Throat flexing, Balkazar choked back a jealous growl, for he could still taste it. That something both terrible and wondrous. The bright, alluring musk of a male so far beyond the peak of Anhur beauty that there was simply no other way to describe him.
Divine.
His was a scent Balkazar recognized in his blood before the thought ever reached his diseased brain.
Sire.
If he had been born of Giaus’ lineage—not made—that title might have driven Balkazar to attack. To assert himself as dominant, in the manner of a true Anhur warrior. The son perpetually driven to oust the father, to claim the right of succession and prove that he was worthy of his place at the head of a vicious table. His place in this life and the next earned.
But Balkazar had known, from the moment he’d first laid eyes upon the ethereal brutality Giaus wielded with insulting ease, that he was outmatched.
It was just there, hadalwaysbeen there, in Giaus’ scent.
He was king, and he would defend that title and everything that went with it—Sinadim, Renegade, and his throne—with the sort of possessive rage that blistered any who dared to venture too close.
Balkazar’s warning had not been needed.
Sickle’s attempt to end them all, to save his precious little whore from a fate she’d been born for?
A failure hardly worthy of note.
The wave of infected had crashed against red stone—andGiaus. Stopped with frightening ease by a male who took joy in defending his claim.
All of it without incident. Without Balkazar’s headlong race to warn them of Sickle’s betrayal.
Because he was irrelevant.
A relic without purpose.
Obsolete. Expendable.
A worthless sack festering tumors, the very sight of which had made Sinadim recoil.
And worse, he’d been replaced. Exchanged for a titan who didn’t need permission to breed a high-quality quim, for it was clear, even from the perspective of an outcast, that Giaus had no intention of sharing.
There was nothing he might offer the male who’d taken his place at Sinadim’s side. Nothing his beloved prince needed from him, now. Nothing else he could possibly give.
Except his life.
And so, Balkazar had done what little he could. Turned the horde away from the Queen’s Landing and fulfilled his blood oath to the Karahmet dynasty, such as it was.
Mowing down a thatch of saplings, he burst through the trees into the clearing of a foggy, rainy day. Lost in the thunder of the horde, he gave himself up for the many. Let them choke on his grief and forget. Just for a moment.
With the dull, lowing intelligence of an opportunistic hunter, his lopsided head fell back. Jaws gaping wide, he licked at the rain. Trying to slurp up what moisture he could. All thoughts of pack and prince forgotten as he drank just enough to remind himself of the brutal, savaging thirst.
It was then, as his thickening hide was washed of the top-most layer of grime, that blue eyes flicked down.
A cliff overlooking a deep valley. Trees that had been felled by the thousands, it was a barren slope eroding and exposed to the elements.
And for a moment, as he looked and saw movement, Balkazar thought he was witness to a mighty mudslide. One that stretched well over the horizon where it spilled over from the valley.
The horde pushed on.
Jostling and fighting for position, they surged over the edge. Filling a narrow path hidden from the top of the ridge, the horde descended in a rush. Careless of any too light or weak to stay on the path, no attention was spared for any who were thrown over the edge. The only hint of their demise was a dull howl that did not echo before it was silenced.
He blinked.
Peering over the thick edge of the bone that had once been his elbow, he squinted at the valley. Brows unable to bunch where the left side had tripled in size, he scowled as best he could.
