“May I watch?”
He nods. “But remain silent.”
I walk closely beside him as the clang of steel against steel fills the air, the noise so loud it stings my ears. When we reach the railing at the edge of the balcony, I rest my hands on the weathered stone, still damp even though the rain has finally stopped. I doubt anything is ever truly dry in this place.
Peering over the edge, I’m awestruck by the sight of hundreds of Mordorin warriors below. Few are clad in full armor; most wear only leather trousers and tunics, some men standing bare-chested, their rune-inscribed skin glistening in the rare rays of sunlight that break through the clouds. My gaze drifts to the women among them, their hair tightly braided against their scalps, their muscular bodies moving with a strength and agility that stirs a quiet envy within me.
The Blades practice in formations, wielding swords, polearms or even their strapped fists, their shouts mingling with the rhythmic thud of boots on stone. When I look up, some of the Mordorin soar through the air, their movements fluid as they spar, while others hone their skills in void walking, disappearing and reappearing in an instant. Blood splatters across the courtyard as they grunt and roar, showing no mercy to one another, and it would be easy to confuse this so-called sparringwith a vicious battle, the atmosphere so thick with the thrill of combat.
As I watch, I do not doubt for one second they are masters in the art of warfare, and deserve their reputation as the fiercest warriors in all the Sundered Kingdoms. Among the throng, I spot four Mordorin wearing the shrouded helm I now recognize as belonging to a Reaper. They stand watchful and resolute at the edge of the sparring ring, their presence commanding respect. Then, suddenly, a Blade makes what must be a grave mistake. In an instant, a Reaper void walks across the courtyard, reappearing behind the Blade before delivering a brutal beating that leaves him crumpled in a bloody heap. At the same time, his brethren carry on as if nothing happened.
My throat tightens, but Arax’s shiftless expression confirms what I assume. This is common.
“Is that part of a Reaper’s duty?” I ask with a hint of disdain in my voice. “Beating your own men?”
“Better by us than the enemy. Here they will learn, so that on the battlefield they do not die.”
I turn to look at him, but his face stares straight ahead. “And how many have you beaten?”
“Not nearly enough,” he grumbles, his voice rough like gravel. “If I’d prepared them better, perhaps fewer would have fallen in the Betrayer’s Battle.”
Who are these creatures that see pain and suffering as a rite of passage? Whose only joy comes from battle and violence and cruelty? Humans could never have defeated the Mordorin in the Betrayers’ Battle. We do not know the depths of their depravity.
Arax’s expression remains stone cold, but I sense the torment simmering beneath the surface.
“It sounds like a heavy burden to be a Reaper,” I say, and my words finally coax the faintest flicker of emotion from him.
“It is a great honor,” he replies defiantly, his jaw clenched. “But one that comes with great sacrifice. A sacrifice of the flesh. A sacrifice of the spirit. A sacrifice of the heart. You may never take a mate, and your line ends with you. You swear an oath to serve and to kill until your last breath.”
“You have no children?” I ask. “No wife?”
He sneers, his expression hardening into a fierce scowl, but I once again notice the red ribbon he twists around his finger. “I’m done with your endless questions,” he snaps. “I’ll speak of it no more.”
Suddenly, I recognize something familiar in Arax—sacrifice.
It’s a word both of us know intimately, though it steals far more from us than anyone could ever understand. When Keeper Tovar told me I would leave The Grove to marry the prince, I didn’t utter a word of protest. It was my duty. But that doesn’t mean my heart didn’t shatter that day, or that I didn’t, for once, wish I wasn’t the Jewel of the Tenders.
I imagine for a Mordorin, a warrior born from a line of fierceness and strength, it must be unbearable to know his legacy ends with him. The unwavering loyalty to your people, weighed down by the quiet ache of your own desires, is a burden no one sees. But I see that same heaviness resting on Arax’s shoulders now.
A raucous from the courtyard pulls my attention, a chant rising from the crowd—Rook. Rook. Rook.
I glance over the railing, and in the heart of the chaos, there he is. The wicked crown prince of the Mordorin Fae. His leather trousers cling to his powerful legs, and a black harness crisscrosses his chest, each strap taut against the sweat-slicked ridges of his muscles. Runes pulse across every inch of his skin, shifting with each graceful, predatory step he takes toward his opponent.
Daed sweeps back his damp hair, bending low with a wicked grin, storm clouds brewing within his eyes, and a slow, simmering heat coils deep in my belly, spreading down my thighs. I force myself to focus, painfully aware of Arax standing just feet away. Thank the Souls he can’t sense the unraveling inside me.
Rook. Rook. Rook. The Mordorin continue to chant.
“What does that mean?” I ask Arax, my voice escaping as a breathless gasp.
“Smoke,” Arax replies, his voice hushed, as though the word itself carries weight. “He says on the battlefield, royal titles hold no meaning. Out there, we are all the same. So when he fights, we call himRook.”
Chapter 10
Daed circles the courtyard below, his movements a calculated prowl. His bare chest gleams beneath the overcast sky, every ripple of muscle accentuated by the sweat glistening on his skin. His runes pulse faintly, a reminder of the raw power humming beneath the surface. There's a feral intensity to his gaze, sharp as a blade and just as cold, as he sizes up his opponent, unhurried but certain, like a wolf savoring the chase before the kill.
And I, watching from above, feel it—the pull, the quiet terror, the strange, undeniable attraction. My breath quickens, a flutter in my chest like the rabbit I freed from the snare as a child. That rabbit had stared at me with wide, terrified eyes, unable to move even when I released it. Trapped not just by the rope but by the fear of what awaited it beyond.
I wonder if I’m that rabbit now, caught in a different kind of snare. Am I paralyzed by the same mix of fear and fascination? Or am I just waiting for the moment when I’m too far gone to run?
