Page 46 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame

Standing to one side at the foot of his throne was Jarett, Sullian’s brother and Commander of the Kingdom Guards. Jarett’s face was draped in a smirk, his own armour less battle-worn yet still capable of crushing a man’s ribcage with a punch from his plate gauntlet. Jarett’s large, jutting brown eyes basked in Sullian’s penance to come.

‘Your Excellency,’ Sullian rasped, chest heaving. ‘I have word.’

‘And is that word “failure”?’ Jarett arched an eyebrow.

Sullian’s face reddened with the intensity of his anger.

Jarett laughed, a harsh sound that echoed through the hall. ‘Do not be too hard on him, Your Excellency. My dear sibling merely lacks the finesse required for this line of work.’ His rivalry with Sullian for Atriposte’s favour was well-known. Less so, Atriposte’s practice of baiting one with blatant disregard for the other, a winning tactic since the brothers had joined his kingdom ranks.

‘Well, Commander Sullian? I am waiting.’ Atriposte drummed his fingers on the armrest.

‘The girl blacksmith and Lord Terryl eluded my men,’ Sullian managed to grate out.

Atriposte’s face didn’t betray his thoughts racing inside.

Of course they did, Atriposte, you irredeemable fool. Your own brother would have seized them before they reached the gatehouse. He earned his position as Father’s successor. He would have known. But Markus cannot, can he? And why is that?

Atriposte’s jaw clenched against the errant question, knowing the answer.

Because you killed him.

Atriposte made a show of examining an invisible speck of dust on the polished floors, the white marble patterned with cracks instead of swirls, as if lightning was trapped within it. He paused to eye Sullian’s dishevelled state, the sheen of sweat lining the man’s face.

Curling his upper lip in sour distaste, Atriposte exhaled sadly. ‘Ah, Sullian, my once-mighty Commander. You disappoint me.’

Sullian flinched, before pulling himself up to his full height, features tight with the burden of failure.

Because you killed him.Atriposte indeed had, and the words echoed through his mind. But there was no time for guilt now when the room was fraught with such stupidity.

And that girl blacksmith… He recalled her filthy face, vaguely. There was something so familiar to it…

‘You have failed me,’ Atriposte told Sullian, his voice exuding a most deadly calm. He dared to slip his fingers into the slit of the armrest’s compartment, yearning for his blade. Clutching the handle, he drew it free of its sheath. The red diamond of his signet ring flashed in the rake of sunlight burning from the high windows. So did the glittering blade.

Sullian’s face twisted with unease, his stance wavering at the sight of that dagger. ‘Your Excellency,’ he said, ‘I bear ultimate responsibility for the failings of my men.’

Before Sullian could go on, his brother cut in, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips. ‘Yes, you do,’ Jarett chimed, crossing his arms. ‘You had one job, and it seems capturing a girl was too much for you.’

Sullian’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘And you?’ he snapped, words dripping with contempt. ‘You let her and the lord escape in the first place!’

‘At least when I erred, it wasn’t a second time.’ Jarett’s eyes taunted.

As the brothers broke into a cacophony of accusations and countercriticisms, Atriposte struggled to decide which he would rather hurl his blade at.

‘And what of my prized army, Commander? Did it not occur to you to give chase at the gate?’

Sullian began, ‘It is the Wilds, and as Jarett himself experienced, the Wildspeople—’

At this, Atriposte’s head snapped up. ‘The Wildspeople what? Slay trained soldiers with their pointy sticks?’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, hissing an exhale. ‘One of these days, Commander, I shall tire of your tenantless intellect.Bothof you,’ he muttered.

The brothers flinched, then glared at one another.

Yet despite the scores Atriposte had put to death for minor deeds, he stayed his hand with Sullian and Jarett. Not due to favour, and certainly not any loyalty, but a likeness between the three of them.

Yes, they were alike. In their ire, in their desire to prove themselves. In their resultant ache for violence.

Because you were always Father’s second-best son, until you culled the competition. And just in time, too.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ Atriposte ordered, leaning forward. ‘I want her. And him.’

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