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Excerpt

"Salute the Emperor!" one man shouted in the native language of the South. Every warrior rigidly turned to the source of the voice and made a waist-deep bow, their closed right fists raised in front of them.

A dark War God descended from the heavens.

He was no man, surely, with eyes as black as lust diamonds and a strong, muscled body seemingly sculpted out from the finest marbles of the crafty earth people. He wore hardened leather and a midnight black fur cloak. Black boots, black gloves, even his weapons were made of black steel. He would have dissolved easily into the night if not for the gold and silver lining his clothes.

Each step of his was fluid and silent, like a shadow stalking, and even at a distance, one would shiver at his presence.

She could feel fear deep within her bones, and she did not understand why.

Was it because the men around her looked at this man with awe and reverence? Or was it because he held himself in a regard that made her feel like a speck of dust?

"Rise," he said in a deep, roguish voice that caressed her skin with cold dread.

She felt the warriors straighten around her. As she continued to look down on the icy ground, she did not see that the leader of the heathens was pacing in front of them. Not until she could see his black boots directly in front of her.

He unsheathed his black sword from its plain scabbard and used the flat side of the blade to raise her head.

His black eyes met her silver ones. He scrutinized every line and curve of her face, watched her bosom move with every shallow breath she pulled. And then he moved on to the girl next to her and studied her just as intensely.

The Spirits had spared her.

"Talim," the War God called and one man with grave features instantly appeared by his side. It was the man with the spotted fur cloak. "Take this one to my tent. The rest, sell them to the traders."

"The males?"

"Kill them. All of them."

"No!" two girls cried out, and in one swift motion, two heads crowned with glorious golden hair rolled on the ground. The snow was stained deep red.

No one moved. No one breathed. No one blinked.

The only sound was that of a sword being sheathed.

The leader of the heathens walked away as if he did not just heartlessly kill two young girls. As if he did not care that innocent lives were lost tonight. As if he did not just order his men to slaughter and destroy what once used to be a peaceful village of the North.

This was the cruelest son of Summer, emperor of the twelve Southern kingdoms, Jadron Galheebri.

Tyrant. Murderer. Monster.