JAREN
Sweat poured down the back of his neck and glistened across his brow, threatening to drip into his eyes. With no trees or structures around providing cover, the blazing sun was relentless. He wondered if he’d ever get used to how vastly different the climate was on Aleron versus Bhasura.
He fought the temptation to wipe his arm across his forehead, knowing if he did, he’d likely just replace the sweat with a smear of blood.
Blood that wasn’t his own.
Jaren gripped his dagger more firmly and stared down impassively at the trembling young man kneeling several feet before him. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Jaren could smell his fear and was fairly certain he was about to piss himself.
Which may or may not have been because Jaren had already cut the man’s right hand off and had just threatened to cut off the other. He tapped into his strength just enough to launch the severed extremity like a shooting star off the nearby cliff. The man’s eyes practically bulged out of his head.
“I t-told you…it’s just m-me here. I’m j-just…just a scout, a nobody!” Sweat flew off the man’s head as he forcefully shook it back and forth. The pool of blood at his knees from his severed wrist was rapidly growing in size, and Jaren knew he didn’t have long before the man passed out.
“Why is Sulian suddenly sending scouts to these shores? The closest civilization is at least a day’s worth of travel from here on foot.”
Jaren had traveled to Aleron more times than he wanted to count in the last few years. He always anchored his vessel on the eastern coast because, although all of Aleron was under the domain of Emperor Sulian Matheris, the eastern portion was largely inhabited by harmless farmers.
No one in Eastshore, the closest city to the coast, ever gave him a second glance as long as he kept to himself and his money was good. He was fairly certain some might have guessed where he came from, but no questions were ever asked.
He’d never run into a soldier this far out from the city before. He usually had to travel at least a day before he spilled blood. It didn’t bode well for King Vesstan’s plans if Sulian was now monitoring this area. Maybe it was nothing, but Jaren had stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago. Sulian was either plotting something or getting suspicious.
“I don’t know! It’s not m-my job to ask! I just w-walk my patrol and answer back. But I swear! I swear, I w-won’t say I saw you!” The man was practically wailing.
Jaren’s lip curled in disgust. Tsiw. Pathetic. What a waste of life. It made tactical sense for Sulian to send the newest recruits out east where the chance of conflict was minimal, but this man’s youth and lack of experience were no excuse for his pitiful mewling.
“If I released you, I’m thinking your commanding officer might question where your hands disappeared to.” He raised an eyebrow and watched fear enter the man’s eyes at the intention behind his words. The fool tried to hide his remaining hand behind his back as if that might change the outcome.
Jaren cracked his neck and gave a cruel smile, revealing his sharp canines, and a rancid stench invaded his senses. The man had finally pissed himself.
“No man as weak-willed as you should be welcomed back into any army, Matherin or not. And I have no sympathy for weakness.” Jaren didn’t give him a chance to beg again. He whipped his arm forward and watched his dagger fly straight to the man’s chest.
The scout’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the dagger flew true and buried itself to the hilt. His arms came forward, his remaining hand wrapping around the handle as if he needed the confirmation that it was indeed there.
He slumped forward, about to fall flat on his face, but Jaren stopped him with a booted foot to the shoulder. He reached down and yanked his dagger out with a grunt. Wiping the residual blood from both his blade and hands on the man’s tunic, Jaren released him abruptly and let his body collapse to the ground.
Holding the dagger out before him, he looked it over as he ran his thumb along the handle. It was covered in the markings that told the story of his duty, his aitanta, and the soul bond that had been brutally ripped away from him before it could mature.
Jaren’s fathers, Dedryn and Jaeros Barilias, had been so proud when his bond was revealed that they’d had two daggers specially crafted. They’d gifted them to him when he came of age to train. But after that night, the night he failed, only one dagger remained.
His second dagger had been used to—
Jaren shuddered and sheathed the blade. He could never seem to see it without remembering. But the second dagger was gone, as was she. He didn’t know why it still got to him the way it did, why it still hurt so fucking bad.
He growled. Yes, he did. She had been his best friend, his mate, the other half of his soul. Even as children, he would have traded his life for hers in a heartbeat. But he’d failed. In his terror that night, he’d failed both her and their people.
His fists tightened, his fingernails digging crescent moons into his palms. He’d never forget the last look she gave him, like everything was going to be all right. He’d been weak. Thinking about it made Jaren want to stab someone all over again.
He took a deep breath and held it, shutting down all his emotions. They were of no use to him. He needed to focus.
About five years ago, King Vesstan and his advisers—which included Jaren’s father, Dedryn—had begun to talk more seriously about waging war against the Matherin Empire to seize the eastern portion of Aleron for Bhasura’s people, the Magyki.
Even before their land became tainted, the Magyki were overpopulating the island. The land simply wasn’t large enough to house their steadily growing population. But now, well over a decade after the first signs of taint, it was more imperative than ever for them to consider leaving Bhasura.
There was no guarantee their people wouldn’t suffer other consequences if they abandoned their homeland. Still, in the last year, King Vesstan had become more insistent that the positives would far outweigh the negatives. The rebellion had forced their hand, and they had to work with what fate had left them.
Jaren honestly didn’t give a shit either way. The rebellion had taken everything from him, and no amount of land was going to change that. But he owed his allegiance to his king, a debt for failing him that could never be repaid. So, every year he came back to this wretched continent to scout and report back.