“I’ve never understood Ybarisans, living off twigs and berries. It only weakens you,” the warrior says, his voice deep and gravelly and laced with ridicule.
Reminding me that, as far as anyone here is concerned, I’m still Princess Romeria, a Ybarisan who doesn’t consume “animal flesh,” as Corrin put it.
I force my head back to meet soot-colored eyes. He’s attractive, his jawline square and prominent, his lips full, despite their sour pucker. But I learned long ago not to let good looks distract me. My irritation—or maybe my hunger—flares. “I’ve never understood Islorians, living off innocent humans. Then again, it’s because your craving makes you weak.”
His gaze narrows, a challenge within it. I doubt most people are stupid enough to taunt him.
Elisaf clears his throat. “Romy, this is Jarek.”
I make the connection. “Abarrane’s new second.”
“So I’ve been told.” The warrior’s lips twist as if tasting something unpleasant.
“Not happy with the promotion?” Interesting.
“I’d be much happier with the simple task of killing Ybarisans.” His attention grazes my neck, and I can’t be sure if he’s noting the cut Abarrane gifted me or imagining his fangs sinking into my jugular.
“I’m sure you’ll get your chance, eventually.”
“I plan on it.”
I struggle not to shrink from his steely stare as he seems to dissect me under it.
“You want more of that boar, come and get it yourself.” He turns and saunters away, his steps slow and leisurely, dripping with the confidence of someone who knows his skill and doesn’t fear any opponent.
My unease stirs. “Do seconds-in-command normally deliver food?” Maybe things work differently in the Legion.
Elisaf watches Jarek’s back. “They do when they’re coming to take a measure of someone.”
That someone being me, obviously. “What do you know about him?” I didn’t see so much as a scratch on him—and I saw most of him earlier—which means none of the blood he washed off that sculpted body was his.
“He is a fierce warrior, as brutal with his blade as Abarrane. His lineage comes from Skatrana. Ancestors who happened to be in these lands when the blood curse ran rampant and the Great Rift tore Ybaris in two. He hails from Lyndel, born to an army officer.”
“His affinity?”
“I’ve heard it is to Vin’nyla.”
“The goddess of air.” I picture the stone statue in the sanctum, the curvy woman with butterfly wings. “How strong?”
“I hazard it’s as ineffective as most affinities granted under the blood moon.”
Parlor tricks, as Annika once called the Islorians’ affinities. Except for Zander, it seems. He could engulf half this camp in flames with just a spark from that cook fire.
“Regardless, he would never use it. None of these warriors use their affinities. They consider relying on the fates a weakness in battle.”
Another warrior watching me says something to Jarek. The second-in-command tips his head back and laughs. It’s a boisterous and yet vicious sound, and it makes my cheeks flame, knowing I’m at the butt of their joke.
“I think it’s safe to say he doesn’t like me.”
“Jarek’s father died in the Valley of Bones, battling Ybaris and Mordain in the last great war when Jarek was just a boy. He holds a passionate hatred for both. Be careful of that one.”
“You think he’d go against Abarrane’s order?” Assuming Abarrane has told them I’m off-limits, and if she refrains from killing me herself.
“No.” Elisaf’s headshake is firm. “He will follow her orders to his death, even before the king’s, as will all legionaries. But he is second-in-command now, which means he will replace Abarrane should she fall, and I fear his loyalty to Zander isn’t as infallible.” Elisaf tears another strip of meat off with his teeth.
“Does Zander know this?”
“There is very little Zander doesn’t know. Though, that seems to be changing lately.” When Elisaf notes how I’m eyeing him, his chewing slows, realization dawning. He swallows. “I don’t suppose Romeria Watts from New York City lived off twigs and berries.”