by Tessa Dawn
Jadon took an unwitting step back.
It was almost as if his legs faltered beneath the loathsome weight of Jaegar’s words. He shook his head slowly—sadly—and then he opened his mouth to speak, promptly closed it, and tried again, this time clearing his throat. “Jaegar…”
Jaegar shrugged. “Yes?”
“Brother…”
Jaegar wanted to wring his neck. “What?”
Jadon pressed his lips together and furrowed his brow. He clasped his hands behind his back and the held the pose for what seemed like an eternity. When, at last, he unlinked his fingers and held both hands up in a gesture of surrender, Jaegar’s ears perked up: Could it be—gods be merciful—was Jadon finally coming around? He held his breath until he could no longer stand the suspense. “Well?”
As if at a momentary loss for words, Jadon continued to shake his head. “If I cannot appeal to whatever is left of your conscience, if I cannot get through to your soul, then perhaps I might appeal to your pride—nay, to your reason—to your extraordinary instinct for self-preservation.”
The air left Jaegar’s body, and he released it with a snarl. “Do tell, brother.”
“You say that soon we will reap the harvest we have planted, and I agree.”
Jaegar cocked his eyebrows and waited.
“But not in the way that you think.” He gestured insistently with his hands, his voice growing hoarse with conviction. “Jaegar, prince of these Carpathian Mountains, ruler of our beloved homeland; you have complimented my intelligence and my insight, so do me the favor of hearing me now. Listen to my words. I swear to you by all that is holy—brother—I have a terrible feeling about this sacrifice, an ominous foreboding about the next few days. I am filled with an overwhelming sense of dread.”
Jaegar simpered with disgust. Not this. Not again. “Of course you are.”
“No!” Jadon’s fevered voice echoed through the chamber like a bolt of lightning, rattling the chandelier. “Do not dismiss me. I am deathly serious, brother.”
Jaegar threw up both hands, but he listened…carefully.
“One by one, our women have died at the hands of their fathers, their brothers, and their sons, slain by those who should have been their protectors. And yet, there has been no reprisal. Piece by piece, the monarchy has been decimated, until you and I are all that remain of a once great kingdom, us and our broken, conquered father. Yet and still, the heavens have remained silent. And now this?” He pointed in the direction of the eastern battlements, signifying the hill beyond the walls, the sacrificial stone. “Yesterday, you discovered that there is yet one female living, and tomorrow, you would end her life in a sacrifice to the gods—you still seek to perform one final offering, to break the last fragile link in a long chain already stained with blood. But I tell you, brother, the fates will not remain silent forever. So much carnage cannot remain unnoticed. Such sinister crimes cannot remain unanswered, unchallenged—unavenged—forever. By all that is still holy—and all that ever was—I implore you: Do not do this thing, Jaegar. Let Jessenia live.” He took several steps forward, stopping just shy of the bottom stair on the dais. “She is still young. She may yet have children, perhaps many daughters. And those children may have daughters of their own. Men can father sons well into old age—we may yet reclaim our civilization.” He paused to take a labored breath. “And even if we don’t, even if she can’t, we may yet reclaim our humanity. Jaegar, please listen to reason. There is nothing more to be gained by slaughtering this innocent one—if the gods were going to exalt us, they would have done so already. I fear that what is to come is an abomination, the physical manifestation of a spiritual perversion. Let her live, Jaegar. Restore Father to the throne, and I will bury whatever ill-regard remains between us. I will unite my house with yours in an effort to move the kingdom forward.” He shook his head in regret, his deep, contemplative eyes darkening with sorrow. “And if our future generations are to be sired with human women, those not begotten of gods and men, then so be it. At least we will retain our souls. And Jessenia will preserve our legacy.”
