Chapter 4

4

Bridger's leg connected with the punching bag swinging from the iron bars crossing overhead, a pop booming through the open-air training arena followed by the quick snaps of his left jabs and right hooks.

The people of Vincere were either asleep, tucked into their beds, or at their posts where they'd spend the night until the sun rose and they were relieved of their duties.

Bridger, on the other hand, was rattled out of his sleep by a dream that had once been real. The images were trying to sink their claws into a part of his brain that had been cleared of those memories ages ago.

He'd worked so long, fought so hard to forget her—to forget the feelings he'd once had for her. To rid himself of the emotions that took hold whenever he remembered what he'd done—who he'd chosen.

The memory felt so real—so much so that when he'd woken, he forgot where he was and found himself reaching out in his large, empty bed to feel for her .

Like she hadn't been missing from that side of his bed for almost fifty-five years.

After pulling a dagger from the sheath on his leg, Bridger threw the blade. It soared through the air end over end until it stuck into the center of its intended target. The red bullseye stared back at him, a crack splintering down the center of the thick wood.

Bridger's fists were red from the force of his punches, sweat trickling down his bare chest until droplets formed under his feet. He'd been out here for hours, fighting the nostalgia that made his body buzz from the all-too-real dream.

Is it a dream if it's something that actually happened? He groaned at the thought, plopping himself onto a stool in the corner. Bridger hid his face in his hands, pushing the damp pieces of hair that fell over his brow back into place.

Vincere was meant to be a place that felt new, void of the demons haunting the rest of Tolevarre. The training facility and underground barracks were built over thirty years ago as a way for Bridger to run from the place he'd once called home—as a new and improved location where the best warriors Tolevarre had to offer could come to train.

Designed to weed out the good from the great, the great from the extraordinary. Vincere's location had been hand-picked by Bridger himself—southwest of Aeris, sitting below Demuto at the southernmost point of Ardor's territory. He chose the vast openness offered here, far away from the city where he could breathe, far away from Fortis and the family who still called those phantom streets home.

But lately, with the rise in rebel camps popping up all over the realm, Bridger wasn't sure there was any place he could hide that didn't remind him of what he'd done.

Each territory took after the land around it and the god that blessed its people, pulling from the natural textiles found there. They all had their individual charms, and each felt vastly different from the others .

Ardor was desert lands. Their buildings were orange, made out of brick with clay molded over top to keep homes cool in the brutal months of summer.

It sometimes felt like a world away with its stark difference in landscape. It was the only territory in Tolevarre with deserts, sand dunes, and heat indexes that reached 120 for eight months out of the year.

He was alone under the moonlight, grateful for the cool night air giving him a break from the usual sweltering temperatures Ardor was known for.

Bridger had lost count of how many times one of his soldiers collapsed and was rushed to the infirmary during the summer months. Being a warrior in Bridger's army wasn't easy—but it was better than it had been under his father's control.

Before his thoughts could wander back where they didn't belong, Bridger felt the wind pick up, stirring unnaturally through his fingers.

The packed dirt of the training pit crunched behind him, his elevated hearing making it impossible for him to be snuck up on. "Marlena." That was Bridger's way of hello to the ruler of their realm.

"It's awfully late for a training session, don't you think, Commander?" Her voice had always been so different from her sister's. Vega's voice was smooth like velvet, but Marlena's was pitched, sharper than the tip of a fresh blade.

Bridger turned to face Marlena, her long, ice-blonde hair braided into a coronet around the top of her head. The leather pants, sheer top, and pointed boots didn't match the palm trees swaying in the breeze behind her. Marlena looked every bit of the evil ruler she was as she sauntered over to him.

"It's awfully late for an unexpected visit, don't you think, Your Majesty?" Bridger repeated her words back to her in a cold response.

"I told you to stop calling me that." Marlena sneered .

Bridger smiled. It didn't touch his eyes like it should. "Then why wear the crown?" His eyes darted to the single ring woven into Marlena's braid. A black iron crown glimmered in the moonlight, marking Marlena as a woman destined to rule, but it could easily be mistaken for a dark angel's halo.

And Marlena loved nothing more than subjecting the people underneath her to live her personal version of perfect—everyone else's hell.

Her face was unreadable as she blatantly ignored his question for one of her own. "What's on your mind?"

