He paced, fists curling at his sides. “I was born in Megara, yet my parents were Cretans. That made me a foreigner in my own city. The Megarians—so proud and noble—looked down on their own queen. Imagine how they treated a bastard child Gifted by a lesser god. I was treated like a dog.”
Alena’s grip tightened, her breath sharp. She understood that pain—being an outsider, always half-belonging. She had survived it, risen above it. So had Leukos. But this man had let bitterness consume him.
And unlike Nik, who bore his past like a chain and sought to make amends, this praefect revelled in it. He wore his betrayal like armour, almost smug.
It made her sick.
His eyes gleamed, dark and bright all at once. He lifted his hands, wind curling around his fingers like serpents.
“But the Rasennans?” he said. “They have ambition. They didn’t care about my blood. They saw my power for what it was.”
The gusts sharpened, tearing at Alena’s tunic, stinging her cheeks. Her hair whipped into her eyes. The air roared, rising into a column behind him like a summoned storm.
“I was Gifted by the Bringer of Storms,” he thundered, “the Destroyer of Crops. Andtheydidn’t fear me—they welcomed me.”
Alena’s heart pounded as she braced herself. All around her, the slaves flinched. The soldiers only grinned, as if the storm were entertainment.
“In the Rasennan army,” the praefect bellowed over the gale, “I’m a god among soldiers. Feast your eyes upon my strength!”
A fork of lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the spiralling wind. Dread slammed into Alena. She turned to run—every instinct screamed for her tomove—but the storm struck first, hurling her skywards like a rag doll.
She tumbled through the air, screaming, battered by gravel and dust. Her sword was gone. The world spun in a blur of grit and pain—then the wind vanished, and gravity claimed her.
She hit the frozen earth with bone-jarring force.
Pain exploded through her ribs, her back flaring with fire. She rolled onto her side and retched.
Before she could gather herself, a sharp gust twisted around her ankle and yanked. Her palms scraped raw as she was dragged, gravel tearing her skin, her cry lost in the soldiers’ jeers.
She landed hard at the praefect’s feet, coughing blood and dust.
A hobnailed boot came down hard on the side of her neck, pressing her cheek into the ice-crusted dirt. Her pulse thundered beneath his heel.
“Had enough yet?” he asked, triumph carved into his face. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword like a conqueror cast in bronze. “You’ve lasted longer than any slave I’ve had to punish.”
Anger ignited, snapping her mind into sharp focus. She gripped his boot with both hands, her fingers digging into the worn leather, but her strength was waning. All she could manage was to keep the pressure from crushing her windpipe, her breath rasping in shallow, desperate gasps.
“Alena!”
A voice cried her name—male, strained—but she couldn’t place it.
“Alena?” Gortynius echoed, recognition sparking in his voice. A dark chuckle followed. “Oh, the Emperor will be pleased. The rebel girl who brought down Bruna’s arena.”
She froze, dread twisting tight in her chest. How did he know that?
The praefect crouched lower. “Yes, I’ve heard all about you. The Ninth Legion said they were sent to clean up your little rebellion. Took their time, too—rounding up the ones you thought you’d saved.”
“You’re lying,” she snarled. The rebels had told her the slaves escaped before the legions arrived. She believed them. Shehadto.
But he wasn’t finished.
“Shame you didn’t make it back in time for your sister.” His smile turned cruel. “We hear she’s doing quite well now, leading the Black Helmets.”
Alena stilled. Their leader?
“Laran’s Chosen, they call her. But with a face like hers…” His voice slithered with venom. “The men prefer another name. Laran’s whore. Did you know?”
Something inside Alena snapped.
