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

Eight

Endarion

Dykumas, Kalduran

12th of Satimus

Dykumas's hulking carcass marred the otherwise pristine wilderness of Kalduran's open grassland, its twisted, blackened mass an ugly sore on the horizon. When they crossed the River Kald on their way through, they were reminded not to replenish their water supplies or drink from downriver, because the decaying corpses of the city's murdered denizens still poisoned it. A stark reminder of his crimes, and Endarion found his gaze anchored to the ruins of the city as their forces camped upriver for a reprieve in their march.

They'd made good time to reach Dykumas now, five days after leaving Varanos. Freshly trampled mud and the deep troughs of supply carts and cavalry lines marked the progress of their quarry, though Dobran's significant absence suggested the Imperials made straight for the Tharghestian border. They'd fortify, almost certainly within the abandoned stronghold of Dujaro, knowing Endarion intended to return and invade his own country.

The Kaldurani wound out behind him and Ricardus. To lessen the strain on the land, the armies weren't clustered together, though still within scouting range of each other. He knew the Baltanos wanted to keep him in line, and it wouldn't be until after their first shared field battle that the man would loosen the restraints. As it was, their combined forces, numbering more than one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers, made for an intimidating arrangement, though the landscape around them was empty of witnesses to be intimidated, just as it was empty of farmland or forest to reap resources from.

The clump of Kaldurani Prime marched at the force's centre, too used to their usual cohesion to be easily separated between Aladar and Elek's shared command. Kavan's Quendinthans brought up the rear some miles distant, escorting the supply train. Endarion suspected the decision to house the train with Kavan had been deliberate on either Estrid or Aladar's part; when Kavan had first defected outside Allodek all those weeks ago, he'd sabotaged the Imperium's own supply train in order to divert Endarion's planned march. Knowing he deserved the jab, Endarion had bristled but said nothing.

Estrid, possessing the highest ratio of cavalry, oversaw their scouting operations, sending her soldiers out in organised clumps in search of their Imperial foes. She also combed the countryside for any villages and farmland not raped by Dobran's armies on their first march through, though Endarion wasn't confident in her success. His cousin had, after all, been able to ravage the countryside unchecked for some time before Endarion had realised what had been transpiring. Kalduran's sparseness worked against it in this case; settlements were isolated and unable to call for quick aid, unlike in the Imperium, where villages and towns were often linked by maintained roads or well-trodden trails.

As he stood away from his resting army, his gaze focused on Dykumas's broken silhouette, he heard the soft tread of military boots in mud and turned as the Baltanos approached. Three Denjini sentries waited uncertainly behind him, having conveyed him here to Endarion's position without being sure they could leave him alone with their commander. Endarion signalled their dispersal, and they responded with sharp salutes before departing.

"I didn't comprehend how thoroughly you destroyed my city," the Baltanos noted as he stopped at Endarion's side. "This is the first time I've seen it."

Endarion bowed his head in contrition, trying to lower himself before a man who stood more than a head shorter. "I still don't understand why that order was given," he admitted. When Aladar glanced across at him, he added, "The Caetoran made it clear from the outset that he wished to conquer Kalduran. He envisioned another United Empire of Adhistabor." He swept his hands out towards the mass graveyard. "This doesn't fit that vision."

"Neither did Tharghest," Aladar replied. "An entire kingdom the Imperium could've pulled resources from, cultivated and assimilated, yet it was destroyed instead, a whole population of potential subjects driven west."

Endarion had been in his prime then, still ravenous for war's bloody glory, when the order to sunder Tharghest had arrived from the capital. Years spent trying to win dominance over it, yet once such dominance was won, the Caetoran wanted to pull apart his newest prize like a malicious child dismembering a fly. Endarion hadn't questioned it then, had instead carried out those pointless orders with the Iron Wolf's gleeful bloodthirstiness. He'd been personally responsible for the murder of the entire Tharghestian royal family and, though he looked back on those actions with remorse and disgust, during their execution he'd been exultant.

"Someone is directing the Caetoran. Has been for a long time," Endarion said, sharing his suspicions. He recalled talking with Dobran about the impending razing of Dykumas, and the insensibility of it. Dobran had seemed as confused as him, suggesting he hadn't known his own brother's plans.

"This Arisen?" Aladar asked.

