We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 29

T he emperor twists in his seat to stare at me. “What. Was. That.”

Rorrik lets out a low, amused chuckle. “Forgive me, Father. You know how I grow bored at these meetings.”

Vallius sighs, rolls his eyes, and casts an exasperated look at Rorrik, as if he’s a small child who has thrown a handful of peas from his plate.

“This is an important dinner,” he says. “Can you not refrain from playing with your food for one night?”

Tiernon gets to his feet. “My imperiums are not his food.”

The emperor sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Apologize, Rorrik.”

Rorrik gives Tiernon a victorious smile. “I apologize, brother.”

I stare at them, blood pouring from my leg, my vision beginning to turn blurry at the edges.

I’ve failed.

Movement to my left.

The newly turned vampire lunges at me, and his sire wraps his leash around her wrist. The vampire rams forward again and again, snarling, bloody spit flying from his mouth.

The emperor lets out an annoyed hiss. “Really, Emala?”

“I apologize, Dominus. Darinth is still learning control.” With a sigh, she uses a claw to slice open her own wrist, holding it out for him. Darinth falls on it like a starving dog falling on a bone.

“I suggest you remove your bleeding imperium, Tiernon,” the emperor says, as if his youngest son is the one responsible.

With a sharp nod, Tiernon steps toward me. I reach for the blade lodged in my thigh and he catches my wrist.

“You know better than that.”

I do know better. From the dizziness sweeping through me, removing the blade could make me bleed out. And several members of the Vampire Council are still avidly watching the blood dripping down my leg.

Tiernon hauls me into his arms and strides toward the door. I open my mouth to tell him about Bran’s orders, and my throat closes.

My mind races and I squeeze his arm as he leaves the room.

“My brothers ….” I can say that much at least.

Tiernon stiffens. And rage flickers in his eyes. That was all I needed to say, and he understands. I had no choice.

“We’re going to get them back, Arvelle,” he murmurs. “Ever since Leon told me it was Bran, I’ve been working with Carrick to find them.”

I stiffen, momentarily distracted from the blade in my thigh. “You’ve been working with Carrick?”

He nods, moving down the long corridor with me.

Something warm spreads through my chest. Tiernon was always jealous of Carrick. He loathed that he was free to spend as much time with Kassia and me as he wanted, while Tiernon had to constantly sneak into the Thorn. When Tiernon began turning, Carrick made the mistake of complaining about a sunburned neck in his presence and Tiernon almost killed him. They were never friends. But they’re working together for my brothers. For me.

“It was difficult to get to your brothers when they were in the north, even with my spies and Carrick’s contacts,” Tiernon murmurs in my ear. “But Bran has recently brought them into my territory. I’m going to get them back for you, Arvelle. I promise.”

Tears prick my eyes. “I didn’t … succeed tonight,” I say, and my throat tightens warningly. “What if …”

I can’t say the words, and Tiernon shakes his head. “Bran will know what Rorrik did. And he won’t be stupid enough to remove his leverage so soon.” Tiernon turns down a familiar corridor and I close my eyes as memories of walking this same corridor with Rorrik flash through me.

“You need to keep your helmet on when you see this healer. I don’t want my father to know it was you.”

“Fine.”

The healer tuts at the sight of my leg. “At least you left the blade in. Do you need to leave the room, Primus?”

Tiernon’s face is tight, his jaw clenched, and he sends me an apologetic look. “I haven’t … fed.” Shame flickers through his eyes and I squeeze his hand. Even with Tiernon’s self-control, I don’t want to torture him. “Go.”

He must be starving, because he doesn’t argue, just sends the healer a warning look and walks out the door.

As the Primus, Tiernon could have fed from any of the mundanes sitting beneath the table at that dinner. He didn’t, because I was there. Because he already thinks of himself as a monster, and he can’t bear the thought that I would think of him as one too.

My neck begins to burn. I slap a hand over it, but the healer is already turning away, reaching for crystals, healing tonics, and herbs.

“Brace yourself,” he says when he steps toward me once more. “This is going to hurt.”

I bite down on my lower lip, thankful that he can’t see the way I cringe.

“It could be worse,” he says conversationally. “If you were a vampire, you would have already begun healing around the blade.”

My vision dims, and I turn my head, wishing I could take my helmet off. I need fresh air.

Agony explodes and I let out a choked scream. The healer sends a worried look toward the door. “Quiet now. The Primus is more on edge than I’ve ever seen him.”

