Fabia’s words hit me hard, each one increasing the tension inside me as I move through my private gym in the early hours of the morning. They roll beneath my skin, slithering across my shoulders before moving rapidly through my arms. They want out. My left fist slams into the bag in front of me, followed by my right.
Dab is her mother.
They claw at my flesh, digging past bone and muscle, echoing out through every punch and kick aimed at the bag in front of me. The dirt-filled leather sack swings from its point on the rafters, slamming left and right, forwards and back as I work it hard, my bare knuckles bleeding.
The title of mother holds no importance to me. My own was a callous stranger who only interacted with us during ceremonial events. But she still protected us. She still made sure we were cared for and trained to survive in this world. She didn’t gift usto a fucking pedophile with a smile on her face because her damn culture told her to.
“You can’t kill all of them,” Jace says, standing off to the side, acting as if he isn’t walking a very thin line by givingguidanceto something I haven’t fucking asked for. “What will the other kingdoms think if you wipe out thebrownies? They’ll never trust your offer of peace again.”
As if I don’t already know that. As if I didn’t already go over that entire fucking conversation with myself as we left the barracks, with a small squadron of soldiers. And again when we flew through the night on our crows to Brownston. And a-fucking-gain when the brownies just gave up all of their children without so much as a protest.
The whole ordeal took less than an hour, with most of that time spent on traveling. Not one drop of blood or tears was shed, and I know it’ll be the same at every other town I’ve sent my soldiers. Not all of them have come back yet, but I know that truth in my fucking soul.
I would’ve waged war for my children.Theyshould have waged war.
I slam my fist into the bag. I want to go back for Dab and slit her from throat to navel. I want to pull out her intestines until her body resembles the pain inside me. She’s Arienna’s mother. She has no excuse for not protecting her, for not loving her enough to forsake their fucking culture.
He took her at five.
Growling, I attack the damn bag harder.
She is a victim.
Sweat pours down my back, in-between my wings. As the restless tension travels into them, they flutter quickly. I rotate my whole body on my next strike, power moving from my legs to my hip, to my shoulder. Opening my fist, I flatten my fingers. A wanted pain ruptures up from my tips as I spear them intothe bag. It swallows my hand on a shudder, and still the tension doesn’t leave me.
Yanking my arm free, I spin. My leg snaps out, kicking through the waterfall of dirt spewing down the leather. The bag snaps free and flies towards Jace.
I hope for a moment it’ll hit him.
But it’s a waste of a wish.
He steps to the side. The bag flies past him, then hits the ground in an explosion of dirt.
“Feel any better after your tantrum?” he asks, cocking a brow.
I bare my teeth in a way that only Arienna would call a smile. The thought of her innocence and naivety has me spinning on my heels, heading for the weapon’s rack.
“So who do you think is on Echo’s desk?” he asks way too cheerfully.
Not in the mind to think about it, I pull a fighting staff free and throw it over my shoulder. I don’t bother looking to see if he catches it. The lack of athumptells me enough.
My skin prickling, I shuffle onto the balls of my feet as I grab my own weapon. Jace’s speed is fucking ment–
Awhooshcuts through the air before I can fully turn to face him. Lifting my staff, I grunt as I block the blow being aimed at the side of my head. He pushes in close, his bicep flexing, testing my strength. His foot snaps out, knocking me back.
“Better yet, who do you think gave it to her?” he asks as he swings again at me.
We move around the room, trading blows. The tension in my shoulders tightens as I block out his words.
My queen was a kid…
Lunging forwards, I slide the staff through my leading hand, extending my reach. He parries, his grin widening. Rotating my weapon, I attack him with the bottom end, striking up. Then thetop, striking down. I push him back just like my thoughts are pushing me. Merciless and cold.
How long have we been neighbours with the brownies? How long have we known the basics of their cult but not bothered to look further into them? I’ve been king for over twenty years, but never once have I given thought to the way of the brownies.
And because of that, my wife suffered.
Because of me.
