Augustus flicked him under the chin. “That’s enough. People are staring.”
The peoplewerestaring. While he strolled across the docks looking for any sign of Blaze, the locals palmed the knives and swords sheathed on their belts. They were a striking people with dark brown skin, perfect teeth, and the confidence of a viper.
Aside from their skin color, the Okosians reminded Augustus of Pereans. The men wore short chiton tunics made of light linen fabrics, and the women were similarly outfitted in flowing garments—peplos and himations that fell to their ankles. But where Pereans preferred their colors to be bright or pale, Okosian fabrics were dyed in deep reds, blacks, and indigos.
Gus sniffed at the air as if tracking something, but Augustus couldn’t guess what. The docks had the usual salted breeze with hints of fish, tar, and wood. His body fluttered again.
“What iswith you?” he snapped at the dronsian.
“Augustus.”
He turned toward the call at his back.
Blaze strode toward him, flanked by his Rangers. Despite the warmer temperatures, they still dressed their part in all that leather and gear. Ready to battle any monster, any time.
“Good news,” Blaze said, combing back his windblown hair. “They’re here, and they’re between jobs.”
“They” were the Bladesworn Triumvirate. Three men who commanded a highly skilled mercenary force. They were ruthless and effective.
And expensive.
“Seventy-five percent up front,” Blaze continued with a frown. “Thorne’s latest victory has made thorough rounds.”
“Fair enough. Whatever it takes.”
“And they want whatever they can salvage from Thorne’s fleet when it’s all said and done.”
“They can have it all. I don’t care about any of that.”
Blaze nodded. “I already agreed to the terms.”
Roslyn gave a nod to Augustus’s right. “Here they come.”
To Augustus’s left, Oskar appeared with his half-dozen Blades to his back, his keen eyes on the three powerfully built mercenaries. They were like night and day. The Blades in their simple black tunics, hoods, and weapons.
The Bladesworn Triumvirate made a man stop and blink, and none were dressed like the other.
At the head, the tallest and oldest man with black skin and white hair wore a steel chestplate over a dark tunic and fitted leather pants. The sword across his back was made from heavy iron that required both arms to swing.
The next man, pale-skinned and blond, wore more flexible gear—armor made from leather, studded with metal plates, that was scarred and battered. He wore a sleeveless tunic beneath his armor, showing off his thick, tattooed arms. He was armed with only a leather belt strapped full of daggers.
The final, brown-skinned man had to be as young as Augustus and was the closest to resembling one of the Blade assassins. He wore black leather armor over a black tunic and a black hooded cloak. He was armed with throwing knives and a short sword.
Blaze began the introductions as soon as the men stopped, starting with their clear leader and ending with the youngest. “Darian, Milos, and Tomas.”
Darian gave a respectful nod to Oskar. “Good to see you, Dahlin.”
“Kallos,” Oskar replied in return with what must have been a last name. “It’s been a long time.”
“More than twenty years, if I’m not mistaken.”
Oskar’s attention slid to Augustus. “Darian and I trained together in Linesh as much younger men. You could not do better than having this man at your side.”
Augustus disagreed. He could have the greatest of skilled warriors at his side, but it was men like Oskar and Blaze who mattered. Men he could count on.
Mercenaries had the freedom to walk away in the end. They wouldn’t die for Augustus, Selene, or Mettius. But Oskar would. Blaze would.
The youngest of the Bladesworn, Tomas, raised the back of his hand to the dronsian, letting Gus sniff his knuckles. “Two in the city in the same week. A sign from the gods, surely.”
