Chapter 3

The gates stood open, splintered and hanging from giant hinges. The iron portcullis was twisted and stuck in the up position. They had withstood the attack at first, the invading Horde chipping away at their defenses, but it had only taken a few days for the gates to be breached.

Had it only been a few days? It seemed like months. Years. Sleep evaded her, the sounds of death creeping closer, with the blood of her sisters all around her.

Now she stood beyond the temple with new blood soaking the hem of her dress, the scent of copper filling her head and coating the back of her throat. Closing her eyes, she swallowed back bile, breathing out through her nose. The urge to scream was building beneath her breastbone, a throb that pulsed in time with her racing heart.

A harness jingled, and Sorcha glanced back at the Wolf. The man held out one black-gloved hand, patient and silent. The giant horse stomped and pawed at the ground. One eye rolled to her as he tossed his mane, impatient and ready to leave. The man watched her, waiting.

Right now, she might be going with him, but she didn’t want to touch him. She shook her head.

“Walk then,” he said, voice expressionless.

Soldiers and civilians were crumpled together—armor and spun cotton, heavy boots and simple leather slippers. But no one seemed to belong to the empire. These were all citizens of the Golden Citadel.

Tears filled her eyes, blurring the world. So much death, so much pain and suffering. The weight of it pressed on her, leaving her gasping as her thoughts raced.

There was nowhere to go but across the bridge or back into the city. One was certain death, the other an unknown.

This man, this monster, wanted her and, for the moment, had promised not to harm her. But how long would that last? Her value to him was tied to her skin and the tattooed map hidden by her clothing.

Someone had shared her secret, though it had never truly been one. Anyone who came to the temple could see her, their oracle vessel, the woman capable of resurrecting their dead god if the need arose.

Sorcha had believed it.

Believed it right up until those around her had slit their own throats.

Stop it.

Their deaths—their belief and faith in her—were as crushing as the death and pain surrounding her right now. She wasn’t going to think about that.

Turning to the bridge, Sorcha let out a breath.

She had crossed this bridge thousands of times—laughing with friends, and once when a friendship had soured and she’d cried all the way to the temple. She’d crossed it holding the hand of a lover, under blue skies and in the rain, running for the shelter of the wall.

Now bloody and broken bodies covered it. The heat of the burning city was at her back, the Wolf beside her, and death lay before her as far as she could see.

A sob ripped from her aching chest. Her sisters were behind her. They would burn soon. And all these men, even the women and children she saw. They would be bone and ash soon as well.

She took a step and then another. The horse moved behind her, the saddle creaking as the Wolf followed.

Then she recognized a face. A man that lived nearby, a craftsman of some kind, nice enough but never friendly. A face she had seen almost every day as she went from the temple to the market or the palace to sit silently beside Kira in court. She couldn’t even remember his name.

Tears blinded her, and she stopped, knees buckling. She landed hard in the filth covering the cobblestones, hands cupped in her lap, and let the tears come.

“I can’t,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

It was too much. The terrible numbness that had overtaken her before threatened to recede, and that scared her as much as the death around her did. She wanted to hold on to the emptiness, needed it to remain. Otherwise, she would go insane with grief.

The Wolf was beside her, moving so quietly she wasn’t aware he was there until he’d scooped her up. He carried her in an iron grip—one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders—cradled against his chest as he carried her to his horse. Sorcha glanced up, catching a glimpse of his hard jaw covered in dark stubble, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Then he was putting her on the horse, shoving her into the saddle in a quick, efficient motion. Where he’d touched her, the strangeness of his hands tenderly holding her, lingered with a prickling heat.

Sorcha looked down at him, and his dark eyes met hers. A shiver passed over her, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. When he turned away, she was relieved, not wanting to examine the feeling he’d given her too closely. She waited, wondering if he would ride behind her like before. But he left her there alone, taking the reins and leading the horse across the bridge.

Sorcha clutched the pommel of the saddle as the Wolf led the horse along the road raised slightly above the surrounding landscape. She kept her gaze fixed on the horse’s ears, looking only ahead and refusing to see the destruction to either side. It filled the periphery of her vision, a terrible temptation she struggled to ignore.

The Wolf didn’t speak as they walked, and soon her eyes drifted to him. His black hair was long and tied at the base of his neck, slightly mussed from being beneath his helmet. Taller than most men with broad shoulders, he moved as if the world held nothing to fear. The leather armor he wore was unmarred and well cared for. The rumors said he was untouchable on the battlefield. The bleached wolf skull bumped against her knee as she rode, a reminder of who the man in front of her truly was. Tentatively, as if it might bite, she reached out and touched it. The bone was smooth and cool beneath her fingers, the teeth sharp as knives.

What kind of a man wore such a thing into battle? Not a man, she reminded herself, a monster.

A tall monster with broad shoulders and hard muscle beneath the black and red armor he wore. She could see the strength in his arms; he must have wielded the sword at his side with skill. He was handsome, and it surprised her, going against what she’d expected. But hard beauty could hide a monster easily.

Though she had never expected to be in his presence.

The stories she’d heard talked about how deadly he was with a blade, his mercilessness and relentlessness. A man everyone feared. A man who had not hesitated to kill the prince’s brother. He’d destroyed cities and kingdoms, brought down famous warriors, and did all these things as if it were as easy as breathing.

But if she’d seen him walk into the temple or through the streets of the Golden Citadel, he would have caught her attention. He would have kept it. That thought was unsettling and stung like betrayal.

Sorcha looked down at her hands and realized dried blood was caked beneath her nails. A streak of blood was flaking off her arm. She scrubbed at it, wishing for soap and water. The sudden desire to wash it away—remove it permanently—was overpowering.

Maybe if she was able to do that, the water would take the memory with it.

Ines had died so quickly. Sorcha had tried to stop the bleeding, hands to Ines’s throat, the blood pumping through her fingers. Her eyes had gone glassy and distant, then she’d been gone. The end, her death, so quick and final. One of so many over the last few days, in those last few hours, as the gate fell and the Citadel was overrun.

With a shudder, Sorcha closed her eyes, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. A knot of tension throbbed in her chest, filling her up and making it difficult to breathe.

But behind her closed eyelids, those images waited—inescapable.

She opened her eyes, preferring the horror of the world around her to those inside her head.

Ahead on the road, a division of soldiers marched away from the Citadel. Their black and red armor splattered with mud and gore. She watched them for several minutes, counting their number and wondering how many more there had been. There must have been a camp somewhere nearby, a place the Wolf was taking her.

Sorcha searched the landscape around her, the plains she’d once been so familiar with, the trees planted at the edges of fields to break the wind and shield the crops. A stream cut through the landscape, one she’d waded through to collect watercress. It was now polluted and overrun, the banks churning into mud.

The plains beyond were as full of the dead as the city had been. Bodies were piled into burning heaps, the earth churned into a muddy, bloody soup, with any and all crops and vegetation trampled.

The siege engines that had breached the Citadel walls burned, black smoke flowing down. It moved in a strange way, thick and creeping along the ground, spreading out to blanket the earth.

The mutilated dead were everywhere.

Her stomach seized, clenching as saliva filled her mouth. Sour bile burned as it climbed up her throat. Sorcha threw her leg over the saddle and slid from the horse, folding over as she gave in and purged her stomach.