"Couldn't sleep," he answered while standing from the stool.

Marlena's eyes dipped to his shirtless chest, then ticked back to meet his gaze sharply. "Anything you'd like to talk about?"

He and Marlena were friends once. A lifetime ago. But he'd been a different person then.

Bridger could lie, but what was the point? He didn't fear Marlena like the rest of them did. "I had a dream about them." He paused. "About Vega."

Marlena couldn't hide the distaste distorting her face at the mention of her sister.

It was about time Vega reappeared—it'd been too long this time around. Bridger knew Marlena was waiting for the day she never did, when the curse finally ran dry, taking her sister with it.

"We're coming up on year fifty-five." Her voice rang with a sense of longing. "Aren't you ready to let go of her forever?"

Bridger rubbed his right wrist. "I have."

Marlena's eyes, the same color as Vega's, locked on to the wrist he was absentmindedly running his fingers over. "Does that old thing still bother you?"

It always bothered him when Arlet made contact with Vega. Bridger was sure that's what triggered his dream. Sometimes, if he concentrated, he could still feel Arlet and Khort—not like he'd once been able to, but they were still there regardless of how much power he used to keep them blocked out. Four souls connected by one person, and her curse had been active too long.

Curses didn't last forever—they either needed to be broken or released. If neither happened, the power of the curse eventually died, taking the cursed with it.

"Don't ask questions you know the answers to." He'd been trying to convince her to attempt to break the bond since he'd taken over her army. Bridger would do anything to never worry about feeling the connection he shared with them again, as small as it might be nowadays.

"But then how would I know my sister is stirring?" Marlena took a step closer, looking up to meet Bridger's stone-cold gaze. She reached out and touched his jawline with her fingertip.

Bridger grabbed her hand and placed it back by her side. "Marlena, do you think I'm dumb enough to believe you need me to know when Vega is on her way back to our realm? That's not the reason you need me," he said matter-of-factly.

Marlena's eyes twinkled under the moonlight, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth as she pretended to look around at the training arena with interest. "Yeah, but then I wouldn't be able to see the look on my sister's face when I rip the bond out of you three before I kill her for the last time." Marlena's face shifted to the look of a serpent ready to strike. "And I've told you before, my dear commander, that I want nothing more than to see the look on Vega's face when she finally realizes, once and for all, that not only have I won every single time she's tried to stop me, but I also got the only thing she ever wanted." Marlena breathed a contented sigh. "You."

Bridger hated Marlena with every fiber of his being, but she'd sold her soul to every devil she could find, every god seeking revenge, and it had been proven time and time again that she couldn't be stopped .

This curse would consume them all.

"It has to kill you, knowing that I can feel her." The muscles tensed in Bridger's jaw.

Marlena's cold stare was enough to turn mortal men to stone. "I love knowing that she can feel you, feel the pain of what you've done to her when she gets her memories back. But if you play nice, I'll break the bond before I kill them and spare you from unnecessary pain."

"I don't know why you continue to treat me like I'm one of them. Like I haven't fought by your side for forty years. Have I not proven myself to you? After all this time?" Marlena didn't answer. "You act as if I haven't killed her for you."

The air around them chilled, colder than any winter air had ever made him feel. In the blink of an eye, Marlena was so close to Bridger that her lips were on his ear, her breath sending chills down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he stiffened.

"You're still dreaming of her and denying me what I want. How is that supposed to make me feel?" she asked, her tone sour with envy.

Bridger knew she only wanted him to get one last dig in at Vega. "I don't want another Caelum sister. One was plenty for this lifetime," he sneered.

"That's too bad," Marlena purred. "If only I could've gotten to you first. You wouldn't be in this situation now, dreaming of a woman who's as good as dead."

"Why are you here, Marlena?" Bridger asked, taking a step back from her, putting space between them again.

"I'm requesting your presence in Stella. Bring Meyer. We have a lot to talk about to prepare for Vega's return this time." The feel of her on his skin lingered even after she'd vanished into thin air, and all that was left as proof that she was ever there was a billow of black smoke rising into the now calm night air .

Her powers had no limits.

Bridger let his breath loose, turning his attention back to the training arena around him. From the table, he grabbed the sword that answered to his soul, bonded to him and his powers, and sliced the punching bag in half.