AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Then perhaps you might consider how best to show devotion to the assets Ardor has gifted you with.”
37
~
Across Dynosia, there was no shortage of superstitions around the moon.
Never make an important decision on the night of the half-moon, believed the comparatively few humans that lived in Vaticily, as the choice will surely be fraught with indecision, potentially even opening oneself up to the incursion of a meddling gorgon—creatures that loved nothing more than leading men of uncertain will down dark and unfortunate paths.
Never trust an opportunity that arises on the sable moon, believed the rich and powerful of the Ondocian Islands, as the offer will surely appeal to your darkest inclinations, potentially even opening oneself up to the temptations of a wicked siren—creatures that loved nothing more than luring women of weak will toward gambles they could not afford to wager.
And in some of the more rural parts of Ardora, infertile men and women would wait until the night of the bronze moon before placing a mug of finest wine by an open window—hoping that it might lead a satyr to their premises, the brightness overhead restraining the worst of the creature’s desires, and gifting them a little of their potent fecundity.
Others still held to myriad rules and rites around when to plant and when to harvest; when to make contracts and when to break them; when to marry and divorce and consummate and baptize. All marked out on charts and argued over in pubs, all while staring up at the sky each and every night to watch the swell and sleep of the moon.
The figure in the darkened room, however, needed no such chart.
Because they could feel it.
All day and all night.
During the temporary relief of bronze, and the soul-shredding rip of sable.
In their wake and in their sleep.
In the thirst that never, ever went away.
In the urge they could only barely suppress. In the urge that was difficult to control at the best of times. In the urge that had become almost impossible to contain these last few weeks. In the urge they needed to release!
All because of the herald.
And the power that lurked within him.
38
AURELIUS
Princess Zosime was fucking evil.
For two weeks the bitch had haunted his every move, seemingly hiding around every shrub at the Festival of the Summer Seed, and waiting behind every beer mug at the Feast of Barley and Boar. At each, no sooner had he started some charming conversation with a noble, garnering gossip and keeping a discreet outlook for his target, then she would appear.
Just standing there.
Just watching him.
Just making sure he remembered her threat.
And now there is this, he thought as he was jostled on all sides by a crowd of fucking fighters.
The one invitation she sends to me directly, and it is to this fucking event.
They’d passed the Gipedo Thanatou of Kastro Machiton—the stadium of death, right in the heart of the soldier’s quarter—when they’d first entered the polity. However, the visage of low, undecorated stone had hidden the sheer press that lay beyond. Steep stands were packed with thousands of humid fighters, overlooking an oval of pink sand, twelve feet dropped from the crowd.
Pink, apparently, with the spillages of centuries of accumulated battle.
Everyone but him wore a uniform of dark hide with accents of metal, all underlaid by wine-red linen. And each man and woman—and it was only humans, with perhaps a few dozen half-blood giants in the mix—was rattling some implement of death. There were swords and daggers, spears and bidents and axes thrust in cheering hands, and spike-covered gloves slapped against shields.
And all the sweat-stinking mass were focused on one thing: Princess Zosime and her two goons.
