Tristen would have me by the balls over this conversation.
“What’s your son’s name?” I ask.
His eyes soften as a smile touches his lips. “Griffen,” he replies with pride.
“I don’t want Griffen to grow up in a world where death is his neighbor. The only way to change that is to start looking at fae as our friends.”
“Some would argue killing them is safer,” he counters.
Why are you looking at me that way? As if you’re waiting for me to bite the bait?
I’ll bite; sometimes, that’s the only way to catch the predator by surprise. Be warned, I fight back when lured in. “I’m sure fae think the same of us. Years living in a war camp taught me that chain reactions topple everyone. If we don’t break that mindset, we’re all bound to end up buried.”
“What if some fae don’t want to be friends?”
Now I know you’re fishing for something. What is it?
“Some see a rock in the road as an enemy, whereas others simply walk around it. I chose to judge character. Is it the rock’s fault that it was kicked around and landed there, or is it the fault of whose boots punted it? Everett obeyed orders because he hoped the war would end.”
His head tilts. “You think that’s what their prince wanted? An end?”
Everett’s sharp jaw, plotting eyes, and pointy ears flash in my mind. My lip tugs up. “No. He wanted a new beginning. That’s why he let me kill him.” I begin to turn, but he grabs me. Hard.
“You’re too modest, Titus. You bested him.”
“I’d rather be a modest man than one who exaggerates.” I glare at his hand on me. Instead of letting go, he presses another hand to my chest.
He peers over his shoulder with sharp eyes, then says words considered treasonous, “I’d stand by your side over the king’s, because I’ve seen you fight by mine.”
I scan the hall. The fact that we’re alone brings no relief.
I feel bad I don’t know his name, but that’s a soldier’s life. We’re not blessed to live long enough to sit by the fire and learn each other’s stories. Those who do live that long don’t speak of the horrors they survived.
I study his hands, his stance, the corners of his eyes as I search for wrinkles.
How old is he? His red hair has no grey. He speaks with a youth’s foolish tongue, but with the manner he carries himself and all those weapons, he’s seen enough shit to fill a library.
Vampires age like humans until they’re thirty years old. After that, we age one human year for every twenty-five vampire years. So by the time we’re 1000 years old, we’d look like a seventy-year-old human, give or take.
I’m twenty-eight. This guy looks in his thirties. He could be thirty human years or nearly 200 years for a vampire. King Galen looks a solid thirty-seven. Last time I checked, he was 205 years of age.
His fingers turn into needles, sticking my clothing into his palm. He’s holding me as if I’m a shiny new weapon he seeks to strap onto his heavy belt. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
You’d commit treason, stand by my side, and not our king’s. Yeah, I get your point, but I’m not going to repeat it out loud.
“You’re a father now; you have a son to consider,” I warn him. “I’m not worth dying for.”
He snorts a laugh. “Your worth is more than your hands that hold your sword, son.” He jabs a finger over my heart. “You and I know peace is an intermission before the next act. I’ve lived through a lot of acts, Titus. I’d like to see a new show.” He slowly nods.
“There will always be war.”
“Let me rephrase that: I’d like to see a show where war for land is not the main plot. Give me a war with a purpose that doesn’t just benefit a king; give me a war in which it is an honor to fight. As you said, we’re all the same.If we don’t all stand as one, we will die as many.
“I’m not the only one who feels this way, so I’ll ask again: do you understand what I am saying?” Even though I’m looking down at him, his authoritative tone makes me feel like a child again.
What rank is he?
He’s dressed similarly to others, in battle-worn leather. The marks and weathering shine like badges of honor. But he carries himself the same way a wild cat moves: with pride.
