied her stomach in knots—it was Velthur’s stillness in the saddle and the loaded glances the other two soldiers traded.
Then, without looking at her, Velthur spoke. “Aulus, grab the girl.”
Leywani’s breath turned to ice.
“With pleasure,” Aulus said, his tone threaded with cruel amusement.
Panic surged. She kicked her leg over the saddle, scrambling to dismount—but before she could take a step, rough hands clamped around her arms.