Wolves of Empire [EPIC DARK FANTASY] [Book One Complete]

Six

Endarion

Empyria, the Imperium

24th of Tabus

When the Generals' Conclave last convened eighteen years ago, Endarion had been younger, more arrogant, eager for violence. The gathering had excited him; discussing the conquest of Tharghest had sparked flames of bloodthirsty passion in his chest.

Now it disgusted him.

He began the Conclave standing at the Caetoran's left side, across from Khian, grimacing at the ache in his crippled knee. It felt like he stood there in motionless silence for several painstaking hours as he waited for the arch-generals and their senior staff to file in. All the while the sallow old Caetoran lounged at ease in his chair—yet another replica throne—wearing his customary padded greatcoat that did nothing to bulk his malnourished form.

The Conclave Hall was a grand building, though not as large as the Prodessium. Its interior yawned emptily, the bulk of its walls and ceiling the impeccable white stone favoured by the Tower's immortal creators. Ribbed pillars carved of grey rock—a later addition, shaped by human hands—flanked the hall on both sides, the ornate chapiters of each embellished with images of armoured warriors and gnashing warhorses and blades bared in violence, each pillar depicting a different stage of an unknown textbook battle.

The Hall crowned the Empyrian Tower, more than a thousand feet skywards, reachable only via the rudimentary thunderships the Imperium kept purely for that purpose. With the day overcast, clouds entrenched the entire Palace District, though the chill and lightness of the air had been driven away by whatever enchantments the Novhar had woven into the Tower and its Surrekan engine. Lacking windows, the Hall never benefited from the pulsing glow of the engine or from the sun itself. No doubt the creators of this room had felt its gloomy darkness underscored the severity of its atmosphere.

Endarion cast his gaze out across the hall, his eyes settling on the small knot of his own senior officers, who'd come to the capital on his command. First-General Cato Romanus, an imperious nobleman who'd been with his army for decades, met Endarion's gaze with his steely own. Deathly calm Cavalry-General Palla Hasund seemed to assess those around her with the same detachment one might afford a stranger in a sea of strangers. Beside her, wearing her customary wolfish grin, her formal greatcoat tussled with characteristic disregard, stood Doglord Avelyn Brazus, the commander of Endarion's battalion of war hounds. She looked oddly incomplete without her stonehounds flanking her.

Daria waited awkwardly within their ranks, unaccustomed to being counted among them; the wideness of her eyes and the hunch of her shoulders made her look vulnerable, as if his officers were wolves and she a pup they protected.

"The Baltanos has agreed to meet us at the stronghold of Dujaro, on the border between Tharghest and Kalduran," Khian said when all were finally present. "I doubt it will resolve anything, which is why we convene today. Though some of our forces already reside in Tharghest following last year's summer campaign, the rest will be fielded shortly. We must, honoured Arch-Generals, treat this situation as an inevitable war."

Endarion nodded with the rest of them, feigning agreement. When Khian finished, he cleared his throat and said, "I have a strategy for defeating the empire. Or Kalduran, at least."

Dobran, wearing the gold-trimmed deep purple greatcoat of the Reign of Adhistabor, Tyrannus eagle proud and central, took a few paces towards him. "Why should you know anything of enemy tactics?" He spoke with a flat voice, though they both heard the implication in his words.

Endarion had spent hours the previous evening internally debating what he should propose at this Conclave. He was Paramount-General now. Empty as the title was, he still needed to pretend he possessed authority. And then there was what Valerian had said about the Caetoran believing him still associated with Estrid. If he wanted to maintain his position and avoid accusations of treason, he needed to sever all ties with her and, in doing so, betray her. After all, he didn't have any intention of following his brother's advice and remarrying. Nor of forcing Daria into a marriage she was vocally uninterested in.

"Four years ago, I was a prisoner on Shaeviren." As he spoke, his eyes didn't waver from Dobran's. They both knew he was responsible for Endarion's capture. "I was believed dead. Our armies were withdrawn from the planet, orders issued that return was forbidden. I was rescued when my daughter disobeyed those orders."

He paused, a heavy mass in the pit of his gut. His words were acid in his mouth. "My daughter wasn't alone. Before she set out, she approached Kandras Elerius, who personally joined her."

It was well-known his daughter had defied the Caetoran's orders that no one was to return to Shaeviren following the collapse of their campaign. Only Daria's success in rescuing him had prevented punishment. Estrid's involvement, on the other hand, had always been kept secret because of the ramifications.

