Page 7 of Hellbound

A cold tremor racked her body, her clothing soaked through as a dozen Envorsen appeared between the trees, their blood-red garb so dark it looked black.

The surrounding noise drained away. Birds quieted. The steady drip of rainwater faded. The forest’s darkness seemed to recoil and flatten against the cold, muddy earth.

Leaving only the visceral sound of her throat closing.

She met King Karsan’s calm gaze. He had closed the distance between them in an instant, the steady rise and fall of his chest tangible, the bemused smile mocking her.

Every instinct in her body screamed that she looked upon death in human form. But death would be too kind a personification for the butcher king.

“Where is Danika?” Ksenia demanded.

“Safe, with me. She has a bright future at Hearth, training the next generation of bondsmiths. They’ll grow up knowing no other king but me.”

She lunged at him, flecks of water from her hair speckling his face before Bohdan pulled her back.

“We would sooner die than forget what you did, butcher king,” she fought fruitlessly in the bastard prince’s iron-clad grip.

“And so your version of history will die with you, petulant child.” He casually wiped his face before unsheathing the thing of nightmares from the scabbard at his hip.

The hellbound kingsword’s presence exploded outward with bone-deep malevolence. It drove fear deep in Ksenia’s soul, but she stood tall against it. His retinue wilted, as if the blade’s presence weighed them down.

Radegast. A long, sleek blade made of Grastelian steel with sweeping, gold-curved quillons that flowered outward. The silvered grip had a spiral pattern that led to a pommel resembling a rook from a chess set. The legendary Damascus-patterned blade bore dark tide lines of blood that stained it permanently—a patina from countless kills that no amount of cleaning could erase.

It glowed an eerie blue in the moonlight, a thing of deadly beauty. The last sword of master bondsmith Gavril Drazan, Ksenia’s grandfather. Forged as a coronation gift for the golden prince, Aleksander Saranov, it had found its way into the wayward hands of his brother, Karsan.

“And history will always reveal how you bear a false crown and an undeserved sword,” she hissed, clenching her trembling hands.

In a blink, King Karsan gripped her throat and bludgeoned her against a tree.

She couldn’t even manage a cry of pain as she clawed with dirty, broken nails against his wrist. Their sizes were comparable, but he held her still with surprising ease.

Ksenia gasped for breath, stemming the hot tears that pricked the corners of her eyes.

He tilted his head, a sick curiosity in his gaze. “How the illustrious Drazan bloodline has fallen. Your grandfather forged weapons for kings. And here you are, crawling through the mud.”

He released her.

She hacked a cough as she slid down the trunk, her knees buckling. “And here you are, playing king. Scared of people you don’t understand and can’t control.”

He pondered this, his free hand scratching the light stubble of his chin.

The kingsword emitted a discordant, buzzing roar as it skewered Ksenia’s shoulder into the trunk.

Her scream was raw and ragged.

“Tell me now, who is your rightful king?” Spittle flew and his eyes turned crazed as he leaned into the sword, sending more blood pulsing out of her wound.

“Aleksander Saranov is the rightful king, you pitiful fucking murderer.” She coughed as blood bubbled to her lips.

Strands of his hair fell forward, his pupils blown wide. “Tell me how—how are you people able to fight my influence?”

She smiled, her teeth red. “You—can’t turn steel against its own kind.”

He withdrew Radegast with a sickening sound. Her blood ran down its edge, and still, her mind was her own. Bound metal couldn’t command bonded blood.

Karsan slaughtered bondsmiths not because they were dangerous. But because they were unconquerable. He couldn’t compel them with Radegast, couldn’t rewrite their recollections. They were proof that his power had limits, and Karsan could not abide a thing he couldn’t control.

He could shape the children. He could only purge the rest.