If my mother had survived my birth, she would have filled that place. I know it. She would have given me the gentleness this world refused me. And perhaps then, I would not feel so full of rage, so cursed to carry only poison.
So, I rode with Lazarus onto the road, dust rising beneath the hooves of our horses, the horizon bleeding with dawn. We left Ugarit not as sons, not as lovers, but as two men bound for the same fire—brothers in all but blood.
Perhaps this war would bring us victory. Perhaps we would return with honor, and I could at last make my father proud.
Or perhaps it would end as all wars seemed to—in misery, in silence, in graves dug by strangers.
Only the gods knew what awaited us.
Chapter4
Salvatore
The war encampment smelled of sweat, blood, and fear.
Tents sprawled like scars across the barren ground, pitched in crooked lines along the coast road. The salt wind off the sea caught their canvas, snapping it like the wings of vultures already circling above. Smoke from a hundred cooking fires smeared the dawn sky, choking the light to a dull red.
Men crowded the open spaces—shouting, sharpening blades, brawling to burn the dread in their veins. Bronze clashed against stone as spearheads were whetted. Shields leaned in uneven rows against wagon wheels. Horses stamped and snorted, restless with the scent of so many bodies gathered too close.
The smell was the worst. Sweat gone sour. Rancid oils rubbed into leather. Half-rotten meat turning in the heat. It clung to the back of my throat, as thick as mud, until every breath tasted like death before the killing had even begun.
Nyros tossed his head beneath me, ears flicking, muscles bunching tight, but I forced him steady. My eyes swept the camp—the uneven ranks of soldiers, some hardened by campaigns, others little more than boys clutching spears as if they were lifelines. Oxen strained against carts piled high with weapons—bronze-tipped spears, shields rimmed in leather, clay jars of oil for the firepots.
This was no glory. No honor. This was carrion before the feast.
Lazarus rode beside me, his face grim, unreadable in the half-light. Amara’s tears still clung to him like salt on a wound. I envied him for that—for having someone to shed them for him.
I had no one.
No father’s blessing. No woman’s faith. No mother’s arms to shield me from this world’s cruelty. I carried only the hollow ache of what might have been—what should have been—if love had not abandoned me at birth.
So, I tightened my grip on the reins, jaw clenched, and rode deeper into the sprawl of the encampment. The horns had not yet sounded, but the war was already here, coiled in every breath, every heartbeat, every quivering hand.
Together, Lazarus and I looked over the camp.
A circle of soldiers had scored lines in the dirt, two men inside pummeling each other with fists while wagers clinked in the dust like coins on stone. Beyond them, a corpse was dragged away by its ankles, sandals already stripped from its feet. Laughter rose over the cries of the wounded until both sounds tangled into something indistinguishable.
Under a weathered canopy stood a man as immovable as basalt.
Turtanu. Commander of the army.
His arms were crossed, his eyes as dull as wet stone, watching. He didn’t shout. He didn’t pace. He just waited. Every gesture, every mistake—he caught them all. He was the kind of man who had buried each failure he had ever made.
Before him, two fighters circled barefoot in the sand. Shirtless. Lean bodies carved by hunger and heat. One faltered—just the briefest hesitation—and the other drove a wooden blade into his ribs. The crack echoed across the yard. The man collapsed, dust rising around his body. Blood speckled the ground. No one moved to help. There was no pause. No sympathy.
Only the next fight.
To our left, a column of spearmen drilled in brutal rhythm, their sandals pounding earth with the steady force of marching armies. Bronze spearpoints punched forward again and again.
Throat. Gut. Heart.
Beyond them, younger recruits stumbled in circles, clay jugs balanced on their heads, arms hanging limp at their sides. Their spines bent beneath the weight, legs trembling, but none dared let a jug fall. Not here. Not with Turtanu watching.
Above us, archers lined the rampart. The groan of wood and gut-strung bows bent the air. Arrows hissed into straw mannequins with brutal efficiency.
Throat. Heart. Joints.
They weren’t learning to wound.