The Caetoran's harsh drawl drilled into his thoughts. "How is that relevant?"

"I spent time recovering on Shaeviren, and I spoke with Elerius," he continued. "She told me Drasken had designs on the Imperium. A wish to one day conquer us."

Janus shrugged. "Why tell me that?"

He mirrored the shrug. "You brother implies I collude with Kalduran. How could I collude with people who want to conquer us? People I encourage war against?"

"You encourage this war?" the Caetoran asked.

The words were poisonous, but he spat them anyway. "Of course. The Varkommer are a threat to us. Drasken is a threat. The Baltanos and Elerius? They are the more immediate threat."

He wasn't sure how sincere the audience thought his words, though he doubted the Caetoran would ever believe him unswervingly loyal to the Imperial cause. No matter: the gesture had been made and he'd publicly positioned himself as an enemy of Estrid's, even if his spouted bullshit tasted sour in his mouth.

"Your strategy, then?" Khian prompted.

He stepped away from the Caetoran and out into the hall's expanse. The Conclave's floor had been worked into a meticulously detailed map of the continent, the original Novhar stone long covered over with an intricate fresco. According to popular legend, Canisius Thurinus himself had crafted it after founding the Imperium, laying each individual tile himself. Endarion paced towards the sweeping grasslands and untamed wilderness of Kalduran, north of the Imperium and Tharghest. At his feet, his equal in size, was frescoed an artistic representation of the city of Varanos, Kalduran's capital, located almost on its border with Drasken.

"If we want to avoid the fumbling efforts of these most recent campaigns in Kalduran, we need to secure its capital. This will give us a foothold for an extended campaign against the rest of Drasken, if that is the Caetoran's wish." He nodded to his royal cousin, the only courtesy he'd give the man. "Kalduran is under the Baltanos's control, but it is a wild nation, more rural than urban. All its governance centres on Varanos. Take the city, you take the whole province. No need to waste time and resources targeting settlements not directly en route to the capital."

He limped south to Tharghest, his knee twinging. Theoretically, the whole thin strip of a country was under his military domain. However, it had been torn asunder during the campaign to conquer it and there was barely a population left worth commanding. His fault for leading that campaign.

"I established a war camp in the Tharghestian city of Aukruna when I first conquered it. I assume the armies engaged in the summer campaigns are there now?" At an abrupt nod from Khian, he continued. "We should gather our forces there in time for the negotiations. If we keep it garrisoned, we can defend against any potential counter-invasions." He turned fully to the young Warmaster. "I would suggest fielding between half and three quarters of each of the seven armies, rather than their full strength."

"Why is that?" Khian asked.

Endarion ignored the urge to roll his eyes. "Kalduran has very few cities, and even fewer roads. The fewer soldiers we have, the fewer supplies we will need, the easier it will be to live from the land, and the quicker we can move our entire force."

It was testament to Khian's military inexperience that he seemed to assume all seven armies would take to the field entirely, especially when they were almost never at full strength anyway. They'd need soldiers left behind to garrison their Reigns' barracks, not to mention the many thousands of soldiers across the Imperium who remained in training, preparing to replenish the ranks lost in the previous Kaldurani campaigns.

When the younger man offered no contest, Endarion moved towards the Imperium's border with Tharghest, punctuated by the stark line of the Cloudbreaker Mountains. The one significant break in the rocky chain was the Sentinel, a stronghold bridging the gateway into the Imperium. "We'll also need an army to remain behind, to protect our own borders. Tharghest is long enough for the Kaldurani to bypass Aukruna unchallenged if they're careful. We need a last line of defence, lest we overextend."

"Who do you suggest?" Khian asked from his elevated position at his uncle's side.

Endarion spent a moment assessing each of the six other arch-generals. Ricardus Naevon of Asineo, an old friend, and Kavan Aza of Quendinther, Estrid's successor, stood together towards the back of the gathering, supported by their senior staff. Ricardus was starting to submit to the rigours of age, his sweeping silver-trimmed black greatcoat concealing a lean, bent frame. Kavan, despite being forty-seven, still looked as youthful as he had at twenty-seven, with a wide smile and an energetic brightness in his eyes. They were Endarion's only allies here, the only two armies whose leaders he and Valerian had swayed to their cause. He couldn't consider keeping either of them behind, lest he leave himself alone in the field surrounded by the Caetoran's loyalist lapdogs.

