“We found their hideout, in the woods—at least, what was left of it. Their slaves had fought back … It was a massacre. We searched inside, and …” Alexander thought of the note he had found in a dusty old office, the one that had so distracted him, which rested even now in his pocket. “We got separated. And then he was just gone.”
Norman glowered. “We have to find him.”
“We will, but not now. We have much to do. And in any case”—he eyed the wall—“we couldn’t leave if we tried. Not now.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t abandoned me here, I could have saved him.”
“Norman—”
“Maybe I could have done something!”
Alexander whirled to face him, his patience bowing. “Norman, you’re injured! The attack on New Canterbury was just a few weeks ago. Broken ribs take time to heal. I’m sorry we left you, I am, but there was little time, and in your condition …”
Norman’s eyes swam with hurt. “All those years you raised me to believe in that stupid destiny, and told all those people they could look to me. When the time finally came for me to step up, you just left me, right in front of everyone.” He blinked. “I’ll never forget that.”
Alexander didn’t answer. “Like I’ve said before, our past isn’t all roses. It never has been.”
Norman smouldered awhile as they circled the courtyard. Inside the tower, a great hubbub had kicked up. People were making ready for the summit, the one thing that might still save them. And beyond the wall—no, through it—Alexander could feel the enemy, feel them all around, pressing in closer.
“Marek’s right. You should be dead,” Norman said finally, and stopped abruptly, turning Alexander forcefully to face him.
Alexander nodded.
“They didn’t shoot. They know you.”
He nodded again. “Yes.”
“You know more than you’re telling us. You always do.”
Alexander didn’t reply.
Norman waited a moment longer, then shook his head in disgust and ambled upon his cane toward the tower. “One day, you’ll learn to trust your family,” he spat over his shoulder.
Alexander was left alone.
The truth was he knew everything. And that was why he was still alive. In reality, the great hordes and burning and mass-killings weren’t about food or land or hunger at all. It was all revenge for the wrongs Alexander had done, all stemming from the man at its head—a man who wanted to watch all he’d created burn to the ground.
He took the note he had found in the dusty office from his pocket and unfurled it:
Know this, brother: if there had ever been a time in which you could have saved them, could have ever truly saved anyone, it was the last time you looked into my eyes—when you chose your dream over your family.
Destiny calls, Alex. I’ll be seeing you, soon.
— J
CHAPTER 2
Light. A metallic squeal amidst total blackness.
Lucian lifted his head, breathing stale, stinking air, and blinked fiercely. His eyes streamed, the optic nerve throbbing at the intensity of the square of orange radiance pouring into the room. How long had he been in this damp, dark cell, his hands and feet bound to this unyielding metal chair?
He thought it might have been hours, but days would have better suited the ache in his back and the numbness in his legs. He had heard others beyond his four walls, begging and babbling, some screaming. But they had seemed far away, removed from his own private darkness, as though their beatings and torture had been going on in some distant land.
A figure broke the perfect orange glow and stepped into the room with a heavy limp, accompanied by a fug of sweat, ash, and the gamey tang of coagulated blood. He would have recognised that limp anywhere. “Untie me, Charlie,” he growled.
Charlie stood over him, his young face made old by pain and hatred. It had been weeks since the people of New Canterbury—in no small part led by Lucian himself—had dragged him through their streets and trampled over him like an animal, yet still his body bore the marks, the gashes still seeping pus, the great bruises on his face and arms only now fading from green to yellow. His lip twitched. He dropped a box he had brought with him onto the ground and sat with difficulty, angling his fractured leg out to the side. “My father taught me that violence was the refuge of the uncivilised mind,” he said, his eyes trained upon a spot past Lucian’s shoulder. “He was a good man, gentle and kind. He