Page 115 of Brutal Union
“You don’t have a rightful place, Haragi,” I cough, jerking against his grip. “You are a tool. A loyal soldier. You and I aren’t so different--”
I twist, fingers scrabbling along the floor until they close around the broken blade of a councilman’s dagger.
Haragi cuts me off, slamming me against the floor. “I will be King, Sho. The minute you’re gone he will turn to me.”
“He would never,” I gasp. “You are not blood.”
Without thinking, I jam it into the soft part of Haragi’s neck. Blood erupts against my face, hot and thick. He drops me instantly, clutching at the wound, eyes wide and wet with shock.
For a second, I just kneel there, chest heaving, staring at the man who could have been a brother to me, who did everything for the approval of a man who wasn’t ever going to give it. It didn’t have to end like this. But he chose the wrong side like they all do. He gurgles, sways, then crumples to the floor with a final, shuddering breath.
I wipe my face with the back of my arm and grab a katana from the blood-slick tiles beside him. Nadia steps over a body to meet me, her lips curled into a grin that’s all heat and violence.
“Took you long enough,” she says, flicking blood from her knife.
“Hey, not everyone has unlimited hair pins like you,” I wipe my brow, and let out a small shudder.
I grab the katana off the ground and rise to my feet, blood dripping from my fingers, my eyes locked on his. There are two guards left on either side of my father in a room full of dead bodies, one looks no older than fifteen.
“You do not have to die for him,” I announce, slicing the katana through the air, spraying blood across the floor. “I will let you live.”
The boy hesitates, breath ragged, sword trembling in his grip. He can’t be more than twenty—green eyes wide with fear, maybe regret. He looks around, sees nothing but bodies. Nadia stands poised behind him, her blade glinting red, eyes locked and unblinking.
“Do not be cowards!” my father bellows from the dais, voice echoing like a war drum. “Die like warriors!”
The boy screams and charges.
I step into the strike, dodge low, and slam the hilt of my katana into his jaw. His sword clatters to the ground. In a single motion, I grab his wrist, twist until he falls to his knees, and raise my blade high. He looks up at me—terrified.
“I told you,” I whisper, “I’d let you live.”
And then I bring the sword down—clean, fast—severing his hand at the wrist.
He shrieks, falling backward, cradling the stump, blood spraying across the polished floor as he kicks away from me in terror.
“Take that,” I snap, eyes narrowed on his newly formed stump, “as a reminder to choose your leaders more wisely.”
Behind me, I hear the wet sound of a blade sinking into flesh. A gurgle follows. I glance over my shoulder to see Nadia standing over the final guard, blood dripping from her knife as his body spasms, then stills.
Takeda remains at the head of it, calm as ever, the only man left untouched.
He rises slowly from his throne, adjusting the sleeves of his black kimono, as he descends the dais with practiced calm, not an ounce of fear in his posture. At his side is a sheathed katana, lacquered black with a golden dragon curling around the hilt.
He draws the blade in one smooth, reverent motion. The steel hums in the air. He brings the katana up and assumes jodan-no-kamae—high stance, blade raised above his head, tip angled forward, body squared with mine.
My pulse doesn’t spike. I’ve trained for this moment my entire life.
“Well?”he calls down. “Are you going to kill me like a man, boy? Or will you hide behind your whore and let her do it for you?”
I raise my katana and begin walking toward him, boots echoing through the chamber. “I’ll kill you myself, Oyaji,” I say flatly. “But I already know what the future holds.”
I stop a few steps away from him and assume the same high stance with my blade as high as the chain between my handcuffs will let me and I angle the tip forward.
He looks at me with a humorous smile. “And what does the future say?”
“That I will take your head for using that language on my future wife,” I say, voice echoing throughout the room.
His expression darkens, and for the first time, I see it—that flicker of rage. “Then I suppose that would make her a widower,” he snarls, and lunges.