Byrria Dumerian of Uldhen eyed him with hostility, daring him to suggest she should be left behind. She was the tallest woman present, and broad with it. He'd heard she eschewed the traditional arming swords in favour of a war-hammer, and suspected she made for an intimidating sight on the battlefield.

Dobran wasn't even worth considering, related to the Caetoran as he was. Janus would want his imperious brother as close to Endarion as possible in the field, to watch him, to possibly even sabotage him.

A short distance away from Dobran, positioned so close their romantic relationship seemed obvious, stood Korzha Mazilu of Odynia and Reveka Rom of Daresgar. Korzha was black-haired and dark-eyed where Reveka was blonde, with a gaze of the lightest blue, and they made an odd pair. Endarion's home province of Denjin was too far removed from either of them for their paths to have crossed in any meaningful way before, and they were both too young to have served in any campaigns alongside him. They were both supporters of the Caetoran, though, and enemies by virtue of this.

"The Sentinel sits in the Reign of Daresgar, under the command of Arch-General Rom," Endarion said. "She knows mountain warfare the best of any of us." He addressed Reveka directly. "You are familiar with the layout of the Sentinel?"

She dipped her head in a shallow nod.

"Then you shall defend our most vulnerable border."

He turned back to Janus and Khian, clasping his hands behind his back to conceal the slight tremble in them. So far, he'd shown the confident face of an assured arch-general. Yet he knew what rumours circulated about him. Knew they were forefront in the minds of all present today. He need only slip up once.

"There is the small matter of Kalduran's martial superiority over us," he said, projecting his baritone as far as he dared. He raised a silencing hand before the Caetoran could voice his objections. "Our armies outnumber theirs, of course, but that's without taking into account their Sky Fleet, which we cannot match."

Khian pointedly cleared his throat. "We have it on good authority the Drasken thunderships are dedicated to the west of the empire, protecting its borders. It's likely we'll be facing whichever of their grounded armies they have in Kalduran, and nothing more."

"But they also have magic," Endarion added.

Over the course of its lifetime, the Imperium had shunned magic to the extent that it had been bred out of the noble lineages almost entirely. Individuals like Estrid, with her pyromancy, were rare, usually snatched away and monitored for the rest of their lives. The Imperium's fear of a resurgence of the Arisen Theocracies and its tyrannical godkings of millennia long past ensured those born with magic were refused all but the most basic training, were prohibited from having children, and were practically slaves if they chose to nurture their abilities.

The Drasken Empire, on the other hand, was ruled by an oligarchy of mages. Their entire aristocracy consisted of mages who'd made themselves immortal through their mastery of magic. Their ships guarded the clouds. Their combat-mages dominated the battlefield. If their ambitions were greater, their Varkommer could rule the world.

"If they field their combat-mages, we are outmatched. Especially if we need to hold back Arch-General Rom's army for the Sentinel, and another army to garrison Aukruna."

He posed this challenge to undermine the Caetoran, to show how ill-advised the war was. He'd expected to look to Janus and find hesitation, but Dobran's smug grin distracted him.

"There's a simple solution to that," Dobran said. "We call on allies."

With a theatrical flourish, Dobran waved towards the Conclave's entrance. A solitary figure was permitted and, despite being dwarfed by her surroundings, strode towards them with the authority of one accustomed to power. Endarion knew her before she'd even drawn close enough to be recognised.

Nazhira Tyrannus. Aside from being the Castrian ambassador, she was Dobran's wife and Khian's mother, and cut an imposing and strikingly beautiful figure. She possessed the dark skin of native Castrians, and her attire—the type of loose, flowing shawl and skirt favoured by her people—made her look sultry and ethereal. She wore pauldrons over the garment, worked into the shape of a pair of kulosa—lithe, cat-like creatures endemic to her homeland. An ornate belt cinched her clothes tight around her waist, the leather dyed Tyrannus purple.

She cast a calculating gaze over the gathering. Her beauty had always cultivated trust and adoration, but Endarion knew better; she'd seduced him once when trying to sabotage a planned military campaign. He'd allowed it because he'd hoped to gain information from her in turn. The only good thing to come of that short-lived affair was that Dobran knew his wife had bedded his rival. It gave Endarion the slightest bit of emotional leverage over the bastard which, though petty, he liked to abuse.

