Frost to Dust by Myra Danvers
20
As night fell, the harem came alive. A buzzing hive of activity filled to capacity, brimming with an array of fluttering, colorful silks, the main room was ringed by a battalion of men with tight jaws and deep scowls. Men in crisp black cuts whose dark eyes were turned in.
Elites.
Armed…
Deadly…
Their attention fixed not to the beautiful, almost nude women trained for pleasure, but to me. To Asher. My every action watched. Documented with shrewd, alertness that left me little to do but stand and be decorated by the pleasure slaves.
Leery, on edge, I kept an eye on twitchy trigger fingers and dared not breathe too deep.
And yet…
I was surrounded by power.
In the heart of a magical storm of elite energy, the empath slumbered. Too drained to fight for even a sip of that which was not mine to take. A beast held back by fear of yet another failure, unmoved by the lure of vengeance—but one who could be awoken by one Captain of Special Forces.
He ignored my every searching glance. Every attempt to catch his eye and force the decision to save ourselves from certain death.
Instead, he’d been accommodating as we’d been dressed in formal, Caledonian garb. Attended by a flock of cooing harem slaves, their perfumed oils and shelves of mysterious creams.
Head to toe black—Asher was cloaked in a long overcoat with black stitching, black buttons, and glossy black silk lining. Every line crisp. Sharp. The only hint of color the weapon belted around his waist. Battered and worn, it was a subtle reminder of just what he was, despite his failure to act. His experience on the field earned by years of hardship, now reduced to little more than a show that could not be enforced.
To match, I had been draped in yards of stiff black silk edged in gold. Hair washed and plaited in complicated twists that spilled down my back, I was unrecognizable from the forest creature I’d once been.
Face painted to enhance my features, Alicia had spent the time to ensure I looked nothing like myself.
Inky eyes narrowed in tight scrutiny when he saw her progress, crossed arms testing the seams of his lavish coat, he inspected me before an audience of dazzling women. “Darker,” the captain said, but that was it.
My cheeks warmed at the callous assessment, and, hurt blooming in my chest, I glanced at my fingers.
“Look up,” Alicia ordered, and tilted my chin back with a hooked finger. Armed with brushes and pens, with pots of kohl and a fine golden dust, she painted until my eyes began to water with the effort to remain still. Concentration creased between the fine arches of her brows.
A gentle tap on my ankle bade me to lift my foot, and for the first time since my arrival on the front lines, shoes appeared on my feet.
Sandals with black ribbons laced up my shins. Bows tied behind my knees.
“What’s the point of all this?” I asked, testing the fit.
Alicia smirked, sparkling green eyes flicking up to meet my gaze for an instant before she said, “Tradition, I suppose. The Emperor’s brother sent very specific orders.” She shrugged, licked her thumb, and sharpened the edge of some black smudging she’d left beneath my eye. “He might be an ancient man, but he’s a man nevertheless. And in my experience, men always appreciate a beautiful woman.”
I scowled.
“Don’t,” she hissed, and smacked my shoulder. “You’ll crease everything I’ve done and I won’t be able to fix it.” She glanced at the battalion of soldiers ringing the harem. To the streets beyond, where day was giving over to night. “We’re out of time as it is, priestess.”
“Thank you, Alicia,” the captain murmured, and took my elbow. Guiding me away from the paints and creams. Matching my gait, step for step, as he led me toward the exit. “You look lovely,” he added under his breath.
Fists clenched, I glared at the floor. Cheeks hot. “I look like a whor—”
“Warrior,” he said, and cut me off. “You look like a warrior, little priestess.”
To this, I had nothing to say. Nothing to offer but flushed cheeks and dizzy compliance.
There wasn’t time to speak after that.
No time to ask how he planned to get us through. No privacy to pick an elite and mark him for death in our stead.
We were escorted to the city center under armed guard, and to any watching the procession, the captain and I were decorated guests of honor. Surrounded by pomp, paraded through the throngs of Caledonians waiting to watch a man die.
For us to kill him with our combined might.
Whispers of unusual power haunted our every step. Words spoken behind cupped palms, we were watched by many hundreds of dark eyes glittering with the sort of savagery I’d never seen in the wilds. Never even knew existed until I’d come to this place, forced to live beneath the citizens who flocked to war, drooling for the spectacle.
When we reached our destination, it was to find the city center dressed up in twinkling lights. In the heart of a crowd thick enough to boast standing room only, a dais had been erected.
Framed by dark drapery, brightened by tiny twinkling lights, and flanked on all sides by yet more soldiers, it was an alter to the night. A spectacle shrouded in mystery and undeniable beauty.
On the far side, a raised platform complete with comfortable open tents and flapping, royal insignias—one I recognized from the summons.
As one unit, our escort stopped before a set of stairs. Three little steps that would elevate us before throngs of Caledonian citizens.
Where we would die on a pedestal, consuming each other.
I swallowed the nerves, squeezed Asher’s bicep, and whispered, “Give me a name.”
Inky eyes flicked down, one brow raised in question.
“Use me,” I said, hardly daring to move my lips. “Unless you have a better plan. I don’t want to die dressed like this.”
He snorted. Jaw tight, eyes forward, and ascended without a word. Without offering so much as a hint of his plan—if one existed at all.
The general’s men fell into step behind us. Reese and Aiden, weapons cocked, looking for all the spectators as if they were chaperoning someone of grave importance. As if they weren’t there as a silent reminder of what was to happen this night. The price of my reckless temper a debt to be paid in blood.
