Page 21 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
He nods, wiping his face and neck with his own. Realizing she’s staring at him as he arches his neck, she forces herself to look away.
After gently dabbing the stinging cut on her cheek left by the Namican arrow, she rubs a bit too hard on her face, neck, legs, everywhere she can reach without taking off her cloak and sandals. Eventually, the grime from the past week begins to come off.
Turning slightly, she winces at the pain in her right thigh, the ache unmistakable.Probably from when that asinus pulled me off my horse.She lifts up the hem of her tunic to get a good look at it.
A bruise the color of ripe plums—redder on the inside and slowly blackening at the edges—takes up nearly half of her upper thigh. No doubt, a similar bruise burdens her hip and shoulder. And given it’s already formed on her skin, it must go deeper. Maybe to the bone.
Some part of her wishes she’d killed the bastard, but Marcus was right to stay her hand.
A soft intake of breath pulls her attention to him. Marcus watches her movements with a strained expression, and for a moment she swears she finds warring emotions of anger and…lust.
Her lips part at the thought. It’s impossible to mistake; he’s notthe first man to give her either look before, and he won’t be the last. Her soft features have proven to be one of her greatest assets—another weapon forged by the Faithless.
But this is different: although the second look normally sickens her, coming from Marcus, it doesn’t. If anything, it has the opposite effect. Warmth coils inside her, tightening in her core, demanding to be set free.Deodamnatus. She hates how firm of a hold he has on her after all this time.
Even as her shredded heart reminds her of Ovi, the memory of her death like a shard of ice carving down her back. Ovi never truly understood her obsession with Marcus, and maybe she was right.
It doesn’t mean anything,the logical voice inside reminds her.He knows what you wanted from him back then. It would be all too easy to weaponize it, to get you to lower your guard.
Tamping down the heat rising up her neck, she lets her tunic fall back over her leg. He looks away, clenching his fist around the soaked linen, unaware she was watching him. She, too, turns her attention elsewhere—to the palace and the king behind its walls who sent his praetor after her.
CHAPTER SIX
DRUSILLA
Past the marble columns at the threshold of the Vecchio palace, Dru approaches a pair of simple but looming bronze doors, which Marcus pushes open with ease. She follows him inside, met with a cacophony of raised voices from beyond the foyer, drawing them into a grand courtyard.
Philosophers and dissenters swathed in vibrant silk robes gather at the center of the open-air piazza.The royal council, presumably.Arguing with one another, they crowd around a man much younger than them, sitting on a backless marble throne, a large palm tree forming a shaded canopy over his head.
Pristine, dark-green robes hang across his shoulders and inch up his neck, leaving his forearms, calves, and slippered feet exposed. The carved obsidian of his simple crown glimmers in the sunlight; his black hair curls beneath it, nearly hiding his dark cobalt eyes.
King Cato Draghi of Anziano.There’s no mistaking it.
Slouching, his elbow rests on his knee, a ringed hand propping up his rounded chin in disinterest. The uncanny likeness to his ancestors she once studied shows through in his straight-sloped nose and umber skin.
Glancing up when the doors rumble shut, his attention falls on Dru. Confusion mars his expression, before his gaze shifts to Marcus. Gripping the arms of his throne, he gently raises his brow, his relief plain. Marcus shakes his head once out of the corner of her eye and heads to the back wall. The king slumps in his throne, tapping his fingers on his thigh.
The bard trails behind Marcus like a loyal dog, while Dru takes a moment to look around.
Long corridors marked by more pillars stretch out on either side of her, with closed doors marking the ends.The living chambers must be there.Her attention shifts to the courtyard, which brims with palm, olive, and citrus trees, the greenery a stark contrast to the jasper-veined, white marble floors and the sparkling blue pool at the far end.
Satisfied she’s not in any immediate danger, she joins Marcus, her weary footfalls lost among the arguing.
“We’ve done enough for the Imperium,” one council member claims. “We owe them nothing.”
Another speaks up. “But they’re allowing us to bring back one of our most sacred traditions. What’s the harm?”
“Allowingus?” She swears someone in the crowd stamps their foot. “It shouldn’t be in their power toallowus to do anything. We are our own sovereign nation and bend to no one’s will.”
“Yes, they’ll bastardize it!”
“If we want to keep our freedom, we must play by their rules.”
“It’s not like before, when there was honor in competing—they only want to use us for entertainment,” another claims. “To win or lose their ill-earned riches by the deaths of our people.”
One more sighs, voice softening. “And so soon after the king’s passing…”
The crowd quiets then, avoiding the eye of the newly crowned king of Anziano. It must be recent; word travels fast through the Imperium, and though she heard the last king was unwell, she didn’t realize how bad it was.
