To overthrow the cruel King who brutally slaughtered her foremothers, the last surviving water witch Elara Consuli must team up with novice warrior Juda Vikaris from the Serpent Order and realise an ancient prophecy, before the blood-thirsty ruler d...
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Roth stared at the woman's outer tunic discarded on the table, blood staining the back of it. Fresh blood, by the looks of it.
That fucking boy. What, by the dead gods, had he got himself caught up in now?
Roth could just about handle Juda's exploits in the brothels. It wasn't something he himself hadn't also done when he'd been a novice, nor was it not the first thing he'd done on the tide he'd finally been relinquished of duty as the King's Special Commander—burying himself inside Clova Dell herself as if it was his last moontide on this god forsaken rock. But Juda—well, Juda was something else entirely. Juda was, as always, a law unto himself. And Roth had warned him, by fuck, had he warned him.
But to bring one of Clova Dell's girls here, to Roth's own house? The boy must have been out of his damned, twisted mind.
Roth's connection to Juda wasn't a secret, of course. He was his guardian, after all, that much was well known and was information freely given to anyone that might ask, but Juda wasn't meant to be here—not now he was a Highguard-in-training. His place was at the barracks. His place was in the bloody square.
His place was to be by the King's side.
That was the plan. That was his focus, his goal. Theirgoal. And yet, he'd brought one of his Grimefell women back to this house where she could rightly question how a novice was still so attached to his guardian, when everyone knew that the whole purpose of the Order's training was to rip a whelp from his mother's tit and raise him on blood and violence. Family no longer existed for the novices, or at least, it wasn't meant to. Your father was the King. Your family was the blade. Your life was the blood.
Roth scratched at his beard, sighed, and poured himself a draught of wine. He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't drink this moontide, that he wouldn't drink until the Trial of Sin-Sabre was done. The permanent dull ache that had settled into his skull was becoming sharper, more insistent that he recognise its presence, and he knew the wine wasn't helping, but he needed a drink now—needed to feel the burn of it in his throat, the warmth of it in his chest. He'd even considered paying Clova Dell a visit, but it had been many moons since he'd sought her company and the last time had earned him a nick with the tip of her dagger across his cheekbone and he didn't fancy matching the scar with one on the other side. He had enough scars, after all, and not all were of shiny, puckered skin.
Whatever Juda had done, it was going to cost Roth, he just knew it and he was tired of reaching into his coffers to chuck some coin at a girl who was likely to go running with more lurid tales to Clova or even to someone like Riggs Cree. Cree, he could deal with, if necessary, but Clova Dell? He didn't want to have to deal with her, because despite the tiny scar she'd inflicted, he'd always harboured a fondness for the brothel mistress and the last thing he wanted to do was force her to silence her girls. Or be forced to silence her. He'd convinced himself he was done with all that, but even he knew that if he had to, he'd do whatever it took to protect the boy.
