She didn’t know what kind of training Laran had in mind, or if she could trust him. Every instinct screamed at her to run—but if this was the only way to escape his realm, return to the mortal world, and stop whatever horrors the Emperor had in store, she had no choice but to follow.
She straightened her shoulders. “What kind of training are we talking about?”
His grin sharpened. In one fluid motion, he swung his massive blade from his shoulder, the crimson light glinting off its edge. “The kind that will help you embrace your immortal side.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
LEYWANI
Leywani paced the length of the tent, her movements restless, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. The heavy fabric walls did little to muffle the distant clash of steel and shouts of soldiers outside—a constant reminder of where she was: in the middle of a legion’s camp.
The Sixth, to be exact.
She’d been brought here with Katell, had tended to her wounds, done everything she could to help. And now they had taken her away. Dressed her for battle and led her into the fray.
And Leywani could do nothing to stop it.
Her stomach twisted. She blew out a breath, forcing her hands still, but the unease only coiled tighter in her chest.
Then, without warning, harsh sunlight slashed through the tent as the entrance shifted. A tall shadow stepped inside. The flap fell shut behind him, plunging the space back into flickering torchlight. Leywani’s vision swam while her eyes adjusted, yet she didn’t need clarity to know who stood before her.
Broad shoulders. Impeccable armour. A presence like a blade drawn in silence.
Velthur.
The strange light played across his chiselled features, enhancing the unsettling beauty that made him so unnerving.
Leywani froze. Sharp fear lashed through her, but she swallowed it down. He had never summoned her in Kisra, and she’d let herself hope—foolishly hope—that he’d forgotten about her.
But he hadn’t.
In a voice as smooth as it was commanding, he said, “Come closer.”
Leywani hesitated, then lifted her gaze, taking him in.
He was handsome—but not in a way that brought comfort. Dalmatius radiated power, impossible to ignore, but Velthur’s presence was different. Quieter. More precise.
He stood by the entrance, half-veiled in torchlight, his purple cloak pooling around him like a shadow. A servant had told her he was captain of the Tarquinian Guard, which explained the distinction of his cloak. But it wasn’t only the colour that set him apart. Back in the temple, the Emperor had addressed him differently from the others—with a familiarity that signalled not just respect, but also trust.
That was what unsettled her the most.
A nerve-wracking silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken intent. Velthur’s dark eyes—bottomless, assessing—fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel as though he were sifting through her thoughts.
At last, he spoke. “You’re familiar with Laran’s Chosen, yes?” His voice was calm, the kind that didn’t need to rise to command attention.
Leywani swallowed, forcing herself to nod. “Yes.”
“She’s your childhood friend?”
Another nod.
“And her sister? I believe her name is Alena. You know her?”
Leywani hesitated. A trap. Or maybe just a test. Either way, she wasn’t sure what the right answer was. But Velthur had already guessed the truth—there was no point in lying.
She lifted her chin. “Yes.”
“She has joined the Achaean rebels and now travels with them to the Western Lands.”