"Maybe," Endarion replied, unconvinced. As powerful as Dexion Mendacium was as Captain-General of the Praevin, there'd been no other evidence to indicate ulterior motives beyond war with Kalduran. If Dexion had a network beyond the Caesidi, his niece Sephara had yet to uncover it. Perhaps—and it made Endarion shudder to even consider the option—the godking answered to someone else. But who, or what, could possibly command an Arisen?

"I still struggle to believe an Arisen responsible for all this," the Baltanos said, his eyes locked on Dykumas. "They have been silent for four millennia, ever since the overthrow of their Theocracies. Why wait so long? Why now?"

"I don't know."

As far as Endarion knew, the last godking, Skiron, had supposedly been dismembered by a mob, thus sealing the fate of a two-thousand-year regime. Records from the Dolorem Kingdoms—the smaller nations that had blossomed for several hundred years following the fall of the immortal godkings—reported no traces of any lingering Arisen, proving their destruction had been total and indiscriminate. For four millennia Indaver had been a continent without gods—the immortals of the Drasken Empire notwithstanding. To have even one of those divine monarchs resurface with ill intent was worrying indeed, though Endarion wouldn't be able to spare the matter of Mendacium much consideration until after he'd toppled his own empire.

"You realise this doesn't end even with your nephew on the throne," Aladar said.

He sighed and tore his gaze from the city's carcass. "I'm starting to appreciate that."

They stood in what Endarion could almost deem companionable silence for a few moments. Though not familiar enough with each other to be anything but precarious allies, he considered Aladar a welcome change to the judgement and disdain of his fellow arch-generals.

"Kandras Elerius is taking some forces into Dykumas to search the ruins for supplies and assess the damage," Aladar said, shattering their shared quiet. "If you're interested in making amends, you could start there. She plans on leaving within the hour."

Endarion replied with a nod, saying nothing else as Aladar allowed his suggestion to simmer. After a moment, the Baltanos left him alone to look upon the destruction he'd wrought.

―

Aside from their most obvious application as dogs of war, the elite, armoured stonehounds that set the Denjini army apart could also be used to sniff through rubble and locate food stores and corpses.

Endarion's own personal pack consisted of four of the beasts, with the largest, Basirius, standing as high as his chest when alert and upright. Demon, Styros, and Andaria, younger specimens but no less trained, snuffled at the flattened dirt track leading up to Dykumas's main gate, which still hung open like a gaping wound. Basirius remained at Endarion's side, the most steadfast and loyal of companions, his head canted inwards in anticipation of head scratches. Endarion acquiesced as he paced towards the group of soldiers waiting at the city's entrance, running his hand down to the sleek ruff of fur around his dog's neck.

It was a sick sort of irony that found him back in the city with the same hounds he'd used to rip it apart. Though no longer armoured and blood-slicked, his pack had ended countless innocent lives here on his command, and to have them so happily trot in his wake, tails swishing contentedly, seemed wrong.

He'd come alone, despite the protests of his senior officers. His Doglord, Avelyn Brazus, had wanted to join him on principle. Palla Hasund, his newly promoted first-general and a woman possessing potent magic—magic she'd already used to save his life once—had wanted to shadow him, just in case the Imperials left traps in their wake. Daria wanted to come in hopes of seeing Estrid again.

"You don't need to see what happened in there," he'd said.

His daughter had snorted and replied, "You mean, I don't need to see what you made happen in there."

The comment stung, and he'd walked away before the hurt showed on his face, though he knew he deserved it.

For today's task he'd chosen a plain military coat, a shade or two darker than the lurid blue of his greatcoat and much shorter. It was wishful thinking to believe Estrid's soldiers would forget who he was and what he'd done simply because he wore different clothes, and the need for his leg brace made him easily identifiable regardless. Still, he needed to try.

"I heard you were joining us, Paramount-General," Estrid called as she broke away from the cluster of her soldiers who stood waiting just inside the gate.

"I think we can forget that title," he replied.

The dogs placed themselves around him in a rough square as Estrid approached, their hackles raised in silent challenge. He whistled once, a long, low sound that made their ears, plastered against their heads in caution, prick up.

A small smile raised the corner of Estrid's mouth as she watched them. Though he'd owned stonehounds when they'd courted, she'd never been especially involved with them, and looked upon them with the same wary reverence everyone else displayed. She approached slowly, hands raised in supplication. Because Estrid was unfamiliar to the dogs, they stiffened, fangs bared. When she drew close enough, Endarion stepped between her and Basirius and held out his hand to her, waiting for her permission. She hesitated, then let him take it and guide her towards Basirius. As he released a gentle shush, he flattened Estrid's palm against the beast's head, pinning her hand beneath his own. Though Estrid wouldn't know it, the combination of shushing and the act of covering her hand with his solidified her status as pack member to the hounds. From now on, she was to be protected. Family.