Jaegar stared at Jadon in stunned stupefaction, silent for what felt like ages. And then he broke out in raucous laughter. “Oh, Jadon. You truly never give up, do you?’ He stood up abruptly, watched as his twin took three judicious steps back, and then bounded down the stairs, strolling within inches of his rival. He clasped him by both shoulders. “Brother, you think too much.” His voice hardened. “You fear too much. There is nothing on this planet to challenge us, nothing to be afraid of. Don’t you get it? There is nothing greater than us.” He bent over and placed a familial kiss on Jadon’s right cheek. “Tomorrow is a new beginning. You have tonight to decide where you stand. Either way, we will meet back at the castle at dusk, following the execution, where you and I will convene in the great stone hall before the hearth of our ancestors.” He relaxed his grip and softened his voice. “We will forge a new covenant then. Whilst our men gather together in the courtyard…at last, our kingdom will become unified. All-powerful. Divine.” He savored the last word on his tongue. “And as for the future, the direction we will take going forward, you and I will decide this together, then.” He smiled, feeling suddenly light of heart. “Oh, Jadon, just wait. This time tomorrow we will be as gods—I swear it.”
As if Jaegar’s hands were burning Jadon’s flesh, the prince brushed them off his shoulders and slowly backed away. “Then that’s it?” he said, his voice clearly despondent. “There’s nothing I can say?”
Jaegar stiffened and met his brother’s reproving gaze. “There is one thing.” He scowled with disappointment. “You can answer one question…correctly.” He leaned forward. “Will you and your loyalists be at the execution tomorrow? Will you take part in this one final sacrifice?”
Jadon nearly recoiled. “No.” His voice brooked no argument. “You know that we will not.”
Jaegar dropped his head into his hands. He brushed his thick, wavy hair out of his eyes and yanked the ends in frustration. And then he virtually exploded with anger. He punched Jadon in the jaw, rotated his wrist for good measure, and clipped him with his elbow on retreat. When the prince staggered backward, he lunged forward once again and struck him with a crisp, punitive uppercut, right beneath the chin.
Jadon’s head snapped back; his teeth visibly rattled, and it sounded like he may have lost a molar. He stumbled to the side, spit out a glob of blood, and braced his jaw in a trembling, angry hand. And then he stepped forward and smiled—a wicked, mischievous grin. He dipped his hand beneath his royal cloak and palmed the hilt of his dagger.
Jaegar took a cautious step back. “So it comes to this, dear brother?” He laughed out loud, all the while eyeing the jewel-inlayed shaft of Jadon’s blade. “Mm, I see. Well, at least this is the twin I remember.” Without hesitation, he brought his hand to his hip, reached into his own leather scabbard, and brandished his private stiletto, stroking the golden tip like a long-lost lover. “Just say the word, my prince, and may the best man win.”
Jadon stood there like a grain of sand, caught between two halves of a broken hourglass—he couldn’t go forward, and he couldn’t go back.
“Tick tock; tick tock.” Jaegar clucked the sounds with his tongue, wondering what Jadon was thinking: Was he counting his loyal followers, considering the lives of his men? Or was he thinking about their father and the thin little strand, wrapped around Jaegar’s finger, that sustained the king’s fragile life? Was he calculating the future, evaluating an outcome he was helpless to change, or was he just now realizing he would never leave the castle alive, should he manage to harm the dark prince? Did he even care at this point? “Well, dear brother? I believe we are waiting on you.”
Before Jaegar could goad him any further, something ominous and distant passed through Jadon’s eyes; he stood up straight and removed his hand from his blade. “I will not attend the sacrifice, and neither will my men.” He practically growled the words. “But I will give you this one las
t concession: This day, I will not carve your heart from your body.”
His voice was much too tranquil.
His eyes were much too opaque.
And his manner was far, far too self-assured.
Jaegar took another tentative step back, regarding his twin warily. What the hell was that? Feeling more than a little uneasy, he tucked his own dagger back into its sheath and cleared his suddenly rusty throat. “Is that right?” He had to find a way to save face. “Then I shall give you one last concession as well: This day, I will not hold your insolence against you. I will pardon both you and your vagabonds a day in advance for failing to attend the sacrifice.” He held up his hand to silence his brother, lest the prince say something else stupid. “But know this, brother: You—and all of your loyalists—will be back at this castle by nightfall tomorrow for our reconvening, for our celebration. Fail to show up, and I will set the whole of our father’s army—my army—against you, and I will strike down each of your warriors, to the last man, including your beloved king.”