That was why, when Nazhira's flat grey eyes wandered his way, he forced a smile, hoping Dobran was watching.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"The Castrian League has agreed to provide us military support," Khian announced as his mother joined him.

Nazhira surveyed their ranks again, this time from above. Her attention skimmed over them, brief enough to imply she found them all wanting. The steel in her gaze seemed honed enough to slice. "I have offered a small force—personally chosen—to aid the Praevin in their efforts to protect Empyria in the wake of Novissa's assassination," she confirmed, voice deep and alluring. "I also have, prepared to sail from Castrio at a moment's notice, twenty thousand veterans under my command. If Paramount-General Boratorren will allow it, we will garrison Aukruna in his wake and defend it against the Kaldurani, sparing him the need to leave an army behind."

She looked to him, wearing a predatory smile that didn't touch her eyes.

It was Kavan Aza who voiced the first challenge. "Does no one else see the threat in having foreign troops in our capital at a time of war?"

Nazhira delivered her reply without a trace of emotion. "The League has no designs on the Imperium."

Endarion tried not to snort. True, the Castrian League might not, but Nazhira was her own agent.

"Is the alliance official?" he asked, finding his voice.

"Official?" Nazhira replied, spearing him with her stare.

"Has it been outlined in writing and submitted for approval by the Prodessium?"

The Caetoran, quiet for a while now, spoke up. "We have no need for official approval in the event of a war. When the crisis is over, we will address the matter. Officially."

Khian clasped his hands together and rocked on his heels. "Perhaps we should focus our efforts on the matter at hand? We do have a war to plan, after all." He gestured to Endarion. "I believe your strategy will work, unless anyone has an alternative?"

From the crowd, Byrria Dumerian made herself known. "I don't think it wise to follow Boratorren into battle, let alone plan our campaign around his ideas."

"Why's that?" he growled without thinking. Dumerian baited him, of course.

The bullish woman feigned surprised. "Because you're a mad old man. Last I heard, your daughter has to hold your hand every time you need to piss."

He bristled. "My madness was much exaggerated and inconsequential."

Dobran chuckled. "Are you sure?" he said. "I heard from a trusted advisor that, just a few weeks ago, you were frolicking naked through the woods around Denjin with your dogs. Apparently, your howling was very wolf-like."

The crowd stiffened, caught between looking away in awkwardness or joining Dobran in laughing at Endarion's expense. Daria, he noticed, clenched her fists and scowled.

He wedged his tongue into the ragged the gap in his teeth and coughed a sarcastic laugh. "You have imaginative advisors, cousin," he said. "I only howl when the moon is full, and never naked."

Kavan and Ricardus chuckled, shattering the tension in the room enough for Khian to regain control of the meeting, and for the attack on Endarion's honour to be swept past. "Silence. We shouldn't clash with each other here when the real enemy awaits us. Field your armies, arch-generals, however many men you can dedicate. We gather at Aukruna to prepare ourselves for war. A selected party will meet with the Baltanos at Dujaro, but assume attempts at peace will fail."

The Caetoran departed first, his Warmaster in his shadow. Before she made to follow, Nazhira fixed Endarion with a knowing look and offered a crooked smile that, on any other face, would've been innocent. On hers, it was menacing, and he had the distinct feeling that whatever game she'd been playing with the Conclave, she already boasted the superior hand.

―

Endarion rarely spent time in his palatial estate in the city's Exalt District and saw no point in hiring staff to keep it running during his many absences. It sat, neglected and empty, a building large enough to accommodate a small village home only to silence and dust.

His office, overlooking the flat stretch of overgrown garden and the cold night sky beyond, was a spacious room, mostly bare but for a desk, a bookshelf, his wine cabinet, and a drawer to store old maps. To chase away the darkness and resurrect his house's corpse, he'd employed all the stray candles he could find and spread them across the room.

It was a paltry effort, but he felt a little better for it.

He reclined in his chair, stretching his legs out before him and wincing as his knee creaked. He tried to keep his eyes away from the wine bottles balanced on the bookshelf, lest he over-indulge. On his advice, Daria was spending the evening with Avelyn Brazus, taking the opportunity to relax in the scant days before they all went to war. The illegitimate son Endarion shared with Avelyn had joined his mother in the capital, and Endarion thought time with one of her half-siblings might do Daria good after four years wasted by his side in his self-imposed exile.