With great reluctance he ended their contact and retreated, watching as Basirius nuzzled at her palm. With his acceptance, the rest of the pack took the cue and relaxed.

"Basirius," Endarion introduced. He pointed to the other three canines in turn. "Styros. Andaria. Demon."

Estrid chuckled. "Amusing names," she said, then nodded to the dogs. "A pleasure."

She returned her attention to her soldiers, a company outfitted in the loose-fitting gear of scouts. Endarion sidled up to the outskirts, unsure of his place in their hierarchy, though his pack ensured the Dasjurans gave him a wide berth. That Estrid made no further comment about his presence suggested Aladar had spoken to her before he'd approached Endarion that morning and, though Endarion wasn't sure what to make of the Baltanos's interference, he would happily accept any chance to make amends.

"We're not here looking for survivors," Estrid said, as if the grimness of their surroundings needed to be highlighted. "We're here to find any supplies we can, and to decide if Dykumas is worth garrisoning once we've moved on." She started singling her soldiers out, organising them into pairs and groups of four, then allocating them a part of the city to focus on. "Three hours from now I want you all back here with detailed reports of what you've found. Any potential food stores need to be marked or remembered."

One soldier raised a tentative hand. "What about bodies?"

"What about them?"

"Are we going to bury the dead?"

Though he didn't merit the company with his gaze, Endarion knew they'd settled all theirs on him. He felt their anger, hot on the back of his neck, and wondered how many of them wanted to kill him right now and add his body to the scores of those who'd fallen to his blades and his dogs.

"We have no time," Estrid replied steadily. "Kandras Lakatos's army will arrive after we've moved on, to begin the process of setting things right." She skimmed her eyes out across the ruins of the main thoroughfare. "Or as right as we can ever hope to get them."

With grumbles and curses the company scattered, fading into the labyrinth of the toppled city and leaving Endarion and his pack alone with Estrid, who hadn't paired herself with any of her soldiers. Endarion understood that she trusted her own men enough to isolate herself with him without risking word reaching Elek and her other detractors. This might be his only chance to speak with her candidly, away from the war tables and command pavilions.

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She strode away, halting at the edge of the thoroughfare's paved expanse. The buildings fronting it were blackened husks, cooked by fires he hadn't ordered his soldiers to set, which had blazed regardless. She crouched down and, using a dagger she'd plucked from her belt, poked at something heaped up beneath what had once been a shopfront.

"Why did you come?" she asked after a strained pause.

"Because if anyone deserves to be faced with the consequences of their actions, it's me," he replied.

His eyes snagged on the object of her interest. A body, roasted and curled by the heat, its hands twisted in an echo of its final pain. Impaled in its chest was a charred Denjini sword, proving the fire hadn't been the cause of death here.

"Very noble of you," she muttered, surging to her feet. "I want to go to the city prefect's estate. Coming?"

He supressed a shiver of revulsion; the prefect's estate was where he'd aimed the small force he'd personally commanded during the razing. Where he'd stumbled upon Cato Romanus, his late first-general, torturing the prefect himself. In the depths of his madness, Endarion hadn't recognised Cato before fatally stabbing him.

Estrid's stern expression made it clear she knew some of the details of that day, and that she'd picked this destination deliberately. Fair enough.

They wove in and out of streets, bearing witness to the tableau of horror he was the primary author of. What streets hadn't succumbed to the fires harboured undeniable proof of what he and his army had done, and the air was thick and rank with the stench of rotting flesh. His dogs entertained themselves chasing off scavengers picking at carrion, and he noted with a frown that most of the culprits were domesticated animals that, in the absence of their owners, had turned feral.

"Reminds me of Tharghest," Estrid said. She pointedly kept to the centre of each street, avoiding stepping on bodies where she could. Whenever she spied a Denjini corpse in amongst the Kaldurani, she'd hesitate and make sure he saw too, before moving on.

Tharghest. A massacre on a larger scale than this, for which they both shared partial responsibility. He didn't know if her comment was a snipe at him, or a reminder of the violence they'd both once executed.

