Chapter Twenty-Four
Head bowed, dressed in his ceremonial robe, Zidane knelt in the middle of the sacred chamber. Hewn from solid granite, the circular room lay at the heart of the mountain. Hot water flowed through channels carved into the rock wall, streaming into a pool flanked by ancient stone stairs. Steam writhed around him, dancing like ghosts as sweat trickled over his nape, down his back, making the heavy fabric stick to his skin. His fire dragon loved the attention, all the inferno-like heat. His mood, however, continued to deteriorate.
Hands fisted at his back, Zidane gritted his teeth. Kristus help him. He hated religious ceremonies. The shit-show always went on forever. And now, after an hour of being locked in the chamber, he couldn’t stave off the discomfort. Or his annoyance. Everywhere he turned, something else irritated him—the stone floor digging into his shins, the cloud of jasmine clogging the air, the burn in his lungs, the ritualized chant making his temples throb and his head ache.
Impatience stabbed at him.
A snarl rose at the back of his throat. He swallowed it at the last second. No matter how uncomfortable, he refused to make a sound and show weakness. Not while his sire stood watching. Not while Dragonkind priests circled like sharks. Not when he was so close to achieving his goal—free rein in his quest to annihilate the Nightfury pack. But as the discomfort mounted, the urge to move and stretch overwhelmed him.
His thigh muscles quivered in fatigue.
Grinding his back molars, Zidane pushed away the pain. Fucking Archguard. The idiots never did anything with expediency. He understood the drill. Had spent his life surrounded by the absurdity, but—hovno, what idiocy. Dragonkind elite needed to pull their heads out of their asses. All the pomp and circumstance wasn’t necessary. Say a few words. Have a few drinks. Anoint him with holy water. What was so difficult about that? And why was it taking so fucking long? The question banged around inside his head. A second later, the chant came to a close.
The chamber went quiet.
Praying it was over, Zidane lifted his head. The idiot priests started up again, male voices rising in unison, baritones thick with promised blessings. With a sigh, he bowed his head again. His neck muscles whined in protest. The rest of him did too, screaming in pained silence as, long robes swishing over the stone floor, the priests walked a circuit around him. One revolution, then another as each doused him with blessed water. Droplets rained down on his skin, merging with sweat as the holy males widened the circle to include the warriors kneeling at his back.
He sensed his warriors shift, moving from knee to knee, behind him.
Hands still pressed to the small of his back, Zidane flicked his fingers. The signal settled his pack, quieting the group as he refocused on the ceremony. Might as well commit every detail to memory. Paying attention never hurt. And honestly, much as it pained him to admit it, he wanted to remember the ritual. Be able to recall the ancient rite word for word, syllable by syllable, one sentence after another when he was old and gray. The details mattered. Being selected to command a kill squad, after all, didn’t happen every night.
Satisfaction curled through him.
Finally . . . an edict made in his favor. Signed, sealed, and delivered by the Archguard.
The vote had taken longer than expected. A whole forty-eight hours of waiting and watching—of hoping and praying—but in the end, his sire had gotten the job done. The decision to exile the Nightfury pack hadn’t been unanimous. Far from it. Bastian was too well loved to throw to the wolves without question.
Split down the middle, elite members of his kind had argued in favor of the Nightfuries. Many still grumbled, taking Bastian’s side, disagreeing he deserved death for defying the Archguard’s order to deliver Forge to Prague. The introduction of new evidence—namely, the attack on Rodin’s pavilion by Bastian’s warriors . . . a fantastic lie presented at a critical juncture of the assembly—shoved the vote over the edge, leaving Rodin to win by a narrow margin.
Ah, the manipulation of the masses.
Zidane hummed in enjoyment. Lucky for him, his sire knew how to fight dirty . . . and some males could be bought like common whores. Money changed minds—was a powerful motivator under the right circumstances. Not that he cared about Rodin’s methods. The politics of it wasn’t his problem. His sire could deal with the fallout if the truth ever surfaced. Right now, only the outcome mattered.
Xzinile for the Nightfuries. A preapproved hunting license for him.
Pressing his chin to his chest, Zidane suppressed a smile. Start a running tally. Put one down in the win column. Zidane—one. Bastian—zero.
The priests stopped chanting.
Zidane held his breath, hoping, praying, waiting for the moment when—
The bell tolled, ringing once, twice, a third time before the chamber fell silent.
Wooden legs scraped across the stone floor as a male rose from his chair. “Rise, Commander. Stand and be recognized.”
Bringing his arms forward, Zidane pressed his hands flat against the floor. Cold granite cooled his palms as he pushed to his feet. Stiff muscles squawked. Uneven stone met the soles of his bare feet. Burying the discomfort, he raised his head. Spread over the altar at the front of the chamber, a thousand candles burned bright. He squinted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the sudden burst of light. Leveling his chin, he squared his shoulders and met his sire’s gaze from across the room.
Rodin’s dark eyes flashed with yellow fire. “Do you accept the responsibility given you? