The strike never landed.
Steel rang as a third sword entered the fight. Roman forced the enemy into retreat and, with a clean arcing swipe, opened the man’s throat.
Roman stood there, sword dripping, expression maddeningly calm—murder was apparently nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Blaze should thank him. And would. But thanking Roman? He’d rather eat his own vomit.
Thankfully, another wave of attack came in, and the two men fell into rhythm, blades swinging, boots shifting through sand. Blaze fought hard, brutal and direct. Roman, however, fought like a dancer. Fluid. Fast. Unbothered. Every movement calculated for maximum efficiency and style.
This wasn’t just Okosian military training. This was lifetimes of remembered skill—reincarnated muscle memory sharpened by centuries of war. Gods help them if Augustus or Selene ever regained any of those early memories.
Blaze cut down another pirate, panting, and turned to Roman. “You’re not bad for an asshole.”
Roman flicked blood from his blade. “Centuries ago, that might’ve bruised my pride. Now?” He shrugged. “I’ve learned not to take the tantrums of children personally.”
Blaze stepped in, smirk firmly in place. “Ah, that’s what it is. Took a minute to place the stench of irrelevance. My grandfather was the same at the end—too old to realize the world had moved on without him.”
Roman pivoted, blade flashing, and killed the next attacker without missing a beat. Blaze took down another. They fought back-to-back, falling into an uneasy but lethal rhythm.
Then Roman spoke again, too casually. “You’re loyal to him. Michail.”
Blaze refused the bait.
“Our bodies might change,” Roman said, “but the soul remains the same. It would be unwise to put any faith in him.”
“Say it as many times as you want,” Blaze snapped, patience fraying. “I don’t believe you. I’llneverbelieve you. And neither will she. Not even death keeps them apart—and that bothers you, doesn’t it? That she chooses him every time?”
It botheredhim, and this was his first and only life.
“Eva is not for him,” Roman said.
Blaze narrowed his eyes. “Maybe the centuries you’ve lived have warped your sense of reality. Or have you not been paying attention? Selene made her choice, and you don’t get a say.”
Roman smiled, sharp. Possessive. “Don’t I?” He shifted those blue and brown eyes toward the dunes, where Selene climbed with Augustus. “The gods returned her to me. She doesn’t see it now, but once she’s ready to hear the truth…”
The following beat of silence kicked up Blaze’s heart rate. Another enemy lunged, and he parried, barely aware of the movement. Blood sprayed. “What truth?”
Roman met Blaze’s eyes. “He’ll be all yours.”
Blaze turned back to the fight, but his attention lingered on the dunes.
Selene would never belong to a man like Roman. Or to any man, for that matter.
A fact, in which Augustus was fully, if not painfully, aware.
Blaze smirked toward Roman, voice low. “Careful, relic. The world has a habit of burying things it’s done with.”
Selene stopped beside Augustus where Olish’s main street opened up. Only ghosts remained here.
Wind howled through broken shutters. A door creaked on rusted hinges. Sand hissed across stone walkways. No bodies. Only whispers. The echoes of lives erased. Every step into the village felt like a trespass.
Augustus nudged a child’s toy with his boot, which was half-buried in the sand beside a charred, broken stool. “What do you think they did with the children?”
“They behead children,” she said without hesitation, though a chill ran cold through her blood. She didn’t meet his gaze—just stared at the oldwater well, rope frayed to thread. “They open their throats. Burn them alive. Poison them in the womb. Age doesn’t matter. Innocence never does.”
Blood for the sake of bleeding. Senseless savagery. Selene knew this kind of darkness. Had once breathed it in, lived it, tasted it in her own final moments. Different names, different clothes, same cruelty.
Augustus squeezed her hand. “Sometimes I forget how much you’ve seen.”