They reached the prefect's estate less than half an hour later, and the memories of Dykumas's fall played back in his mind, as lucid and clear as if they it happened before his eyes. He remembered the last stand of some of the prefect's guards, and how he'd seen their equal numbers as an exciting challenge when the rest of the city had fallen so easily. He also remembered looking upon the furnishings and realising he invaded a family home and murdered the people who lived here, rather than waging an impersonal war against an empire's government.

By the time they peered into the room where he'd killed Cato, the ghosts of the murdered crowded him, pouring their torments into his ears and condemning him to the worst tortures. Basirius noted the quickening of his breath and the clenching of his fists and pressed himself into Endarion's flank to steady him.

Estrid moved further down the hallway, but he ducked into the room and looked upon the scene of his nightmares. Cato was still there, lying flat on his back as Endarion had left him. The prefect, who Cato had been savaging when Endarion killed him, was sprawled a few feet away, the garrotted corpses of his wife and child still propped against the wall where Cato had set them. All were rotting and sunken, flies flitting around their carcasses, a line of them infesting the wounds he'd made to Cato's stomach and throat. The corpse reeked of decay, but he approached anyway.

When Endarion crouched down over him, he saw Cato's eyes had already been plucked out by an advantageous scavenger. "I'm sorry," he murmured, wanting to reach out and offer pointless comfort. It occurred to him now that maybe he should've had someone retrieve the body for a proper burial, rather than leaving it here, abandoned and forgotten.

Then again, Cato had been just as depraved a murderer as Endarion. Cato deserved burial and mourning just as much as his arch-general.

"Sorry for what?"

Estrid's voice, so loud and alive in this dead, quiet place, jarred him. He lunged to his feet, his crippled knee flashing with pain, forcing him to lean towards the wall and splay his hand to support himself. A tumble he'd taken when battling Dobran's army outside Varanos had worsened his limp in the last week, and the ache had yet to lessen.

Estrid looked between him and the corpse, her eyes alighting on the stonehound emblem marking Cato's coat and widening in recognition.

"One of yours?"

He nodded, then swallowed, his throat swollen. "My first-general."

"Romanus?" she asked with a frown. As long ago as she'd defected, she still apparently remembered his senior officers.

He nodded again then, spurred by something he couldn't quite understand, said, "I killed him."

Estrid's frown faded and she raised a brow, prompting him to elaborate.

"I saw him hacking at the prefect," he said, pointing at the man's body, "and I stabbed him in the stomach. To hasten his death, he made me slit his throat."

Estrid looked again at the desiccated body and raised her other brow, looking almost comically surprised. Endarion gritted his teeth and shook his head, knowing he'd just offered a blurred account of the event.

"No, that's not accurate," he said. "I wasn't sane. The Iron Wolf took over when the city was razed, and I didn't know who Cato was when I saw him. I didn't kill him to protect the man he was hurting, because the prefect died anyway. I killed Cato because I wanted to. Only after did I realise what I'd done." He let his right hand swing to his side, an almost instinctive reach for the sword he hadn't worn today. The sword that had killed Cato. "Before that, though, I almost attacked him when I saw him as my father. I killed one of my own soldiers in the same manner." His hand snapped up to his head and he ran it roughly through his unkempt hair, grown out of its cropped military cut now. "I think I'm going mad again, like after Shaeviren."

Estrid folded her hands across her chest as she regarded him, the coolness of her eyes thawing slightly. "Daria mentioned something of the sort."

"I can't let it happen again," he said. Cato's empty eye sockets stared at him accusingly, as if to say, too late. "If I go mad before we seize the throne, you need to finish it for me."

"Finish it?"

"Finish this fight. Dethrone the Caetoran and his family, secure peace between our empires." He put iron into his words. "But finish me as well. Kill me if you have to."

She paced towards him, grabbed the hand still clutching his skull, lowered it. "After everything we've done, Wolf, I'm not going to kill you. Not for any reason."

"It would solve many problems," he replied, echoing the sentiment they'd shared at Dujaro, just before an assassin had almost murdered him.

"Maybe, maybe not," she said, releasing his arm. "Before we left, I almost convinced myself I'd chosen the wrong path by agreeing to help you with this fight. I thought it might've been easier to let you die when you turned on Dobran. When I saw Dykumas for the first time, I told myself again that this is what you're capable of, that this is no man to follow and give a throne." She slapped her hand against his chest and held it there, a challenge. "You will always be the Iron Wolf. But maybe you can change what that means. Succumb to this madness if you want, or prove that you're a better man, that the Iron Wolf can do more than kill and destroy."

