He’s roaring by the end, beefy fists clenched at his sides.
To his credit, Dom doesn’t flinch. He stares at Marko coolly as he says, “You’re right. I don’t like you. I don’t like your methods. And I don’t like your personality.”
“That’s irrelevant,” I cut between them. “The cogent point is the one Marko made first: there’s no one giving orders among us. And it’s time that there should be. This brotherhood grows too large—it requires a single leader. We no longer fit in the monastery.”
Marko has stopped pacing. He faces me, arms crossed over his chest “What are you saying?”
“Take the ten soldiers of your choice and your share of the money. Let us part while we are still friends, before anything comes between us,” I tell him.
Marko looks at Dominik, his face black with anger.
“Something has come between us,” he says.
“My brother is only saying what I already feel,” I tell Marko.
“Your brother,” Marko spits, lip raising in a snarl. “A brother is an equal. If anyone in this room is your brother—”
“There’s no need to choose,” I say, cutting him off once more. I hold out my hand to Marko, looking him in the eye. “You’ve been a strong partner and a better friend. Let us part that way. When we meet again, it will be as kings of our respective cities.”
Marko looks at my outstretched hand. I see the flicker behind his eyes—his demon battling with his more rational brain.
I don’t know if he will take my hand or not. He’s never been predictable.
At last, he grasps my hand in a bone-crushing shake. I can almost hear Dom’s sigh of relief.
“Goodbye then, my friend,” he growls. “Until we meet again.”
With that, he stalks out of the room.
12
Nix
It’s near dark by the time Ares and I return to the school, the sky purplish and starless, the pale stone of the castle walls taking on a gloomy tint.
The school grounds are quiet, with only a few students crossing between dorms or walking across the lawn toward the library, their faces difficult to discern in the dark.
We missed dinner. Luckily I’ve got some snacks stashed away under my bed, or I might starve to death in a single night after all that exercise.
A brief silence has fallen between Ares and me, after easy conversation all the way home, centered on our classes and the upcoming first event of the Quartum Bellum.
The quiet is companionable.
I’ve never been so tired, and I’ve never had so much fun.
I love being out in the woods by myself. Having someone with me was even better. And not just any person—someone whose speed and stamina matched my own.
Ares fascinates me. Every time I peel back a layer of his reserve, I find something unexpected beneath—something stronger and more intense than I anticipated.
Everyone thinks he’s some gentle giant.
I don’t think he’s gentle at all.
I only think he’s careful.
I don’t know why he’s holding back, but I want to see more.
I look at Ares, more handsome than ever in the twilight.
He has a long face with a straight, patrician nose, a sharp jaw, and a deep cleft in the chin. The curve of his upper lip reminds me of my bow. The dark stubble on his cheeks is rich and velvety. His hair, dark with a few lighter streaks from the sun, has dried windswept. The faint scowling line between his eyebrows never seems to entirely fade away. It’s not a mark of anger—more like stress or worry.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says. “Only that I should probably—”
He breaks off with an infinitesimal jerk of his head, like a hound sighting a rabbit. I look in the same direction, toward the Armory, but I don’t see anything.
“What is it?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says. “Only . . . I thought you might like to see the hall of winners in the Armory. Since you were curious about the Quartum Bellum.”
“Sure,” I agree.
My legs are already jelly. What’s another few minutes of walking?
We cross the lawn, the grass dark as ink now that the sun is all the way down. Only a little soft, golden light leaks from scattered windows. No floodlights illuminate the Kingmakers grounds.
Ares leads me into the annex of the Armory. He seems to be looking around, like he isn’t quite sure of the way, though he must know the school ten times better than I do, this being his fourth year.
“It’s right in here,” he says in a strangely hushed tone.
Up ahead, someone else is speaking, low and intent, like they don’t want to be overheard.
I hesitate, not wanting to interrupt the two figures up ahead, one tall and one short, engrossed in conversation. But Ares hurries on, saying loudly, “Cat! Hedeon! What are you two doing?”
Cat Romero and Hedeon Gray startle, their gazes tearing away from the wall of photographs.
“It’s alright,” Hedeon says to Cat. “I don’t mind if you tell them, too.”
Cat examines us, her dark eyes liquid and glimmering in the golden lamplight of the corridor. She’s frowning slightly.
It’s Hedeon who rushes on, his voice tight with excitement, “Cat thought the girl in this picture might possibly be my mother . . .”
We all turn to look, irresistibly drawn—even Cat and Hedeon, who had already seen the photograph before.
I see a girl no older than me, with dark hair and deep blue eyes. She’s extremely beautiful, only more so because of the expression of wild triumph on her face. Something about her—maybe the sensual edge to her beauty, or the air of recklessness—reminds me of Sabrina Gallo.
The girl is the winning Captain of the Quartum Bellum in her Sophomore year, and then again , the next picture over, as a Junior—an achievement even I know to be exceedingly rare.
The losing Captains, all male, glower at her furiously.
“Why would you think that’s Hedeon’s mom?” Ares asks. He sounds skeptical and confused.
I glance between the girl’s face and Hedeon’s. “She does look a bit like him . . .”
“Not really,” Ares says. “Just ‘cause she’s got dark hair and blue eyes . . .”
Hedeon’s face falls. He examines the photograph again, searching for evidence to counteract Ares’ disbelief.
It is true, their features aren’t entirely alike—the girl has a soft, oval face, with a narrow nose and gently arched eyebrows. Hedeon’s bone structure is rougher, his jaw broad and his nose, before it was broken, more Roman in shape.
Still, children don’t look precisely like one parent. Or either parent, sometimes . . .
I read the name beneath the photograph. “Evalina Markov . . . Who is she?”
Now Cat speaks up in her soft but penetrating voice.
“I looked her up. She lives in St. Petersburg. She’s married to a man named Donovan Dryagin. They have three children.” She pauses a moment, her eyes fixed on Ares, not Hedeon. “She’s related to Neve and Ilsa Markov—you know them, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” Ares says, in a slightly strained tone. “I took Snow’s boxing class with Ilsa last year. She’s one of the only female Enforcers.”