Excerpt

“Permission to execute Jannaeus,” Michael said.

The Prince sighed. “Denied.”

Michael stared in disbelief. “He just slaughtered two thousand people, more than half of them women and children!”

“It is not your request, but your motive,” the Prince said. “I can not grant you permission to murder him.”

Michael’s body clenched but he suppressed his rage and stormed away.

His judgment shall come, but it will not be by your hand.

Though Michael paused, he neither turned back nor responded, and then pushed through the vines. He had been able to block out the pain of Sharon’s death, fueling it into a bitter rage against Janneas which he had planned to release as he plunged his sword through his ruthless heart.

As he reined into the citadel, the shock of the Prince’s refusal waned and Sharon’s face swam before him, along with the blood seeping from her neck, and the dying light in her eyes as she stared up at him, helpless to save her.

Images of every child on that hill, of their blood staining the dirt with pools of murky rust, burned behind his eyes, and then the images blurred together in an endless sea of slaughters, as all the massacres he had witnessed came rushing over him, threatening to drown him in an endless ocean of sorrow and grief.

Part of him wanted to give in to the pain, to let the totality of his grief wash over him, but he fought against it, refusing to let it swallow him.He reached for the darkness, wrapping it around him like a cloak; the images faded and a cold numbness crept over him.

Craving the grinding sound of steel against stone, he headed for the armory.