Page 11 of Revenge of the Forgotten

The wine warmed her belly as she rested her head against the wall, eyes closed tightly, and fingertips tracing the branded ring around her wrist.

Arlet claimed to know where she—they—got them. But did she understand why it itched, burned, why it tingled so severely she couldn’t sleep sometimes?

As if it could hear her thoughts, the scar started to itch.

Vega brought the bottle back to her lips.

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Bridger’s leg connected with the punching bag swinging from the iron bars crossing overhead, a pop booming through the open-air training arena followed by the quick snaps of his left jabs and right hooks.

The people of Vincere were either asleep, tucked into their beds, or at their posts where they’d spend the night until the sun rose and they were relieved of their duties.

Bridger, on the other hand, was rattled out of his sleep by a dream that had once been real. The images were trying to sink their claws into a part of his brain that had been cleared of those memories ages ago.

He’d worked so long, fought so hard to forget her—to forget the feelings he’d once had for her. To rid himself of the emotions that took hold whenever he remembered what he’d done—who he’d chosen.

The memory felt so real—so much so that when he’d woken, he forgot where he was and found himself reaching out in his large, empty bed to feel for her.

Like she hadn’t been missing from that side of his bed for almost fifty-five years.

After pulling a dagger from the sheath on his leg, Bridger threw the blade. It soared through the air end over end until it stuck into the center of its intended target. The red bullseye stared back at him, a crack splintering down the center of the thick wood.

Bridger’s fists were red from the force of his punches, sweat trickling down his bare chest until droplets formed under his feet. He’d been out here for hours, fighting the nostalgia that made his body buzz from the all-too-real dream.

Is it a dream if it’s something that actually happened? He groaned at the thought, plopping himself onto a stool in the corner. Bridger hid his face in his hands, pushing the damp pieces of hair that fell over his brow back into place.

Vincere was meant to be a place that felt new, void of the demons haunting the rest of Tolevarre. The training facility and underground barracks were built over thirty years ago as a way for Bridger to run from the place he’d once called home—as a new and improved location where the best warriors Tolevarre had to offer could come to train.

Designed to weed out the good from the great, the great from the extraordinary. Vincere’s location had been hand-picked by Bridger himself—southwest of Aeris, sitting below Demuto at the southernmost point of Ardor’s territory. He chose the vast openness offered here, far away from the city where he could breathe, far away from Fortis and the family who still called those phantom streets home.

But lately, with the rise in rebel camps popping up all over the realm, Bridger wasn’t sure there was any place he could hide that didn’t remind him of what he’d done.

Each territory took after the land around it and the god that blessed its people, pulling from the natural textiles found there. They all had their individual charms, and each felt vastly different from the others.

Ardor was desert lands. Their buildings were orange, made out of brick with clay molded over top to keep homes cool in the brutal months of summer.

It sometimes felt like a world away with its stark difference in landscape. It was the only territory in Tolevarre with deserts, sand dunes, and heat indexes that reached 120 for eight months out of the year.

He was alone under the moonlight, grateful for the cool night air giving him a break from the usual sweltering temperatures Ardor was known for.

Bridger had lost count of how many times one of his soldiers collapsed and was rushed to the infirmary during the summer months. Being a warrior in Bridger’s army wasn’t easy—but it was better than it had been under his father’s control.

Before his thoughts could wander back where they didn’t belong, Bridger felt the wind pick up, stirring unnaturally through his fingers.

The packed dirt of the training pit crunched behind him, his elevated hearing making it impossible for him to be snuck up on. “Marlena.” That was Bridger’s way of hello to the ruler of their realm.

“It’s awfully late for a training session, don’t you think, Commander?” Her voice had always been so different from her sister’s. Vega’s voice was smooth like velvet, but Marlena’s was pitched, sharper than the tip of a fresh blade.

Bridger turned to face Marlena, her long, ice-blonde hair braided into a coronet around the top of her head. The leather pants, sheer top, and pointed boots didn’t match the palm trees swaying in the breeze behind her. Marlena looked every bit of the evil ruler she was as she sauntered over to him.

“It’s awfully late for an unexpected visit, don’t you think, Your Majesty?” Bridger repeated her words back to her in a cold response.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” Marlena sneered.

Bridger smiled. It didn’t touch his eyes like it should. “Then why wear the crown?” His eyes darted to the single ring woven into Marlena’s braid. A black iron crown glimmered in the moonlight, marking Marlena as a woman destined to rule, but it could easily be mistaken for a dark angel’s halo.

And Marlena loved nothing more than subjecting the people underneath her to live her personal version of perfect—everyone else’s hell.

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