He let his glance drift to the Empress, then paced a slow half-circle around the bed, always keeping Laran in view. “I kept her hidden for years,” he murmured. “And all this time I wondered why you, the god of war, did not simply whisk her away to be by your side. Instead, you come here time and time again and watch her from afar.”
The air grew taut, humming with restrained violence. Shadows thickened at the edges of the frescoed walls. Laran’s nostrils flared.
“But then I remembered Tarkis’ words, and it all made sense.” Caius let the corner of his mouth curl, savouring the moment. “You once invited Andrasta into your realm, and she refused you.Thatis why she remains here.Thatis why you ordered me to make her my Empress.”
For the first time, Laran’s composure cracked. His gaze sharpened, cold and cutting. “How did you?—?”
“She talks,” Caius interrupted, his voice steady despite the lingering adrenaline. “Rambles like those prophets of old with fleeting moments of clarity. ‘I should have accepted,’ she said one late afternoon. ‘I should have stayed and saved them.’ She was wrong, of course. The Western tribes can’t be saved, not anymore. My legions will crush them. I will see to it.”
Rather than flare into rage, as was often his nature, Laran only chuckled softly and moved with unhurried grace to the low table. His shoulders were loose, posture effortless, as though Caius’ speech were no more than background noise. He poured wine into a goblet, the liquid catching the light and glowing like molten blood.
When the god’s attention slid back to him, the smile on his face was all teeth and cold amusement. “She did not mean the tribes.”
Caius paused, heart thudding, mind racing for his next move. “Oh? Her daughters, then? That’s too bad—the Omega is in my grasp.”
“Then her sister will come for her,” Laran said, swirling his wine. “Or perhaps she will come for you, Tarquinius. She intends to kill you.”
Caius let out a brittle laugh that sounded too small in the high, frescoed room. “She’s welcome to try. Last I heard, your Chosen One jumped off the cliffs of the Rodanos. Her mind went mad when she broke free of your spell, and she killed herself.She brought us a great victory, and the people will be celebrating for weeks, but it’s a shame she didn’t last as long as the others.”
“She’s stronger than you think.” Laran downed the wine in two large gulps, then grimaced.
“If she survives, my legions will find her,” Caius said smoothly. “But in the meantime, we need more Gifted.”
Laran set the cup down with deliberate calm, the glass ringing dully on the table. Shadows seemed to pool at his feet, as if the daylight feared to touch him. “I have given many of your soldiers Gifts. Why should I give more?”
Caius felt the probing in the god’s silence and tightened his smile. He smoothed his tebenna with a practised hand, buying himself a breath. “Because you cannot bring Andrasta into your realm, and I am the only mortal who can keep her safe.”
The grin vanished from Laran’s face, and with it, the air itself seemed to rupture. His presence crashed outwards, shaking the frescoed walls until flakes of paint rained down like ash. “If you touch a single hair on her head?—”
Caius jerked back, palms raised, spine pressed flat to the wall. “I have not touched her since I smuggled her from the arena into the palace.” The words tumbled out in a rush. They weren’t lies. He had kept a wary distance, knowing Laran watched over her through means he couldn’t understand. “I’ve looked after her, kept her under my roof. Naming her Empress placated the Senate. But I cannot guard her forever if enemies encircle me. I need your strength at my back—now.”
The invisible pressure lingered, crushing, then withdrew like a blade sheathed. Laran’s presence retracted, but the smile that curved his lips was worse than his wrath. He tilted his head, eyes glinting, savouring Caius’ trembling restraint. A slow, amused click of his tongue broke the silence.
“So quick to cower,” Laran drawled, tone heavy with mockery. “So quick to beg.” He prowled a step closer, shadowsdragging with him like a living mantle, and the frescoes along the chamber’s walls seemed to lean away. “You won the Rodanos River Battle. You captured the Westerners’ chief commander. Why should I lift a finger for you now?”
Caius leaned into the opening, urgency sharpening his voice. “The Achaean-Western alliance might be scattered for now, but they’ll regroup soon enough. King Pandion’s son leads them, and he will return with more men. The Achaeans have destroyed a legion already, and they can do so again. If the Empire is to endure, if you want the people’s worship, they must see Laran’s hand protecting them. The Black Helmets have thinned lately. I need six more Gifted before summer’s end. Six who can wield Laran’s Flame.”
Laran considered his words, lips quirking. “I will Gift six of your finest soldiers,” he said at last. “In return, you will stage a festival in my sister’s name. Since the attack on Velch, she is in hiding and in need of more sacrifice and worship to help her regain strength.”
“Done.” Caius’ throat tightened with the taste of victory. He would bleed every last dove and swan dry in Turan’s name if it bought him six Gifted.
Laran’s smile thinned. When he leaned closer, it was with the lazy amusement of a god who already knew how the game would end. “Six more will not be enough, Tarquinius. Not against the Omega and the Achaean Gifted. The Twelve are awakening. There are rumblings in the east. Their true names are being spread once more, and the faith that was destroyed years ago is returning.”
The mention of the Twelve sat in Caius’ belly like ice. He forced strength into his voice. “Once I kill their precious Omega, it will be too late.”
“No one is invincible,” Laran purred, “not even the gods.”
His gaze flicked to Andrasta—her beauty untouched, hair a cascade of fire about her shoulders, though the light in her eyes had long since guttered out.
It was a shame, really. She’d fought so hard to hide her daughters from the Empire, and yet she’d failed. The Omega would serve her purpose at his Triumph and die as planned, and as for the eldest—Laran had made her his Chosen and condemned her in the process. She’d lost her mind, just like her mother…
Gods and their infatuations with mortals—it never ended well. Especially when the mortal wanted nothing to do with them. Caius nearly smiled at the irony. He knew better than most how desire could turn to ruin, and how ruin could be remade into power.
Laran fixed him with a look that was equal parts bargain and warning. “Keep her safe, and you shall have your Gifted.”
The words lingered like smoke even after the god vanished.
Andrasta began to wail at once from her bed, thin and broken, the sound clawing at his nerves. Avidia, her eldest handmaiden, rushed in, casting Caius a look of silent reproach, as though he’d wrought this misery himself.