Jadon didn’t blink.
He didn’t move.
And he didn’t react.
And there was something so shadowed, so deep and determined in his eyes that it gave Jaegar another moment’s pause. Truly, Jadon must have been harboring a secret. He stared at the recalcitrant prince awhile longer, trying to discern what the great mystery was, before he shuddered and looked away.
Jadon Demir was not a weak man, not by a long shot. And he was not a leader to be trifled with—he had simply been outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and utterly caught off guard by the audacity of Jaegar’s movement, by the tenacity of Jaegar’s men. Still, the noble prince would willingly die for what he believed in; fortunately, he would not recklessly send others to their deaths for the same. He would not needlessly sacrifice the lives of his followers.
Still, with such strong provocation, he should have drawn his dagger.
He should have tried to plunge it in Jaegar’s heart, instead of offering him a concession, however insulting and insidious.
Yet something had stayed his hand.
It was as if he had a greater purpose, a hidden reason to live.
Jaegar knew Jadon would comply eventually, but it made him more than a little uneasy that he could not intuit why—why his brother would back down from a direct provocation to fight, why he would ignore such a blatant insult.
What the hell was he waiting to do?
Jaegar shook his head brusquely from side to side, trying to dislodge the disturbing thoughts. Blood was thicker than water, and Prince Jadon would come around.
He had to.
He was Jaegar’s brother, after all…
And when the time came, the two of them would rule together, side by side, as more than monarchs. They would rule as gods.
In an act of rare valor, he stepped forward, descended to one knee, and reached out to take Jadon’s right hand. Never losing eye contact with the prince, he raised his fingers to his lips, kissed the royal crest of his ring, and then rose, once more, to his feet. “Lasa cei puternici sa mosteneasca pamantul,” he whispered softly, still commanding his brother’s gaze.
Let the mighty inherit the earth.
three
Ever since she’d had the strange vision, the guards had been staring at Jessenia like she was an oracle, or worse, some kind of witch. They had no idea what she had seen, and she wasn’t about to tell them. They only knew that something preternatural had happened in that cell, that Jessenia had seen or heard—or come in contact with—something incredibly powerful, something beyond the ordinary, and as a result, they were keeping a wide berth between themselves and their prisoner.
Jessenia sighed inwardly, grateful for the reprieve. What did the foolish males think? That she could murder them with her eyes, turn their hearts into frogs with a flick of her wrist, or scatter their wits with a chant? Yes, she was a celestial descendant, just as they were, the progeny of gods and men, and as a female, she possessed an especially powerful magic—she housed a wealth of sacred knowledge in her latent genetic memories—but Jessenia had never been formally trained in the mystical arts. She had never been taught how to wield her power or access her celestial memories. She was the only child of a mother who had died while giving birth, making her father her only mentor, and he couldn’t teach what he didn’t know: The secrets of the race were passed down through the females, never the males, which only made the wholesale slaughter of the women more impossible to believe.
Jessenia sat down on the floor in front of the thick granite slab and stared at Timaos, who was still unconscious. The guards had finally cut him down, perhaps an hour or so ago, and he was resting fitfully on his side, obviously uncomfortable on the stiff, unyielding cot.
She wished she had some medicine, some salve, to treat his wounds. She had used what little knowledge she possessed to try and ease his pain, heal the worst of his injuries, and now, all she could do was watch him and wait, hoping and praying that she would get a chance to tell him what she had seen in her vision…before the morning came.
She ran a gentle hand through his thick, silky black hair. Even matted with sweat and blood, it was beautiful, just like the man lying before her. To this day, she would never understand what it was about her, why Timaos had taken such a fancy to a skinny, auburn-haired girl who was five years his junior, when he could’ve chosen any woman in the kingdom.
