Lazarus shoved through the men, sandals grinding in the dirt, sweat running into his eyes. His hands were split open from his own fight, blood still crusted on his knuckles. He dropped beside me, seized my arm, and steadied me. His face said everything—rage, sorrow, defiance—but his mouth stayed shut. Not one word.
And then the jeers hit.
“Look—it’s Lorian’s bitch, come to drag him up.”
A soldier shoved a hand between his legs and thrust, slow and obscene, spit hitting the dirt with every jab.
Others caught it at once. Hips jerking. Fists pumping. Laughter cracked across the yard like a pack of starving dogs.
“Maybe that’s why they’re always together,” one bastard bellowed, slapping his thighs to the rhythm. “Tell us, Lazarus—does the lord’s son fuck you, or do you fuck him?”
The encampment howled. Sandals stamped. Whistles ripped the air raw. Their filth sank into me, coated me, until my body shook like it would tear itself apart—every nerve burned with humiliation.
And something broke.
I tore out of Lazarus’ grip like an animal loosed from a chain. My fist found the fat-mouthed fucker’s jaw before he could turn. The crack of bone split the yard. Blood geysered hot across the sand.
I came down on him, straddling his chest, and the world narrowed to the stink of my breath and the wet, relentless thud of fists on flesh. I swung like a beast unchained—fists pounding, wild, rabid—until flesh and sand blurred together. Skin split on my knuckles, blood slicked, pain blazing white—but the sting only steadied the rhythm.
He curled into himself, a ragged ball of curses and fear—I tore his arms away and hammered anyway. A nose snapped with a sick, ugly crunch; teeth skittered into the dust like broken shells. One eye puffed closed, turning him into a stupid, leaking thing. Around us, the camp’s roar blurred into nothing but flesh hitting flesh and the dying rasp of his breath.
When he finally slumped, a bloody heap beneath me, the yard inhaled like it had been holding its breath. Men leaned in, eyes bright with appetite, as if greed alone could stretch the moment.
Turtanu moved out of the shade.
He did not stride like a man making a show. He stepped like a judge. Scarred face, cropped gray at the temples, the weight of old wars clinging to him. His shadow dragged across the dirt as he drew a short bronze sword, its edge dark with oil and years of use, and held it out by the haft.
“This is a war camp,” he said, voice as low and flat as a guillotine. “You’ll be killing men. You’ll be cutting throats on orders. Don’t be soft—no one out there gives a shit. The sea will spit them; the fire will eat them; we will do the rest. Learn to do it here or die crying for mercy you’ll never get.”
His eyes bored into me, as sharp as flint. “Finish him. Prove you are not some fucking lamb sewn into a lion’s skin. Kill him. Or crawl back to your father and prove him right.”
The chant came up like cold wind, “Finish him! Finish him!”
The soldier at my feet wheezed, eyes wide, lips moving around a prayer that never formed. Sand drank his blood in slow, dark veins.
I took the weapon. It dragged at my hand like judgment; the haft bit into my palm. The air tightened until there was nothing but me, the broken man beneath me, and the command that hung over us all.
Lazarus stood apart, chest heaving, dust and blood streaking his face. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t speak. He only watched—his silence a scar across both of us. Because he knew, as I knew, that whatever left this yard would not be what had entered it.
I lifted the bronze edge. The world stopped breathing.
The strike was ugly, brutal, merciless. A cry ripped free—half-animal, half-word—and then it died. The dust swallowed it whole.
Silence hung. Heavy. Watching. The camp inhaled as one, like a beast scenting blood.
Then the roar broke loose—stamping feet, howls, voices raw and sharp. But the noise had changed. Not mockery. Not hunger. Something harder. Respect. Fear.
His voice was low, inexorable, a law laid down.
“You have bled and proven the hunger in you,” he said. “This is how men are kept alive—by the willingness to end a life. Carry that weight. Use it. Kill when I order it. Kill without asking for forgiveness. Fail to carry it, and this host will make an example of you—no songs, no pity, only the pyre.”
The men around us hummed with a fierce, pragmatic approval. Their faces were not kind. They were made of use and necessity. I felt their judgment settle on me like armor.
Lazarus watched, jaw set, eyes hard. He said nothing; he could say nothing here. The silence between us was a witness.
I had done what was demanded. I had taken the ugly thing and made it mine.
And in that moment, the gate closed behind me.