“Oh yes, I’ll ensure my pain doesn’t discomfort the Primus.” My voice drips with sarcasm, but the healer merely nods, handing me a tonic.

“For the pain.”

I stare at him. “You couldn’t have given it to me before you ripped the knife out?”

“There’s a reason your helmet is still on, and if the Primus doesn’t want me to know who you are, then I won’t. I’ll turn my back, and you can take the tonic.”

He slowly turns, and I yank the helmet off, taking several deep breaths. The tonic tastes vaguely sweet, and I swallow it down.

“Finished?”

I shove the helmet back on my head. “Yes.”

The healer begins his chanting, but thanks to the tonic, the pain has receded to a dull ache. By the time he’s finished, I can limp my way to the door.

But Tiernon isn’t waiting for me. Rorrik is.

I sidle away from him, and he tuts, takes my arm and pulls me effortlessly down the hall. “None of that.”

“What are you doing?”

“My dear brother was ordered to return to dinner. He left you in my tender care.”

Rorrik must feel my disbelief, because one shoulder rises in a languid shrug. “We are capable of cooperating occasionally.”

Likely he’s made some kind of bargain with Tiernon. The thought of them working together is disconcerting.

“I can get myself back to the ludus.”

“Ah, but you smell delicious. All that terror and pain and blood. No one could be blamed for stealing a tiny taste if they were to find you alone.”

The image of Rorrik’s sharp white fangs sliding into the mundane’s wrist appears in my mind, and my traitorous body reacts, my blood heating.

My fingers dance toward the hilt of my dagger. “Oh yes they could.”

Rorrik just smiles. If Tiernon has trusted him with me tonight, then I’ll cooperate. Besides, I don’t think I have any fear left in me right now.

Clearly my mind is simply overwhelmed with everything I’ve seen tonight. That’s the only possible explanation for my reluctant fascination. The only possible excuse for finding Rorrik’s bite so … mesmerizing.

Thankfully, Rorrik is quiet as he walks me out of the palace. A guard bows his head. “The carriage is on its way, Your Imperial Highness.”

Rorrik nods, turning to face me as we wait.

“I’ve been studying you, little novice. From what I’ve seen, impulse control isn’t your strong suit, but tonight? Tonight was unrestrained even for you.”

The carriage pulls up in front of us, and the driver opens the door. Climbing into the carriage makes residual pain burn through my thigh, and I remove my helmet once more as Rorrik takes his seat in front of me.

“You know Bran has my brothers.” I’m not sure how he knows, but Rorrik seems to know everything. And yet he hasn’t told Tiernon. Likely, he’s enjoying keeping the information to himself.

“Yes, but you acted wholly without thought for your own life.” Rorrik waves a hand. “Of course you’re becoming well known for your heroics, ‘Kelindra’s daughter.’” He gives me a wicked grin and I want to punch him. “But you were about to throw your life away.”

We fall into silence. The carriage bumps over cobblestones, and I fight to keep my eyes open.

“Arvelle.”

I open my eyes and find Rorrik watching me. The glow from the aether lamps casts shadows across his coldly beautiful face, and I can’t read his expression.

“You shouldn’t fall asleep in front of predators.”

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it already.”

The air between us turns frigid. “If only that were true.”

Well, I’m wide awake now.

My nap must have been longer than I thought, because the carriage is turning toward the ludus. Unease trickles down my spine. How could I have fallen asleep so close to Rorrik ?

“Tonight … that vampire Darinth. The one who was sired …”

Rorrik arches one dark eyebrow and I swallow.

“Never mind.”

“Ask your question.”

I grind my teeth at the order, but I can’t get the vampire out of my mind. Can’t forget the way he crawled, the way he lunged like a ravenous animal. I’m not even sure what my question is .

“Have you done that? Have you … sired someone?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Do you believe I am someone who would enjoy coddling a baby vampire?”

“I didn’t see much coddling tonight.”

Rorrik leans back in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Emala has long had an obsession with siring vampires. It’s why she will never achieve true power within the council. My father considers her little addiction to be unseemly.”

“How many has she sired?”

“Forty-one.”

So many. “Are they all like Darinth?”

“No. The turned vampires rely on their sires to slake their thirst. Emala enjoys seeing how far they will go for her. How desperate they will become.”

I snort. “I’m surprised you haven’t been siring vampires.” It seems like the kind of power games Rorrik would revel in.

The temperature in the carriage plummets, and a predatory gleam enters Rorrik’s eyes. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to.

I shiver. But I’m reluctantly fascinated with vampire power dynamics. “I would have thought siring more vampires would mean more power.”