He'd been tempted to join her, if only to see how his son, now twenty-one years old, was doing. But seeing Remus, who'd started serving beneath his mother in the Denjini army, would only remind Endarion how terrible a father he'd been, and how little he knew his child. How terrible a father he was to all five of his children, truth be told.

He brushed the self-pitying thoughts away before they matured; soon, he and the other arch-generals would depart for Tharghest. He might not return intact. He might not even return alive. Then, his paternal failings would be irrelevant.

Perhaps he should've felt apprehension, rising dread, sadness. Instead: emptiness. As if he'd died already and this campaign couldn't kill him again.

He might've sat in resigned silence the entire evening had a harsh knock not fractured the fragile quietude. He shot to his feet, hand instinctively slapping down to the arming sword propped against his chair.

It was paranoia of the most insensible kind: what kind of assassin announced themselves by knocking?

Still, he gripped his blade as he left his office. The estate's main door was half his height again and carved of hardy Kaldurani spirewood. It took some effort but, after unlatching it, he wrenched it open as suddenly as possible, to surprise potential assailants beyond.

He hadn't known what to expect. Maybe his brother, come to ruin his evening? A Praevin officer, with an update on Novissa's death? Even the dreaded unknown assassin he seemed to anticipate?

Not Iana Mallian, one of his old lovers.

Though of an age with him, she still remained every inch the beautiful aristocrat. Her delicate face, once open and welcoming, now radiated coldness. Her large eyes, in the past alight with humour, were splinters of ice as she regarded him with a chilling indifference. Her dark hair, frosted now with alluring hints of grey that complemented her majestic bearing, had been tied back this evening to better accentuate the sharp, displeased cast to her features. Their mutual adoration had faded years ago, and they hadn't been romantically involved in more than a decade. Their nineteen-year-old daughter Lexia was the only tether binding them together now.

"En," she said. "You look well. The office of Paramount-General suits you."

She moved past him and into the hallway without another word. He paused in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. He hadn't seen Iana since before his capture, hadn't wanted to inflict his mad self on her and Lexia in the four years since his rescue.

Wordlessly, he followed her to his office. As she took the seat opposite, he plucked a bottle of Padrean wine from the bookshelf and half-filled two ornate glasses. He pushed one over to her and stood before his chair, not quite sure whether to sit. In truth, he would've preferred an assassin. At least then he'd know what to do.

"I should've visited," he said.

Her regal countenance didn't flicker. "You were busy."

"Busy going insane."

She took a careful sip of her drink. "Those are the rumours."

"You believe them?"

"No," she said automatically. "Of course not." She took a considerable swig, then set her glass down with a clink. "Should I?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. There are so many rumours about me now, at least some must be true."

"I doubt that."

"Why?"

"I've heard these rumours. I know the quality of those who regurgitate them. Even now, people still fear you and your family, and must find ways to discredit you. If you are a crippled old man with less than half a mind, you are not to be feared. If you remain the immovable Iron Wolf, there is every reason to fear you."

She spoke with such firmness, Endarion remembered why he'd first become interested in her all those years ago, after the sting of his wife's death and his first failed courtship with Estrid had faded fractionally. Perhaps, if his paranoia and numerous absences hadn't worn away their affection, as it did with every bond he formed, they might still be together. Friends, if not lovers.

He tipped his glass and let the wine burn a path down his throat. The heat was comforting, the faint fuzziness it brought to his vision even more so. Iana pushed her glass aside, having barely partaken of what he'd always thought was an exquisite vintage.

"Lexia wants to learn to fight like you. She started speaking of it as soon as she learned there'd be war. She wanted to come with me tonight to see you, but I dissuaded her," Iana said, looking up at him. "If she asked, would you teach her? Would you take her on campaign with you and Daria?"

"If that's what she wanted," Endarion said, wary at the sudden tangent, suspecting this was the real reason Iana had come here tonight. Because of his role as an arch-general, he'd had little to do with Lexia in her youth, much to his regret. Iana had raised the girl mostly alone whilst he'd been away waging wars, and he understood her maternal protectiveness. But Lexia was an adult now, and closer to an age where he might be able to find more in common with her.

Iana reached for her discarded glass before thinking better of it. "All these years she's been content to follow in my footsteps. It pleased me, having my daughter enthralled by my businesses, having her by my side where I knew she was safe." She looked up into his eyes. "I've seen the way war has twisted you, how it has robbed you of your humanity, made you hate. Daria has that for her future. I don't want it for Lexia."