Unlike Jessenia, Timaos was born to a family of means and political power. He was groomed to be a warrior of great standing in the king’s guard, and with his tall, impressive bearing, his broad, muscular build, his rustic yet stunning features and charismatic personality, the sky had been his only limit.
Yet and still, Timaos had pursued Jessenia from the first day they met, though she was only thirteen years old at the time. He had shown up on her humble doorstep each morning, rising before dawn to present her with a bushel of wildflowers from the southern hills. He had taken her on long walks through the mountainside, pointing out secret caverns and hidden valleys. He had beat the living stuffing out of Josiah Draghici for calling her a useless wench on the first day of Andromeda’s feast, and he had kissed her for the first time when she was fifteen years old, making her knees grow weak beneath her and her heart flutter like it was colonized by a thousand butterflies, each one swirling madly within her chest.
She sighed, remembering his fervent promises: Despite his parents’ desire to wed him to a female of standing, a celestial acolyte, in the autumn of his twenty-first year, he had stood his ground, steadfast in his conviction, refusing to accept the unwanted pairing, insisting that he would marry none but Jessenia the moment she came of age.
And oh, how she had come of age…
In a lush, golden meadow, beneath a bright summer’s sun, on her sixteenth birthday, Timaos had shown her what true union was. And whether she lived another two hours or a hundred more years, she would never forget the lithe, graceful arc of his back or the powerful cast of his shoulders, the way his muscles had flexed as he’d held her beneath him…or the way he had spoken her name like a prayer. She would never forget how he’d soothed her innocent fears and awakened her dormant passion, all the while striking a perfect balance between dominance and reverence, how he’d made love to her body, her mind, and her soul. She would never forget how he had shuddered and groaned, his smooth, melodic voice giving way to a deep, throaty rasp at that pivotal moment.
She would never forget how he had brought her to ecstasy again…and again.
And again.
Timaos had been the first and the last.
After him, there could be no other—there could be no greater love.
Rising from her perch on the floor, she strolled across the room to the single, barred window, built into the cell, and she stared longingly at the sky, making special note of the familiar constellations. After spending so many months in a dark, chilly cellar, she was grateful to see the opalescent moon; she felt honored to stare at the s
tars; she felt grateful to just be alive. Despite their horrific predicament, she cherished every second in the presence of her beloved.
Timaos moaned, and she rushed across the chamber to his side, kneeling beside him with yearning. “My love?” she whispered.
He blew out a tortured breath and sank deeper into erratic sleep.
Jessenia fought back the urge to cry. “Please wake up, Timaos. We only have seven hours left, and there is so much I need to tell you.” She glanced toward the dimly lit corridor, just outside the dungeon door, to make sure there were no guards within earshot, and then she leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Timaos, if you can hear me, I need you to make me a vow: You must renounce your part in Prince Jadon’s rebellion and beg forgiveness for your transgressions, for keeping me hidden away in your cellar these past six months. You must find a way to gain your freedom, no matter what it takes, just so long as you don’t spill my blood—never that. It would be a sin beyond imagining. There’s a curse coming, Timaos, and you must live to see it to fruition, no matter the cost. You must find a way to get to the high priest before tomorrow afternoon and slay him. He is going to murder a child, the firstborn son of Sebastian and Katalina Mondragon, but you cannot let this happen. The child is the key to preserving—nay, to saving—all that is good and pure and holy in our race. You must find a way to protect him, though he may never know of your sacrifice. And you must also know that I give you permission to love again, to find your destiny, and expand your bloodline. Oh, Timaos, if you do this thing, if you kill the high priest, your nobility will live on forever. Your sons will have sons for many generations, and the world will be changed because of you. There will be light again. There will be hope again. There will be a happily-ever-after for those who follow behind you.” She laid her head on his chest, careful not to come in contact with any of his terrible wounds, mindful of his lingering pain, and she began to recite an entry from her journal, a song she had written in her sixteenth year, one she had never shared with Timaos before now: