Page 71 of Children of Fallen Gods

“Is everything alright?”

Something dulled in Serel’s expression. “We’re fine,” he said. “But…”

My smile faded. “What? What happened?”

Over Serel’s shoulder, Filias appeared in an open doorway. Serel was at least trying to keep up a cheerful facade. But Filias? Filias’s face was hard with anger. Pinched between his fingers was a parchment letter.

“We need to talk, Nyzrenese witch,” he said.

* * *

The table,like everything else about the apartment, was run-down, rough boards simply nailed together atop uneven legs. The table itself was not notable. What was notable was what covered it:

Letters.

There were dozens of them, scattered across the tabletop, piled on top of each other. They all were crafted out of similar parchment, and all bore a seal in a certain shade of red that made a pit tighten in my stomach.

A group of people clustered around the table, silent as their gazes turned to me.

Filias gestured to the letters. “Read.”

“Which one?”

“Any one.”

I picked up a letter. It was written in a shaky hand, dotted with a darkened red.

My dear…

I did not want to write this… I do not want to worry you… I was not given a choice…

With every sentence, I felt as if my blood was draining from my body.

I put down that letter. Picked up another. And another. Different handwriting, different words, but all saying the same thing.

“They’re all the same,” Filias said, tension thick in his voice. “All make the same demands.”

“Apparently,” Riasha said, “the Zorokovs did not like the stunt you pulled at the Mikov estate.”

My knees were weak. I sat down in a rickety chair.

Shit.Shit.

They were all written by slaves. Specifically, slaves owned by members of the Zorokov family, one of the most powerful dynasties in Threll. Slaves that were loved ones of the refugees that now lived here, in Ara. And every one of these letters, written under clear duress, begged for only one thing:

Me.

My life, turned over to the Threllian Lords, to face “justice” for the slaughter of Esmaris and Ahzeen Mikov.

Justice. What a ridiculous term, to describe what it was that they wanted to do. Threllian society cared nothing for justice. If I were a Threllian man, what I did would be something to respect and fear. Well, they feared me, alright, and they feared the Orders. But I’d seen firsthand how Threllians reacted when power was wielded against them by people they didn’t think deserved it. I’d seen wives who took too many liberties with their husbands estates hung and gutted. I’d seen overly-ambitious second sons get their throats slit by displeased older brothers.

And what I’d done had been orders of magnitude worse.

They couldn’t dangle me from the gallows themselves. But they could threaten their own slaves, parents and siblings and friends of those now under my protection, in exchange for me.

Smart. Ruthless.

Suddenly, I felt so naive. I knew this was a risk. But I didn’t think it would happen so fast — while my hands were still tied.

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