Page 51 of Sinadim

It wasn’t until the caravan had ambled past their ambush that the second signal was given.

The Razie fell upon the wagon with the elegance of the Nine themselves. Dancing and swaying, they hauled the Tengit city guards from the top of the wagon. Slitting throats deep enough to sever the spine from the front, they made quick work of males conscripted to serve.

Bellowing a challenge that echoed up from the bottom of his chest, Balkazar surged into the fray. Smaller than the hybrid Razie, yet graced with a legendary lust for spilling blood, the war chief was a force few could reckon with.

Efficient in his cruelty, he served his enemies the sort of violence not easily written about. Making the air stink, he left a trail of torn bellies leaking bile. Scattered limbs to the wind and made short work of any resistance Varjim might have offered.

Sinadim watched it all with a sense of cool detachment. Nonplused by the carnage, for these were males bound to serve him. Males who had their marching orders and his unflinching trust that his whims would be satisfied.

When it was over, when Varjim was the only one left, Sinadim stood at last. Glancing inside the carriage, he counted the faces within.

Six traumatized Hathorians speckled in gore—all of them more or less unharmed by the skirmish, despite the hollow eyes rimmed in white.

The prince turned a searing green scowl back, toward the last male of the Zaganos bloodline, and said, simply, “Kneel.”

Varjim wasn’t given the chance to disobey.

Sending a vicious boot to the back of his knees, Balkazar drove the Zaganos heir into the filth.

“Your father died a eunuch,” Sinadim began, taking careful steps. Letting the muck squish around his boots just to see the other’s skin blanch green at the sight. “A sniveling, repugnant weasel whose instincts drove him into the dark to hide, cowering behind a female. But you see,” Sinadim cooed, “your father earned the right to be put down by a prince.”

“Lies,” Varjim snarled, though it was watery and pale. That single hissing syllable diluted with the stench of desperation.

Sinadim shrugged. “I dug my fist into his jaundiced belly and sealed him in that tomb myself. Although,” he allowed, flippant and cruel, “I suppose it is possible you may be right. The Nine may have allowed the wretch to linger in misery these last weeks, though it wouldn’t be what you or I would consider life. Not really.”

Struggling, Varjim spat at Sinadim’s boots.

The prince merely took another grim step. “Despicable though he might have been, it will take my scribes some doing to strike Veli’s name and deeds from the histories. See, he made an impact. But you, Varjim, are another creature entirely.” Tail flicking, Sinadim glanced back at the caravan of traumatized Hathorians. “I suspect the sum total of your deeds might be told by them.”

“They’re nothing⁠—”

Without being told, Balkazar looped a gag through Varjim’s teeth. Hauling back on the length of rope with almost enough force to separate his jaw from his skull, he silenced the doomed Zaganos heir.

“Now then,” Sinadim crooned, forcing his mane flat as he approached the wretched creatures cowering inside their caravan. Making himself soft. Small. He offered a kind smile not laced with his thirst for blood and extended his hand—making an effort to retract his claws. “Tell me,” he murmured when a tiny, hesitant hand slipped into his palm. “Let me hear the tale of your journey. Leave no details unspoken, and together we’ll serve this imposter the justice he’s earned.”

For a moment, it seemed the dainty female was incapable of obeying. That even the gentle coastal breeze was too loud for her sensitive ears.

And then, “Tell him, sister.”

Startled, Sinadim’s neck cracked as he whirled toward the familiar voice and found his brave girl standing defiant at the edge of the garden.

One hand cupping the invisible swell of her belly, she approached. Tail kinked off to the side, ears laid out in a display of lazy contentment, she stepped toward her prince with all the confidence of an Anhur queen. “It’s safe,” she murmured, collecting the damaged female in an easy embrace. Rubbing her cheek against the edge of the other’s jaw. “Your prince is honorable. His word a bond that will set you free. Tell him,” she said again, “and join me in this reward.”

Tears spilled as the other began to speak. Halting, at first. Tentative as distrustful eyes flicked to scan Sinadim’s face before darting away. Skittish, until that flood of truth could no longer be contained.

“He’s sick,” she rasped, voice little more than a reedy whisper. “Drinks slick for the rut, but”—she shook her head, sending a cascade of dark hair fluttering over her eyes—“but not for… us.”

Sinadim frowned, nudging his brave girl to ask, “Then who?”

Dark ears flicked back. Pressed flat to her skull for an instant before they flicked forward, only to repeat the cycle as she squirmed in place. Held immobile by the scrutiny of a prince.

Tilting his nose into the wind, Sinadim tried to taste the tangled scents caught on the breeze, but everything was lost beneath the ugly reek of battle.

And then, “Him,” she whispered, trembling from ears to tail.

As one, the other females hissed as if betrayed, binding tighter together.

A defensive crouch over a body Sinadim hadn’t noticed until they moved to protect it.