As she spoke, she flowed to her feet and inched around the desk, moving towards him with the menace of a stalking hunter, her eyes fixed on his. When she'd drawn up to him, she pressed a gentle hand to his chest in an almost loving gesture. Before he could react, she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his face down to hers, pressing their lips firmly together. Shock rippled through him at the contact. He stiffened as she deepened the kiss, her fingers knotting into his hair, her mouth searching for a response that wasn't there.

As quickly as she'd begun, Iana pulled away with a scowl. "There's nothing, is there?" she said. "No affection. No emotion. No humanity."

All he managed was a slurred, confused, "What?"

"Was there ever?"

He swallowed, trying to recover himself. His lips burned from her kiss, but they both knew it meant nothing. "What are you suggesting?"

Iana barked a withering laugh. "I suggest we—your lovers and your children—are nothing to you. Just allies you can shape, tools you can use, beasts of burden to bend to your will."

He kept silent, not trusting himself to respond. Iana interpreted his silence as acknowledgment.

"You court your lovers simply so you can sire your own little army," she said, gaining strength. "That's why you can't maintain relationships. That's why you sleep your way through the noble ranks. That's why your children don't care for you.

"Have the courtesy to deny it, at least. Tell me I'm wrong and the Iron Wolf is capable of love. Tell me the Iron Wolf doesn't look at his family as weapons, as things. Tell me the Iron Wolf cares about more than just bloodlust and war."

He lurched forward, head swimming. "You think I can allow myself the luxury of love?" he snarled. "Everyone I love is a target. Everyone I love dies or is chased away."

Iana didn't flinch, instead seeming to soften, her anger melting into something sad and mournful.

"Don't you dare pity me," he snapped. "Hate me all you want, Iana, but don't fucking pity me."

"En," she said, extending a hand towards him, like he was a feral dog she tried to reassure. "I don't hate you."

"You should," he said. "I am a monster."

She shook her head, keeping her hand raised. "You are what the Imperium made you," she said. "It made you kill, so you are a killer. It scoured you of emotion, so you are emotionless. It destroyed what you love, so you are loveless."

Her accusations dared him to prove her wrong. She'd always challenged him with her harshness, though tonight she sounded more reserved than combative, as if these were token efforts and she didn't really care if he disappointed her or not. Too many years of disjointed distance had passed for her to care.

"Did you come here purely to disparage me?" he asked, pressing a hand to his mouth as if to blot away the cold suddenness of her kiss.

She reached into the fold of her coat and extracted a thick packet of papers bound together with an artful ribbon. She slapped it to the desk next to them. When he glanced down, he saw a perfect expanse of her neat, deliberate penmanship. "Our old contract was out of date. With this new war, I took the time to draft a new one. The same discounts. The same supply. I came here for your signature."

He didn't bother reading the contract; Iana and the eponymous Mallian Company she helmed had supplied his army with its arms and armour for almost as long as he'd been Arch-General of Denjin. It had originally twined with their courtship all those years ago, turning their relationship from a romantic bond into a transactional one whereby she provided him with military supplies at a steep discount and he lent her the strength of his name by her association with him, allowing her to snare high profile customers. Lexia had been an unintended side effect of their dalliance, but it had cleaved Iana close enough to his family that she was, however distantly, involved in their insurrection.

"You didn't even realise the previous contract was outdated, did you?" Iana asked as he sought for a pen to sign the top sheet. "Or were you so eager to not lay eyes upon my daughter and I that you were willing to end our business together on the eve of war just to avoid seeing us?"

He scrawled his signature, pressing hard enough to imprint it onto the pages beneath, and then flicked the pen across his desk. "I was in no fit state to see you or Lexia following my return from Shaeviren," he replied without looking at her.

Iana snatched the packet up and stuffed it back into her coat, the violence of the gesture enough to crumple the pages and upset the ribbon.

"Allow me to elaborate." He glanced up, found her watching him with nostrils flared and plush lips pressed together in anger. The sight of her so incensed fuelled a dangerous simmer in the pit of his gut. "I had no desire to inflict my mad old self on you and our daughter. I was a dribbling, insensate fool, chattering nonsense, flinching from every shadow, subjected to waking visions that had me lashing out like a drunkard, unable to even walk for the first few months." He patted his leg, unbraced this evening, to illustrate. "For once, the rumours are true and I was indeed busy going mad. Please don't resent me from sparing you the sight of that, Iana. For sparing Lexia."

