Chapter Forty-Four
Jasce
The acrid stenchof smoke and death hits me before I see it. My horse stomps his feet as we crest the hill, and the devastation spreads before us.
Where homes once stood, only skeletal foundations remain. Wisps of smoke still curl from the wreckage. Gardens that once burst with life are now nothing but scorched earth. Broken pottery and twisted metal litter what used to be the town square.
But it’s the charred bodies scattered across the ground that makes my stomach churn. They lie twisted in unnatural positions, their flesh melted away, leaving behind blackened forms that barely resemble humans. Some are curled into tight balls, as if trying to shield themselves from the inferno. Others lie sprawled, arms reaching toward escape that never came.
One corpse catches my eye—a man still clutching what appears to be a child’s wooden toy. The heat fused it to his skeletal fingers. Another lies face-down in what was once his doorway, likely trying to save his family.
“By the gods,” Jude breathes beside me.
I dismount, then kneel beside a fallen man. Burns cover his skin, but it’s the expression of pure horror etched on his face that makes my stomach turn.
This wasn’t a battle—it was a slaughter.
“Jasce.” Reeve’s voice cracks as he emerges from a collapsed home. “There are very few women and children among the dead.”
I curl my fingers into fists. These were my people, and I failed them.
If only I had caught up to Asha and Aleksander before this happened.
A child’s scorched doll lies in the dirt nearby. I pick it up as fury rises in my chest.
“This was…” Jude’s voice cuts off as he shakes his head. He cannot bring himself to say it, but it doesn’t mean we’re both not thinking it.
Annora…
Aleksander forced Annora to use her Phoenix.
“Find survivors,” I say to my men. “And track which direction they took the women and children.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Aleksander
For two days,I’ve tried to forget the way Annora glared at me after I ordered her to destroy that village—her eyes smoldering with hatred and revulsion.
Time and again, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Her opinion is meaningless. Yet every time I close my eyes, that look resurfaces, reminding me of my father.
Does she know what she has done? How she has reopened wounds I’ve spent summers trying to cauterize?
Probably not.
Torchlight flickers across the canvas walls as I pace the length of my tent. Still, Annora’s eyes haunt me, pierce me, accuse me.
Damn her.
I pull out the false gold and squeeze my fingers around it.
“You’re the fool, Alek. The spare who doesn’t matter.”
I grit my teeth, trying to silence my father’s voice, but it refuses to be silenced.
“Brooding doesn’t suit you.”
I turn to find Kythara standing at the entrance of my tent, arms crossed, dark eyes fixed on me. As usual, she wears blackarmor, but it does little to hide the henna tattoos that wrap around her hands and wrists. Today, only dark, bold lines, and swirls adorn her skin—no shapes, no patterns.
