I have never seen the soldier named Titus; oh, apologies, I meanGeneralTitus. Ballads about him have reached my ears.
They haunt me, keep me awake, which allowed me the endless nights I needed in order to form a plan to kill him.
I’m going to get my revenge, whether my husband agrees or not.
Ballad of the Heart Thief
Hair black as night, sword held tight; Titus charged forth with a soldiers might.
Target in sight, he was ready to fight.
He aimed his dagger, causing the fae prince to stagger.
With one firm slice, he cut the prince open nice. Tore out his heart with just one dice!
He shoved the prince back, dropped him like stone, then claimed victory for our king to own.
And just like that, the war was done. Another crown was claimed, and all was said and done.
Chapter
Two
Titus
Twelve months earlier.
Birds circle overhead. Hundreds, perhaps thousands. They dart through the sky, causing the last rays of light to flicker through their gliding wings in a frantic chaos of blinking madness. They wait more patiently than our kings do for their prey. Strong winds carry the stench of death over a large area.
I raise my foot and step over the arm of one of the fallen. Glancing downwards, I witness his last look towards the sky, where birds are poised to feast.
I have enough magic for one more body to burn. I wait one more moment, ensuring his soul leaves his body. I wish I could wait longer, but the battle rages on. I wave my hand over him, releasing my flames. The cotton fabric under his leather catches fire.
I turn my eyes away as it reaches his flesh. “Be at peace, brother.”
Many of my fellow soldiers think I’m a fool for not using my magic as a weapon. I could have burned through my enemieswith my magic instead of my sword. Maybe one day, if all my hope and morals vanish, I will.
Dying gasps are more familiar to my ears than genuine laughs these days. The battle rages around me; vampires and fae clash as swords and magic tear and dig into flesh, bone, and dirt. War renders even the soil unsafe.
This is my daily life. Blood washes my hands more often than water does. The war between the vampire territory of Blackthorn, ruled by King Galen, and the fae kingdom of Solaria, ruled by King Aridel, is as endless as the sun chasing the moon across the sky.
Unceasing.
I see no end in sight. So, I embrace it. My sword becomes an extension of my arm, my fire magic a way to apologize and send off the dead with respect.
I know I will perish like the men and women I kill. My last cries will go unheard; my tears of mercy will sink into the dirt.
No requiems are sung for the dead anymore.
I’ve come to terms with that.
I shove my sword into the belly of a fae that runs towards me and pull it out before he can blink.
Why didn’t he wear armor? Was it ruined in the previous battles? Or is he perhaps a mere stable boy who had the hay held in his hands replaced with a dull blade?
Does Aridel’s army lack supplies, or does this boy desire peace? Maybe death was his path to freedom.
We’re ingredients in a boiling stew, forced to clang and clash, each one jostling against the other. We have been battling for hours, and the chill of the rising moon now replaces the burning sun. The majority of vampires and fae have long since used up their magic.