“The more a vampire sires, the weaker those vampires will be.”

“What do you mean?”

Rorrik gives me an indulgent smirk. “I suppose it’s similar to the sigilmarked and the way the likelihood of a strong sigil decreases with each child. Some quirk of this world ensures neither vampires nor sigilmarked will outnumber the mundanes. Not when power is so important.”

“So … any vampires Emala sires will be weak?”

A languid shrug. “No one truly knows how much of a turned vampire’s strength is due to the innate will and strength of their chosen mundane, and how much is the result of their sire’s power. Emala’s next vampire could surprise her. But they will never be close to the first few vampires she sired. And it’s most likely that they will only live a couple of centuries at most.”

I shake my head. What must it be like to speak of time in terms of centuries? “And born vampires? Like you?”

“I am born of a First. I will outlive most on this continent.”

His arrogance makes me want to bring him down a notch. “Sounds lonely.” I smile sweetly. “And boring. What about other born vampires?”

“They are entirely at the mercy of their own parents’ bloodlines.” His gaze lingers on my sigil. “Just as the sigilmarked are.”

The carriage slows, and Rorrik pins me with a cold stare. “You haven’t asked me what you truly want to know.”

“And what would that be?”

“Whether my brother has sired vampires of his own.”

“And has he?” My voice is hoarse, and Rorrik gives me a dismissive look.

“Ask him yourself.”

The carriage door suddenly swings open. We’ve pulled to a stop outside the ludus. When the driver offers his hand, I’m not too proud to take it, even with the vampire at my back.

“Thank you.”

Rorrik climbs out and I scowl up at him. “Your deal with Tiernon is complete. I’m here.”

He ignores me, nodding to the driver, who climbs back up into the seat and clicks his tongue.

Rorrik gestures for me to enter the ludus. It’s an entrance I haven’t seen before.

“Why are you here, Rorrik? Shouldn’t you be skulking around looking for whatever it is you’re hunting?”

He’s suddenly standing in front of me, his nose inches from mine. “Careful.”

I stop breathing. I was wrong. I have plenty of fear left in me.

Rorrik smiles. Smug bastard.

“You know, you never seemed to ask yourself why you couldn’t help but strike at my father the night of the Sundering Ball. You completely ignored your own instincts, didn’t you?”

I did.

Rorrik nods, as if he’s come to some conclusion I don’t understand. When he turns, I follow him into the entrance, down a staircase, and into a corridor near the imperius’s quarters.

Two novices walk around the corner, take one look at Rorrik, and change directions. He ignores them, his eyes on me.

“The moment Bran spoke to you at the Sundering Ball was the moment he solidified his grip on you, squeezing until the bond drove your actions. He wanted my father dead quickly, so he ensured the impulse to kill the emperor was impossible for you to ignore. You’re lucky I was there—in fact, you should be thanking me. Without a target to point you at, you probably would have attempted to kill the emperor at the ball itself.”

The corridor spins dizzily around me. I’ve felt out of control since the moment I arrived. Because my actions weren’t wholly my own.

Rorrik ruthlessly continues. “How much of a fuss did you make before you decided to throw your life away tonight? It must have taken most of Bran’s power to make you walk into that room. You told yourself it was solely because of your brothers, but the truth is you couldn’t help it.”

I stumble on my injured leg. Rorrik reaches out and I flinch away, pressing my back to the wall. He goes still.

My mind provides me with memory after memory, all tainted by this new information. “You’re saying Bran’s been playing with me like I’m his puppet. Nothing I’ve done has been my choice.”

Rorrik’s low laugh dances across my skin. “I wouldn’t go that far. All your other impulsive decisions were your own. Bran certainly didn’t want you to draw attention to yourself with your misguided heroics.”

Strangely, that makes me feel better.

It makes sense though. The itch beneath my skin whenever I was near the emperor. The almost uncontrollable urge to kill him, despite the consequences.

We reach the imperius’s quarters, and I drop my helmet. “I need a minute.”

Rorrik steps back, watching as I limp to the nearest sofa. I let my head fall into my hands.

“Would you like me to kill Bran for you, darling?” I lift my head, and he chuckles, prowling closer. “You would, wouldn’t you? For all your moral superiority, you would love for him to die right now. But then you’d have your freedom. And we can’t have that. Not when you’ve made everything so interesting around here.”

I make it to my feet. “You can leave now.”

“Ask me to break your bond with Bran.”

I stare at him. My neck begins to burn, as if rebelling against the suggestion, and I slap my hand against it. Something predatory enters Rorrik’s eyes.