Those last words almost spat, his mind a whirlpool of the memories he unwillingly shared with Iana now. Even four years after his rescue, the ordeal still tormented him. He hated that he could recall his maddened phases, those dark hours when the nightmares became real and he staggered along in a fearful, jabbering state of half-awareness, his body safe in the Howling Tower but his mind forever chained to the walls of his cell on Shaeviren. Hated that he wasn't even permitted the slim mercy of forgetting, of returning to lucidity none the wiser of how he'd raved, of how Daria had been forced to oversee him, of how she sometimes had to barricade him in his room until the episodes passed and he no longer tried to defend himself against imagined foes.

Though he hadn't regressed now for more than a year, the possibility forever lurked at the corner of his perception, a predator he couldn't quite see, but which made his hackles rise in horrid anticipation.

For a moment, it seemed like Iana might allow his words and the venom with which he spoke them to drive her to further argument. She'd clearly come here spoiling for a fight, probably wanting to punish him for how their daughter now seemed enamoured with the military lifestyle that had ruined him.

But then her shoulders loosened from their tense alignment and her jaw unclenched. The earlier softness returned to her eyes as she regarded him. "I knew when we first became involved what kind of man you were, En." She reached out and patted his shoulder, the gesture at once mocking and consoling. "I can hardly resent you for continuing to be that man, rumoured madness notwithstanding."

Iana took a pointed final swig from her wine. "Don't visit Lexia before you leave for Tharghest," she added. "I don't want her trying to convince you to take her with you. I don't want to see the false hope in her eyes when she convinces herself you'll actually spend some time with her, either."

He nodded, a bitter streak in him urging him to argue with her, to claim he had as much right to his daughter as Iana did. But then he'd be lying to himself as well as Iana, and there seemed nothing more pointless in that moment, when her cutting words had already flayed him to the core and laid bare his inadequacies.

Iana said nothing more and he lowered his head, unwilling to meet her eyes. When, some minutes later, he dared to look up, she was gone.

―

As always, he was chained to a slab of cold stone crudely carved into the shape of a chair. As always, a dozen fresh wounds wept, staining his skin and the bare floor beneath him. As always, his tormentor lurked in the shadows suffocating the torture chamber.

He struggled against the chains binding his wrists and, when he shifted his legs, cried out in pain at his crippled knee's protest. The joint was skinless, the muscle glistening, a white speck of bone visible through the clotted blood.

He remembered being kneecapped. Remembered, with visceral clarity, the metal pick being driven beneath the bone, its wicked point penetrating deep into his limb. At first, he'd felt a horrific emptiness, the parting of his flesh manifesting only as a discomfiting sensation.

Then the pain had hit him. Not like a wave, because that wasn't sufficient. Nor like the dull throb of a bruise, or the sharp jolt of a fracture. It had been something more. Something profound. Something altogether wrong.

He was drawn away from his study of this most grievous of wounds by a presence in the shadows. Initially, he thought one of his torturers had returned to destroy the other kneecap, or flay his right arm, or hold a knife between his legs and threaten to castrate him again.

Instead, the intruder lurked behind him, unseen, emanating a foulness Endarion couldn't comprehend. He imagined he could smell the putrescence of a festering corpse or feel the oily slickness of diseased blood against his skin. His heart thundered with fear, his blood running to ice in his veins, his hands balled into fists and straining against his chains.

He knew the presence meant him harm, though not the physical harm his alien tormentors inflicted upon him daily.

Somehow, though he had never seen his attacker, he knew it wanted to end him. To tear him asunder with such ferocity, such finality, he no longer existed. Erased. Not even a desiccated corpse or a smear of blood on the walls.

To be dragged into the Abyss. To be unmade.

A flicker of hot breath across the back of his neck made him thrash. He thrashed himself all the way from the torture cell on Shaeviren, back into his bed in Empyria.

He awoke with a shuddering inhale and bolted upright. The covers had twisted around his legs and a sheen of sweat dampened his skin. His years of conflict and campaign had drilled defensive instincts into him; he swiped the dagger he kept on his bedside cabinet and leapt to his feet, brandishing the blade at a non-existent foe. Sleep's fog had barely faded by the time he remembered where he was.

As if his conversation earlier that evening with Iana had goaded the broken shards of his mind, the night terrors had returned with a vengeance, and he was once again that terrified old bastard lashing out at nothing, proving the rumours true.

What a magnificent Paramount-General I make.