Heat swelled from the braziers, thick with smoke and the stench of oil, blood, and sweat. My chest lifted, jaw locking. I needed him to see a soldier—not the wreck clawing at my ribs.
Turtanu turned to face me, as slow as an executioner savoring the moment before the blade fell. Firelight flashed along his bronze cuirass, shadows climbing over his features in jagged bands.
“Is this how you greet your warlord, boy?” His voice rolled like thunder in the hollow of the tent. “On your fucking knees!”
I met his gaze. The air thickened between us, heavy with heat and command. Every muscle in me screamed to resist. For a breath, I thought I could.
His hand fell to the hilt of his blade, to remind me who held the power to end me.
I dropped. Hard. My knees struck the packed earth with a dull crack. Pain flared through my bones, but I didn’t bow. I wouldn’t.
His face darkened. The brazier’s glow caught the sneer cutting across his mouth, the old scar at his brow deepening as he stepped closer.
“You cost us thousands,” he said, each word a blow. “Men followed you into the grave because of your arrogance. Because of your pride. And for what? So you could play at being a lion while they died screaming?”
I swallowed hard, the words slicing deeper than steel.
He leaned in, his voice plummeting to a low growl that sounded too much like my father.
“You’ll carry their faces with you. You’ll see them before your own. You’ll hear their screams in your sleep. You’ll rot with them. And you know why?”
His lip curled, mocking.
“Because you’ll always be this. A boy. A failure. No matter how many men you throw into the fire, you will never be enough. Not for them. Not for me. Not for the father who knew what you really were the first time he looked at you.”
The words struck me like open hands, sharp and stinging, leaving heat where no blow had landed. My body locked tight, every muscle braced against the shame driving in deeper than steel. I flinched—just barely—but it was enough.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t regret.
It was pain—the kind that didn’t fade, the kind that sunk into the marrow and carved itself into bone, a wound that would never heal.
Turtanu’s eyes bored into me, jagged and final. In them, I didn’t just see judgment; I saw my father’s shadow—smiling, mocking, waiting for me to fall.
“You think this war was your fucking stage?” he snarled, closing the distance. “You think it was your time to shine? You arrogant little shit. You led ten thousand men to slaughter just to stroke your goddamn ego.”
“I didn’t mean—” I began.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Turtanu snapped, loud enough to rattle the tent poles. “You didn’t mean to kill thousands? You didn’t mean to disobey orders? Then what the fuck were you doing out there—charging like a mad dog, fire in your eyes, shit in your head?”
My fists clenched. My jaw locked tight.
“You’ve got your father’s name,” he hissed, stepping closer, “and none of his strength. Not a fucking ounce.”
He loomed over me, eyes gleaming with fury.
“You’re not a general. You’re a boy in a man’s armor—playing dress-up while real warriors bled for your mistakes.”
He leaned in, close enough that I had to lift my chin to meet his gaze.
“Julian would’ve spat on you. And your father?” His voice dropped to a cruel whisper. “He’s right to be ashamed. You’re the kind of son a man drinks to forget.”
The words hit harder than fists. My stomach hollowed out. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But my silence screamed.
Turtanu sneered.
“You’re stripped of your rank. You are no longer ?abum. You are no longer anything. You want glory?” He laughed once, cold and ruthless. “Here’s your legacy—failure. Now get the fuck out of my tent before I lose what little mercy I have left and string you up beside that rotting bastard’s head.”