And there, standing in a gentle breeze, the Head Priestess waited. Stately. Elegant. A swirl of dark silks and effortless posture, she watched the crowd without a hint of trepidation. Her face the very picture of serenity. Hands folded neatly before her. She was ringed by four elites.
As if they stood there to protect her.
From me.
Muscles seizing in uncontrollable shivers I balked, leaving Asher to all but drag me to her side. Grim determination set in every hard line he possessed.
A horn blared in the distance.
Signaling soldiers to flood through the crowd, to clear a generous path directly before us—a path prepared for the sort of destruction they expected Asher to display as he killed us both.
Sweat dropped down my nape. Gathering on my brow with the weight of the onlookers, the volume of their excited chatter a deafening roar that left me swaying. Dizzy and sick.
And so, so empty.
So hungry…
“Asher,” I whispered, eyes darting from face to face. Seeing nothing. “Please.”
But still, he made no move to react.
Merely guided me forward. Passing the Head Priestess and her guards without a word or a glance, he arranged me a half-step ahead of her. Left me to wait in his shadow.
Out of reach.
Two more blasts of the horn nearly saw me bolt from the stage.
One heavy, rough hand landed on my shoulder. Pinning me in place. “Easy, priestess,” Reese growled from my right. And on my left, his counterpart. Aiden. Completing the ring of elite soldiers with an even six, they stood close enough that I might feel body heat and take it for the warning it was meant to be.
Breath hitching, I managed a tight nod and fought the flood of frustrated tears that threatened to humiliate me in these last moments.
They might have my life, my power, and my body, but they could only have me if I allowed it.
I’d die staring the void into submission and know I’d fought for this. Done more good than wrong. Except…
Trembling, I tilted my chin toward the Head Priestess and found her gaze lowered.
The soldiers surrounding her stared forward without blinking. Pupils blown wide, eyes glassy and set, they formed an eerie wall of ominous, unnatural power that didn’t so much as flinch when I caught their ward’s eye.
I shivered at the sight of vacant dark eyes and identical postures.
“I’m… sorry,” I whispered when the shock of that icy blue gaze snapped up and settled upon me. Swallowing a hard lump, I cleared my throat and tried again. “I’m sorry for my behavior. That I couldn’t be taught. That there wasn’t e-enough time to—”
“Eyes forward,” Reese snapped, jostling me with the butt of his weapon. Careful not to touch my skin.
Behind me, the Head Priestess sighed. “There’s so much you don’t know, Mila. So much I could have taught you about control. Compromise… defense. But you’re not a priestess,” she murmured. “Never will be.”
I couldn’t help it—I flinched, wounded by the rebuke that came on the heels of my pathetic apology. And with heart in throat, I tried to swing around and face her before Reese snarled another warning.
But I knew now. That she was here to bear witness to my end and see her prophecies about the empath made real.
Because I was nothing.
Not a weapon or a plaything.
Just a broken, empty shell.
It was then, as I strained to maintain the illusion of a well-trained slave, to be poised, that General Tilcot emerged from the throngs of Caledonian citizens. Flanked by his own elite guard, cheeks hollow. Skin waxy and gaunt—his eyes gleamed with a mania I’d never quite seen before. One that barbed me with a shock of sick trepidation when his murky brown gaze fell upon me.
And with the gait of a much healthier man, he bounded up a set of stairs on the opposite side of the stage. Followed by soldiers hauling a heavy wooden box, and a man weighed down by shackles.
An Eloran rebel.
Filthy.
Battered and broken, he shuffled along as best he could. Gaze empty of all hope, his shoulders were slumped, face void of any hint of color.
A man who knew his last minutes were upon him.
A man who would die by my hand.
“Put it there, where his royal highness will have the best view,” the general ordered, and left his men to arrange the crate to his liking. And then, strides confident, he took up a position beside the captain. Hands clasped behind his back, booming voice low enough not to be heard over the din of a ravenous crowd—but loud enough for everyone standing close to hear, “And how’s my wildcat today?” Turning, he pinned me with that muddy glare laced with a poisonous smile. “Still carrying herself like a queen, I see.”
“She’s exactly how I wish her to be, Harper,” the captain returned without so much as a hint of respect or hesitation.
“But for how much longer, I wonder?”
To this, the captain said nothing. Didn’t bother himself to look at the general, and worse, didn’t make a move to take from him what might keep us alive.
“His Royal Majesty is extremely interested in her potential as a breeding sow,” the general went on, oozing forged charm. “But when he finds out her power is considerably more… offensive than we’d thought possible? Well”—he chuckled—“there’s no telling what he’ll do to her in the capitol. The experiments that might be run… presuming she survives, that is.”
Three blasts of the horn sent a heavy shroud of anticipation over the crowd. Bringing silence thick with a thing I couldn’t sense but knew was there.
Bloodlust.
I could almost taste it.
Knew exactly what it smelled like, how it sang on the wind and hit the ear just right…
… and Asher wouldn’t take it.
He left the empath in chains and didn’t blink.
I was facing the end as I had lived my life.
Alone.
All my allies turned traitor.
Surrounded by enemies.
Dressed in a sticky layer of artful lies.
From the royal pavilion, a ring of torches burst into flame. A signal that bade the general turn, leering through a waxy grin. He clapped his hands and said, “Shall we begin?”