He remembered Cato's words, as vividly as if they were hissed at him now.

You destroy things. You're poisonous. Disgusting. You were made to destroy. Capable of nothing else.

Estrid tapped his scarred cheek, hard enough to recapture his attention. "We have both done terrible things, and we both still need to redeem ourselves, so I can't pretend to be any better than you in this. But you will not go mad again, because you're too strong for that, and you won't make me kill you because you know what it'd do to me."

"What would it do to you?" he dared to ask.

"It would kill me as well."

She pulled her hand away, her eyes locked on his for a handful of seconds that stretched into eternity. When she finally broke away, he felt as if he'd been holding his breath and inhaled deeply, something like hope kindling in his ribcage.

Her features softened. "There will be time to redeem yourself for what you've done. You have to be alive for redemption, though. We both do."

"It would take longer than I have left to redeem myself," he replied, thinking not only of Dykumas, but Tharghest as well.

"So you'd give up?"

The fire in her voice startled him, and he found himself shaking his head even before he could frame a rebuttal. "I can only try," he said. "Maybe, despite everything, that'll be enough one day."

"We'll make sure it is," she said. Her mouth slanted into one of her gloriously crooked smiles, and he mirrored it without thinking. "Come on," she added, spinning on her heels and moving back towards the corridor. "We need something to show for our efforts. Otherwise, people might think we've been up to no good."

The sly grin she shot over her shoulder made him feel light and young, and he followed her, a little more unburdened now.

―

Though their brief exchange lifted his spirits and convinced him he could still redeem himself in Estrid's eyes, the rest of their foray through the city's sundered guts presented a monocoloured picture of death and despair. They didn't find any unspoiled food stores, though when Estrid's company reunited at the main gates after three hours separated, several other pairs had found undisturbed cellars in streets to the north that hadn't been as ravaged by the fighting.

"I'm sure some citizens survived the fall, because there's not nearly enough bodies," one of the soldiers reported, "but they're either hiding, or fled."

"Fled into a countryside equally as torn apart," Estrid noted.

It was decided a concerted effort might restore Dykumas, in time. As Endarion and his allies set about destroying his homeland to the south, Laszlo Lakatos's soldiers would arrive behind them and begin rebuilding the sundered city and ensure their supply line was maintained. Several small villages in the outlying areas had been turned up by Estrid's scouts, and some could possibly be relocated to Dykumas, to resurrect it. The news gave Endarion hope, though he knew it did nothing to heal the wounds he'd inflicted here.

He departed before he overstayed his already strained welcome, sharing a fleeting look with Estrid that he hoped conveyed everything he knew he couldn't say but sorely wished to. Rather than return straight to his forces, he led the stonehounds on a wide loop back towards the camp, letting them stretch their legs. He delivered one short, sharp whistle—the signal for play—and smiled as they bolted off across the rolling grasslands, frolicking as they had when they were puppies. It reminded him of his time overseeing the breeding programme back at the Howling Tower, a lifetime ago now. He yearned for those simpler years and tried to imagine himself back in the kennel's musky comfort, the new litters scampering around his feet, the young adults being measured for their first set of tailor-made plate armour and horned helmets.

Alone, he was finally able to give in to the insistent ache in his knee and limp more noticeably than he'd allowed himself to in Dykumas. The pain came and went, but today it plagued him, and even the support of the leg brace wasn't enough. He wondered if his ego would survive the blow of having to resort to a cane, an eventuality that staggered closer with every passing year.

The dogs loped behind the crest of a hill and disappeared.

"It must be like having children," a voice noted from just behind him, making him start.

Unarmed as he was, he spun with fists raised, ready to summon the dogs back with another whistle if needed. "Palla," he said with a heavy sigh. "Don't do that."

His cold-faced first-general regarded him with her usual chilliness. She nodded her chin in the direction the dogs had vanished. "What use are guard dogs if you send them away when you're alone?"

"Avelyn would beat you half to death if she heard you describe them as 'guard dogs'," he replied. "We didn't spend decades breeding them to have them thought of as glorified bodyguards."

Palla shrugged, though her face remained as resolute and inexpressive as always. "I've just been to Empyria and spoken with your brother."

