Page 4 of Of Steel and Scale

I now had my answer.

They were here. Butchered. Blackened. Broken.

Every damn one of them.

2

Rage filled me.Rage so deep and fierce that flames erupted from my hands, flowing like lava down the length of my sword to scorch the stones at my feet.

I clenched my free hand and fought for control. The last thing I wanted was to finish what the invaders and their flames had started. These people deserved better than that. They certainly deserved a more fitting burial than to have their bodies thrown around the old clock tower like so much rubbish and then set alight. Of course, affording each individual a sea burial—as was the custom in these parts—would be a task of monumental proportions, given everybody appeared to have been hacked into multiple pieces first.

Even the children.

May Vahree hunt these bastards down and torture their souls for all eternity.

And if the god of death didn’t, I would.

I forced my feet on and walked around the ring of death and destruction, trying to see something—anything—that might point to who or what had done this. The scent downwind was horrendous, and my stomach churned. I tried breathing through my mouth rather than my nose, but that only coated my throat with the ash of death.

And no amount of swallowing could erase it.

Swords—or perhaps even axes—had been used to hack the bodies apart, but it was hard to tell if it had been done before or after death. I hoped it was the latter. I feared it was the former.

My gaze fell on a tiny hand that still clutched the remnants of a rag doll.

The distant stoicism I’d been trying so hard to maintain shattered. Tears filled my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I raised my face to the sky and let the rain wash the grief away. It took a very long time, but the souls of these people deserved that, at the very least.

Eventually, I gathered the fragmented wisps of control and walked out of the marketplace, stepping back onto the road and following it down to the small harbor. The long pier jutting out into the cove’s deeper waters had been destroyed; only a few stanchions and crossbeams remained. Where the rest of it was, I had no idea. Like the many boats that should have been here, it was simply gone. They might all be lying at the bottom of the sea, but surely if that were the case, there’d be more than a couple of masts sticking up out of the water, especially from those moored in the shallower waters.

Did that mean some of Eastmead’s people had escaped, despite the evidence to the contrary in the marketplace?

I wanted to hope so—I really did—but my gut said otherwise. Whoever had done all this had wanted utter destruction. Had wanted to ensure this small outpost wouldn’t easily be resurrected.

A flash of movement drew my gaze toward the neck of the cove; two longboats swept into view, riding high on the waves and the fierce wind, approaching at speed. Standing at the helm of the first was a monster of a man—he was tall, broad of shoulder, with a thick plait of silvery-gray hair that streamed behind him thanks to the force of the wind. Even though he was some distance away, I knew his brown features were weatherworn, and that his grin would be fierce and bright.

Knew because this was Rion Silva.

My father.

He might constantly berate my wanderlust, but in truth, he was little better. The need to get out, to see the world beyond the confines of Esan’s glorious walls before duty closed in on us, was a fault we both shared. It also happened to be the reason I existed. Had his boat not sprung a leak all those years ago, he would never have ventured into Jakarra’s harbor to seek repairs or met the island’s fiercely independent bow master. According to my father, it had been love at first sight. For him. Apparently she hadn’t been so convinced, and it had taken months of courting before she’d accepted his intentions were serious.

I envied their story, envied their love.

Wanted, with an ache that would now never be satisfied, someone to love me so fiercely, chase me so determinedly.

But their story would never be mine.

I drew a deep breath and forced the heartache, the anger, and even the brief stab of self-pity behind inner walls. I was a soldier—a captain. I had to act like it.

As the longboat drew closer, I spotted the man standing behind my father.

Damon Velez, firstborn son of Zephrine’s king, and my future husband.

What in the wind’s name washedoing here?

Wasn’t it enough that we’d see each other when we married tomorrow? Did he really have to intrude on my last few hours of freedom?

I huffed out a breath and sheathed my sword. I didn’t bother tugging my uniform into some semblance of presentability or run my fingers across my wet hair to smooth it down; both were well beyond that sort of quick fix. Besides, Damon might as well discover from the outset just what he was getting into when it came to our marriage. I was no royal wallflower—Mom had made damn sure of that—and the sooner he accepted it, the better.

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