I swallow. “Vampire bonds can’t be broken.”

Power swamps the room. It’s so thick I can taste it, my tongue tingling, my ears ringing. Distantly, I realize I’ve slumped from the sofa and onto my knees.

A sigil appears on Rorrik’s brow. An intricate, glowing, gold sigil. A sigil that stretches entirely over his forehead.

“Impossible.” I choke on the word. “Sigilmarked and vampires can’t …”

But … Rorrik used fire in the library.

Rorrik saunters closer. His lips curve in a smug grin, but his eyes are feral. “My father created the law banning sigilmarked and vampires from procreating because of me . Because he briefly loved my mother and I was the result.”

I’m too dizzy to reply.

Slowly, as if it’s painful, Rorrik begins to pull his power back, hiding it away once more. I lift my head, gulping air into my lungs.

“Does he know you have this much power?”

Rorrik playfully bites his lip with one fang. My stomach clenches and I manage to make it to my feet. His gaze drops to my thigh, and something I don’t recognize flickers through his eyes.

The emperor must be holding something over his son to keep him in line. It’s the only explanation. But Rorrik does nothing without a reason. Tiernon is right—he’s always three steps ahead.

He could kill Bran. I knew that much before this little display of power. Instead, he’s offering to break the bond.

“Why not kill him?”

“I need him alive. For now.”

Why? Because Bran is working with the rebels? Those rebels would kill Rorrik if they could. My head hurts. Attempting to understand Rorrik’s motivations is like learning aether-based alchemy.

“If you need Bran, then why would you break the bond? Is this about Tiernon?”

Rorrik lifts one eyebrow. “Not everything is about my brother.”

“And yet you have some kind of issue with him.”

Rorrik sits on the sofa, lounging across it like a cat. He waves his hand, silently ordering me to join him. I hesitate, and he waits until I sit at the other end of the sofa.

Rorrik’s gaze narrows, and I get the strangest feeling he’s considering closing the distance between us.

“So?” he asks.

Gods, I would love to no longer be bonded to Bran. Even knowing Rorrik does nothing without an ulterior motive, the temptation is almost impossible to resist. And still …

“I … can’t. Not until I get my brothers back. If the bond breaks, Bran will know I won’t kill the emperor. And he’ll kill my brothers. He just warned me that he has a group of vampires devoted to keeping them safe .”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue, but his eyes narrow in contemplation.

We fall into a strangely comfortable silence. Warning bells begin a low thrum in my head. No. There should be no comfortable silences.

I roll to my feet, stomach churning. My thigh screams at me, and Rorrik glowers. “What are you doing?”

My skin prickles. This is the man who made me kill Tiberius Cotta. The same man who killed Lucius after playing cards with him just hours earlier.

Getting cozy with Rorrik, having conversations with him … it’s a betrayal to everyone he has hurt and killed. Any help he’s offering will come with the kind of strings that are likely to strangle me.

“Thank you for helping me get back here.” The words are stilted, formal, and Rorrik’s eyes narrow, turning to pools of ice. Ice that slowly crawls down my spine.

“What is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play with me.”

“Fine. I just remembered who you are.”

“And who am I?”

I take a deep, shuddering breath. Rorrik’s eyes sharpen, like a hawk spotting its prey.

“You’re a monster.”

One side of his mouth kicks up. “A monster? That seems a little excessive.”

Every muscle in my body stiffens. It’s viciously unfair that someone so evil is also so compelling.

My frustration makes me reckless. “You didn’t even let Lucius complete his sentence when you murdered him. You couldn’t even give him that.”

His face turns white, and the temperature of the room plummets. Slowly, he gets to his feet. “No. I couldn’t give him the opportunity to relieve my brother of his responsibility. Tiernon should have protected his people.”

“Protected them from his father? From you ?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand you—”

“You don’t need to—”

“But I understand this much. You killed one of your brother’s people—one of his friends—in front of him.” My eyes sting. “Some of the imperiums considered Lucius a brother.”

A muscle twitches in Rorrik’s jaw. “I’ve known Lucius since before Tiernon ever met him. We played together as children.”

I gape at him. “You think that makes it better ? You were friends once, and you still killed him. That makes it even worse.”

Bitterness wars with the temper in Rorrik’s eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look anything other than languidly amused, carefully bored, or coldly enraged.

He’s dangerous. But now that I’ve begun, it’s like I can’t stop. All the hurt and fury comes pouring out of me.