Palla was an accomplished worldstrider, able to skip vast distances in a heartbeat by using an incredibly rare form of aasiurmancy. During the Imperium's most recent invasion of Kalduran, he'd sent her back regularly to Valerian's estate in Empyria to keep him abreast of the campaign and receive any updates Sephara could provide. Because Palla wasn't a native of the Imperium—he'd long thought of her as Drasken because of her surname but had never confirmed this—her magic remained undocumented, which was part of the reason he'd kept her on as a senior officer after Daria hired her. Should the Caetoran have learned of her aasiurmancy, he would've snatched her and kept her captive in his own cabal of worldstriding messengers and punished Endarion and Daria for harbouring her.

She'd saved his life at Dujaro, when a Caesidi assassin had almost murdered him; she'd employed advanced pyromancy against the assassin and charred them to death in a matter of seconds, but not before the poor bastard had recognised Palla and named her "Sudarium's Blade". Endarion had tried to pry answers from Palla about that title and why she'd been assigned to protect him by this enigmatic Sudarium, but Palla had proved unassailable. He'd have to wait until Sudarium deemed him ready, according to Palla, a situation that made him bristle. He already had enough to dominate his mind without worrying over the motives of Palla's unknown master and what purpose Endarion might serve for this individual.

"Let me guess," Endarion said, returning is focus to the present, and held a pointed finger outwards as if searching for inspiration. "He wants you to tell me that I'm a disappointment, that I never listen, and that I've doomed us all."

Palla cleared her throat. "He began his rant in that manner," she said. "I won't bother repeating the things he called you, as I am sure you can imagine it for yourself. I think you will find what others are calling you far more interesting."

"More creative than the usual?" he said. The usual being, of course, insults like 'mad', 'crippled', and 'unmanned'.

"You are being blamed as the sole force behind Dykumas's razing. Apparently, a Prodessium was held even before your defection where the Warmaster claimed you went against Imperial orders in sacking the city." Palla studied his face, watching for a reaction. "You are being described as a traitorous tyrant, with some even suggesting giving you the title of Paramount-General was the first step in you becoming the next Cnaeus Casus."

"I'm not surprised," he scoffed. "I have to be Imperial enemy number one, so of course I am responsible for the worst things we did in Kalduran."

"It is also rumoured that you defected when you did for Kandras Elerius. Some of your allies have pulled their support. When I asked Valerian if he knew why, he suggested they did not want a man who would start a civil war over an old lover leading their armies."

Endarion grasped for a response, but he couldn't deny the accusation; he had started a civil war mostly for Estrid, though as far as everyone else was concerned, he'd done it because of Sephara's discoveries. For the sake of the insurrection itself, and any hopes of securing and maintaining the Invictum Throne, he couldn't be seen as someone willing to launch into war at the slightest provocation. Even more so when Estrid was still considered an Imperial traitor.

"Who remains with us?" he asked.

"Valerian was not certain," she replied. "He spoke of meeting with them all separately over the coming days to see if he can win them back. He told me to tell you he is distancing himself and Kaeso from you and Daria. Whatever your rivals are saying in the capital, he is agreeing with them to keep himself safe."

Endarion inclined his head. "As he should."

His older brother and nephew were too powerful to be touched, and cousins of the Caetoran besides. Despite the threats the emaciated bastard had pummelled him with for years, Endarion didn't think the Caetoran could risk losing the whole Boratorren family just yet. Still, it would help keep Valerian's reputation intact if his younger brother was a disowned renegade.

"He knows we are pursuing the Imperial armies," Palla continued. "He said it would be pointless to try and give you orders and, with that in mind, wanted me to tell you to, and I quote, 'Just win this ridiculous war so I can fight with you properly when it's all over'."

He smiled at the thought of his older brother, usually as cold as Palla in temperament, driven to rage over his younger sibling's actions. It was only fair Endarion be the one to trigger their insurrection, when all Valerian had done these past decades was shower potential allies with honeyed words and convince them of a brighter future beneath a Boratorren dynasty. Endarion was the one who'd actually taken to the field, secured their military allies, and created a Denjini army he believed could triumph.

"I think he knows how much I look forward to that," he said, then offered Palla a curt nod of dismissal. The woman returned the gesture and started pacing back towards their temporary camp, leaving him alone to wait for his pack.

He may've been hated by his homeland, but he'd never felt quite so free, standing on the open plains of a foreign land with a colossal force behind him and an empire in need of breaking ahead of him.