Then I begin toteach.
The strikes come faster, harder—across his thigh, his shoulder, the curve of his back. I don’t aim to kill. I aim towound his pride. To show every young warrior watching thatleadership is earned not by impulse, but by command of one’s self.
The rod whistles through the air, finds the nerve cluster beneath Rhok’s left clavicle. He drops the axe. His scream echoes through the fire.
Another strike—a blur of movement—across his temple. Not hard enough to fracture. Just enough to blind him for a breath.
He stumbles, swaying, blood dripping from his cheek. I watch him blink into the firelight, disoriented. Waiting. Daring him to rise again.
He does.
Good.
I step forward, bring the rod across his face one last time. Not to kill. To mark. The welt blooms red against his skin like a lesson etched in pain.
Silence falls.
The Elder steps forward, his face carved from ancient judgment. “You should have killed him.”
“No,” I say, letting the rod fall from my hand. “He’s a fool, not a waste. Dead men learn nothing. Let him carry this lesson in his bones.”
Rhok collapses to his knees, gasping. When he finally lifts his eyes to mine, something within them has shifted. He won’t forget. None of them will.
Then I feel her.
Ayla.
She’s at the edge of the circle, eyes wide with awe and something darker, deeper—desire. The flames dance across her skin, making her glow like the fiercest truth I’ve ever known.
She walks through the firelight like she owns it, like she belongs inside the blaze, not outside of it. When she reaches me, she leans up—voice low, breath hot against my ear.
“I want you,” she whispers. “Right now. So bad I can’t stand it.”
The fire inside me—never quiet—roars.
Without a word, I scoop her into my arms. She wraps her legs around my waist, her mouth already on my neck, biting softly, claiming me in her own way. The crowd howls—feral and approving—as I stride from the circle, Ayla clinging to me like gravity means nothing.
We disappear into the stronghold, flames and fury fading behind us.
CHAPTER 13
AYLA
With my newfound freedom, it’s not hard to get away from the stronghold, especially with Kallus attending a summit of Reaper clan leaders.
I have business in the jungle. Business with one of the rare female Reapers. I need to know if my suspicions about the changes in my body are correct.
The jungle presses in like a secret. Thick vines curl around ancient stone, the scent of wet earth and blooming bloodpetals cloying in the air. Every breath tastes like thunder. Every step crunches over roots older than memory. I move like a shadow, swaddled in one of Kallus’s cloaks, the hood drawn low. No one sees me. No one dares follow.
They wouldn’t, even if they knew. This place isn’t on any map. It isn’t meant to be found.
Khari’s den is hidden beneath the tangled canopy, a hollowed-out ribcage of a long-dead beast now overgrown with moss and phosphorescent lichen. Bones are strung like beads over the threshold, clinking softly in the breeze. It smells of herbs and fire and old blood.
The old Reaper healer is already waiting. She sees me before I make a sound.
“You came,” she rasps, her voice like sand dragged over stone. Her hair is bone-white and tangled with dried flowers. Her eyes—blind, milky—still manage to pierce me.
I nod. “I had to know.”
