The blood on my hands has not been my own for nine hundred and ninety years.
I stand in the throne room of Azmar with dirt still caked under my fingernails and the smell of smoke in my hair. Around me, the court nobles whisper behind jeweled fingers while I wait for King Adric to acknowledge the kingdom I just handed him. The Kingdom of Valen burned for three weeks before their walls finally fell. My men are still out there, exhausted and bleeding, waiting for the supplies I was promised. The supplies that never came.
Adric sits on his throne like a child playing dress up in his father's clothes. He is twenty-three years old and has never held a sword for longer than a ceremony required. His crown sits crooked on his head because he fidgets with it when he is thinking. He is thinking now, staring at the Valen captives kneeling in chains before him.
Fifty women. That is all that remains of Valen's royal household. The men died fighting or threw themselves from the palace walls when they saw the battle was lost. These women are prizes, tributes, proof of my victory. They kneel with their heads bowed and their fine dresses torn and filthy. Servants and ladies in waiting, cousins and aunts, and at the center of them all, Queen Mirela and her daughter.
I have seen thousands of women in my long existence. Beautiful ones, plain ones, cruel ones, kind ones. I have never touched a single one because desire is a distraction and I cannot afford distractions. But I understand why the court inhales sharply when they see the Valen queen and princess. They have that porcelain skin that comes from northern blood, pale and smooth like marble. The queen's hair is silver blonde, hanging loose around her shoulders. The daughter's is darke but her face has the same delicate features. They are still wearing their crowns. Thin, useless circles of gold that mark them as royalty even while they kneel in chains like animals.
King Adric leans forward. His eyes fix on the princess and something ugly passes across his face. Want. The kind of want that makes men stupid.
"You have done well, Zareth." His voice echoes in the silent hall. He never calls me by my title. Not Warlord, not Commander, not even Lord. Just Zareth, like I am his servant. "Valen has troubled us for generations. My father would be pleased."
Your father would be ashamed of you, I think, but I say nothing. I have practiced silence the way other men practice sword forms. Nine hundred and ninety years of biting my tongue until I have forgotten what my true voice sounds like.
"The women are yours, your majesty." I keep my tone flat and empty. "Do with them as you wish."
Adric stands and walks down the steps of his throne. He moves between the kneeling captives, looking at each one like he is selecting fruit at a market. He stops in front of the princess. She does not look up. Her eyes stay fixed on the floor while Adric circles her slowly.
"What is your name?" he asks.
"Kael, your majesty." Her voice is soft but steady. No tears, no begging. She has pride, this one.
"Kael." Adric tests the name on his tongue. "A warrior's name for such a delicate creature." He reaches out and touches her hair. She flinches but does not pull away. "I could make you a concubine. Would you like that? Better than being a slave."
The queen moves for the first time. Just a slight shift, like she wants to put herself between Adric and her daughter but knows it would only make things worse. I watch this and feel something uncomfortable twist in my chest. It has been a very long time since I felt anything resembling sympathy.
"Your majesty." One of the advisors, an old man named Pelton, steps forward. "The law forbids royalty from taking slaves as concubines or wives. It would cause problems with the noble families."
Adric's face darkens. He does not like being told what he cannot have. "Then she will be a regular slave. Put her in the kitchens."
I see the princess's hands curl into fists. The only sign that she heard, that it matters. Adric looks at the queen next, and that same hungry expression returns. He wants her too, but she is older, less novel. He settles for running a finger down her cheek before moving back to his throne.
"There will be a banquet tonight," Adric announces. "To celebrate our victory over Valen. All the court will attend." He looks directly at me. "You will attend as well, Zareth. And you will finally choose a wife."
The whispers start again, louder this time. I have avoided marriage for centuries, claiming my service to the crown left no time for a family. Every king before Adric accepted this. He has been pushing the issue for months, trying to trap me into connections that would give him more control over me.
"As you command, your majesty." I bow just low enough to be respectful and not deep enough to show real deference.
"Good." Adric smiles, and I know that smile. It is the one he wears when he thinks he has maneuvered someone. "I expect you to choose from the noble families. Someone worthy of the kingdom's greatest warlord."
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. I turn and walk out of the throne room with my boots echoing on the marble floor. General Thane is waiting for me in the corridor, his face tight with concern.
"He is planning something," Thane says quietly as we walk. "That look he gets. I have seen it before."
"He is always planning something." I keep moving toward the barracks where my men are waiting for food and rest that should have been provided days ago. "It does not matter. Seven more years and I am done with all of this."
"Seven years is a long time when a king wants to humiliate you."
I stop walking and look at my old friend. Thane has been with me for four hundred years. He was a soldier who earned his rank through skill and loyalty, not birthright. He is one of maybe three people in this entire kingdom I trust.
"I have survived nine hundred and ninety years," I tell him. "I can survive seven more."
But even as I say it, I feel something cold settle in my stomach. A premonition, maybe. A warning. The gods are watching, they are always watching, and my father has never been known for his mercy. If he senses weakness, if he thinks I am failing, he will find a way to test me further.
I push the thought away and focus on what I can control. My men need food. They need rest. They need their commander to be strong and certain even when everything else is chaos.
The banquet is hours away and I already know it will be a disaster.
I just do not know how bad yet.