It’s a stark contrast to the castle’s opulence: all function, no beauty, every element designed—or repurposed—for war.
A bleakness settles over me as we approach. Stark seems affected, too. His usual predatory grace sharpens into something harder, more focused. There’s an odd familiarity in it.
He’s at home here—if a place like this can be ‘home’ to anyone.
This is Stark’s world, I realize: the world of war. I’m about to see first-hand how he earned his brutal reputation.
Soldiers snap to attention when they see him, fear and respect mingling in their expressions. Bonded emerge from nearby tents as though sensing our approach, offering Stark crisp salutes, fist to the chest. Direwolves meander through it all, and even they pause to look at us, giving their respects to Cratos and Anassa in their silent lupine way.
Stark’s gaze passes over everyone, emotionless. He leads us to an enormous tent near the heart of the camp. Soldiers, Bonded, and messengers stream in and out through multiple exits, tending to their wartime duties.
This is Central Command.
Egith meets us inside at the war table where countless maps and diagrams detail the army’s many operations.
The Strategos Beta is haggard, but alert, her silver streak dulled with dust, her uniform bearing fresh bloodstains.
She nods to me, then Stark, when she sees us. “Good, you’re here. Made fast time, too.” She gestures for me to approach the table, wasting no time in delivering the report I came for.
“Three days ago, Kryptos scouts found this,” she says, pointing to a spot on the map not far from where we are now. “That’s Siphon territory, but it’s close to the border. An old religious temple of some sort that they’ve converted into an outpost. There have been sightings of children being moved in and out by the guards.”
My heart clenches at the word “children.” Seeing this camp and the immediate reality of war makes their presence here all the more distressing.
“The last sighting was three days ago?” I demand, uncomfortably aware of Stark standing beside me, watching with penetrating shrewdness. “How many guards were there? How many children?”
“That was the last confirmed sighting, but the scouts haven’t been able to get close since—didn’t want to risk tipping off the blood-suckers,” Egith says. “Three children and two guards were sighted, but at a significant distance. No identifying features.”
The hint of apology in her tone says she knows I’m thinking of Saela—that I want to know if any of those children could be her. Stark’s eyes are on me, assessing. I gave him the short version of the story about my sister’s kidnapping during ourride this morning, though I had a feeling he might have already known via his own sources. I keep my gaze fixed on Egith, unwilling to show Stark a single sign that my emotions could get in the way of this mission.
I can sense Anassa listening, too. A pulse of cautious optimism travels between us—both hers and mine. Saela could be there. Only one way to find out.
Anassa’s concern—and her willingness to go after my sister—gives me a shot of strength. I’m grateful beyond words to have the wolf’s support. Without her, I’d have no chance of getting Saela back.
“Do you have intel on the temple?” I ask. “Entrances, exits, guard routes?”
Egith nods and reaches for a leather-bound folder while I study the map and the terrain surrounding the temple.
“Here,” she says. “This is all the intelligence gathered by our Kryptos spies.”
I flip open the folder, shuffling through reports until I find a sketch of the building. When I lift it from the sheaf, another sketch flutters to the table. My breath catches.
“Is this…?”
“One of the Siphons spotted in the area,” Egith confirms. “A general in their army, high-ranking. She’s been sighted multiple times nearby in recent weeks.”
Goddess above, I think, staring at the unearthly face drawn in charcoal lines.She’s beautiful.
“You’ve never seen an image of a Siphon before,” Stark says beside me.
I shake my head, unable to tear my gaze from the ephemeral face on the paper. It’s almost human, but the eyes are too large, the bone structure too delicate—too perfect to belong to any mere mortal.
Egith plucks another portrait from the sheaf and lays it on top of the one I’m holding. “That’s their king.”
Lucien Brightbane.
My heart stops.Thisis the architect of all our suffering?Thisface?
It’s ageless and angelic,devastatinglybeautiful, even drawn so roughly. I know from my studies that the Siphon king has been around a long time, but there’s not a single line on his face—no hint of the ages he’s lived except in the cold, bottomless wisdom of his gaze.