“It’s not just Lucius. You made me kill Tiberius Cotta. He was a good man.”

Rorrik takes a step toward me, muscles roiling beneath the exquisite design of his tunic. “Because he noticed you and gave you a few weapons for the arena? Your father issues are showing, darling, and frankly, it’s a little embarrassing.”

I scowl at him. “He was making life better for mundanes and sigilmarked. That’s why you wanted him dead.”

“Because I’m the evil vampire?”

“Being a vampire has nothing to do with it.”

Rage glitters in Rorrik’s eyes and my skin turns clammy. Awareness floods through me, and I take a step back. I’m alone with him, entirely at his mercy. If he wanted, he could end me. Some part of him does want to. I’m sure of it.

“Tiberius Cotta wasn’t the person you think he was.”

My hand is slipping down to my blade, one leg shifting back as I prepare to—

I release the hilt of my knife. “What do you mean?”

He gives me a knowing look. “Do you want to know what Cotta was doing when he spent his time in places like the Thorn?”

My mouth is so dry, all I can do is nod.

“He was gathering the sect of Mortuus and sacrificing the poorest citizens in Senthara to the god of ruin. He wanted to free the god who loathes vampires more than any other, to ensure the balance of power swings to the sigilmarked. For good.”

“You’re lying.” No one would be stupid enough to free a god who revels in death and destruction. But my memory pushes me back to the cloak I stole from Tiberius’s closet. And the gold bracelet inside its pocket. The mark of Mortuus on the bracelet, and on each of the bodies I saw in the ludus.

Rorrik’s eyes are cool. “Putting the pieces together?”

Those murders … they were happening frequently—some of them just days apart. Gradon’s body was found the morning of the third chal lenge. I killed Tiberius Cotta that night. And no bodies have been discovered since. Was he killing people in the ludus as well?

My stomach churns, and Rorrik gives me a humorless smile. His rage is tucked away out of sight now, but I know it still lingers. I can feel it.

I stare at him, silent. He stares back, and when I don’t reply, he shakes his head.

“Good night, Arvelle.” His voice is formal. Stilted.

I’m still staring sightlessly at the sofa when he closes the common room door behind him.

I ’ M SITTING WITH Tiernon beneath our tree. We don’t climb it anymore—haven’t for years. But this will always be our place.

He plays with my hair, his eyes distant, and I watch him, obsessed with every flicker of his expression. Last night was … everything.

My cheeks warm, and he grins. “Blushing, Arvelle?”

Despite the darkness, I know he can see it. Vampires have much sharper senses than maginari and sigilmarked.

I clear my throat. “What are you thinking about?”

“My brother.”

I go still, as I always do when he talks about his family. His refusal to speak of them has been something I’ve tried to understand but never could.

I paste what I hope is a nonchalant expression onto my face. “Oh yeah?”

His lips twitch, but he pulls me close, until I’m lying with my head on his thighs.

I know little about Ti’s brother. When he was younger, he would grin as he talked about him, rolling his eyes at his brother’s decrees. If his brother learned that he was coming to the Thorn, Ti would be in big trouble—I knew that much.

What would it be like to have a family member that … cared? The twins are so young, and I know they love me, but I’m that person for them.

My mother … my chest aches, and I rub at it in an attempt to ease the pain. Ti catches my hand and presses a tender kiss to my knuckles.

“You’re lucky,” I say hoarsely. “I know your brother can be overprotective, but at least he worries about you.”

He sighs. “It’s not that simple. I did something unforgivable. If he ever learns of it, he’ll hate me for the rest of his life.”

“How do you know it’s unforgivable? He might surprise you, Ti.”

“I know, because if he did it to me, I would do anything I could to make sure he suffered.” He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “And still, even if I could take it back, I wouldn’t. What kind of brother does that make me?”

My heart aches for him, and I reach for his hand, holding tight. I hope one day I’ll get to meet his brother. I’ll tell him exactly how much Tiernon loves him.

I WAS WARNED Nyrant would be unhappy I missed training.

At the time, it was low on my list of priorities, since I was relatively sure I was going to die.

I’m regretting that now as he leans close, his power pressing down on me. Any other time I would be shaking, desperately intimidated by the threat of that power. Clearly, I’ve been spending too much time with Rorrik if Nyrant no longer scares me.

“Two days,” he grits out. “You’re lucky the novices are solely under my domain. If you were still a gladian, you’d be dead for this. Sprints,” he orders. “I’ll tell you when you can stop.”

Since sprints are likely the reason I’ve built what little stamina I have, I nod, turning to go without a word. I don’t mind sprints. What I do mind is the cold look Leon gives me when I meet his eyes.

“I heard what happened last night,” he says as I take my place at the wall. The others are already sorting themselves into groups. Poor Etaina is all alone, staring glumly at her knife. She’s tall and long-limbed with dusky bronze skin and a wide, engaging smile. I haven’t talked to her much, but I know we both have one thing in common.

Out of all the novices in this room, we’re the lowest on the power scale. Although even Etaina’s bronze sigil is longer than mine by almost half an inch on either side. Her sigil glows as I watch, and she uses tiny bursts of her power to push her knife across the floor.

Across the room, Calena is working with a group of silver sigilmarked. Maeva walks past, still ignoring me, and Leon raises his eyebrow as Albion nods to both of us.

“I failed,” I say, choosing not to address the Maeva situation. “Rorrik made me turn the knife on myself.”

“That explains the limp. It also explains why I attempted to leave my rooms last night only to continually become befuddled and forget where I was going the moment I stepped into the corridor.” His voice is pure ice.

I wince. When I asked Deitra for a distraction, that wasn’t exactly what I meant. I meet Leon’s eyes. “I wasn’t going to let you throw your life away.”

“So you tried to throw your own away.”

“And it didn’t work. Because Rorrik’s playing some game with his brother. If you’d attempted the same thing, you would have died.”

Leon sets his jaw, but he knows I’m right.

“Your brothers?”

“I don’t know. Rorrik says Bran won’t kill them. He still needs me. But …”

His expression softens. “I know.”

“You should be sprinting, novice,” Nyrant shouts, and Leon gives him an unfriendly look but picks up my shield, holding it out.

I don’t take it. “Nyrant didn’t say I had to carry a parma.”

He gives me a sharp smile. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here to oversee your training, isn’t it?”

Grumbling, I take the shield and begin my sprints.

Nyrant watches me the entire time, refusing to allow me to join the others.

A few minutes before training is due to end, Jorah slips through one of the side doors in the training hall. I only see him because I’m about to sprint down that side of the hall—although I’m so tired, my sprint has become a limping jog.

His wide eyes find mine, but for once I can’t read his expression. When Nyrant finally ends training, and I switch to a walk, Jorah trots up to me.

“Your face is very red.”

I almost smile. Jorah’s own cheeks pinken and he looks at the floor. “Sorry. I got your note. And the weapons. And I asked Micah. He said you weren’t lying. He said he’s going to train me.” His eyes meet mine as we turn and continue walking. At the other end of the hall, Leon lifts a hand as he leaves.

Jorah steps back into my view. “Why did you do that, Arvelle? Was it because you wanted me to forgive you?”

There’s something innocent about Jorah, and I choose my words carefully.

“I did it because I’m sorry.” I lower my voice. “I can’t tell you what happened with Tiberius Cotta, but I promise, one day I’ll explain why.”

His gaze drops to the ground, and he shifts on his feet. “I don’t forgive you. I can’t.”

My throat burns and I attempt to swallow. “I don’t expect you to.”

He gives me a somber nod. “I have to go now.”

I watch Jorah go. The rest of the novices have already cleared out, and the imperius must be training late today, because a group of them are walking in, Micah and Deitra deep in conversation.

I stroll toward them. Leaning up to my tiptoes, I press a kiss to Micah’s cheek. His stubble is rough beneath my lips and I can feel him grin. “You’re a good man.”

“Did you hear that, Primus?” he preens, his eyes dancing. “Looks like you’ve got some competition.”

Deitra shakes her head at us, but I’m relatively sure she’s hiding a grin.

Tiernon wraps a possessive arm around my shoulders, and I glance up at him with a raised brow. We usually keep touching to a minimum around others.

“Just marking my territory,” he rumbles, and I roll my eyes, wiggling free. He sweeps his gaze down me. “You look exhausted.”

“Nyrant wasn’t happy with me.”

Tiernon’s eyes cool, but I shake my head at him. Nyrant may be a member of the imperius, but gladian training is his . I don’t need Tiernon getting involved and making things worse.

“I need a shower.”

Tiernon opens his mouth, but a guard walks through the door, his face blank. He leans close to Tiernon, whispering something I can’t catch. When Tiernon’s eyes meet mine, they’re dark with sorrow.

“Arvelle.”

I know that expression on his face.

Fear slams into me like a fist to the gut. “My brothers.”

He takes my elbow, leading me away from the imperius. “No,” he says. “It’s Leon.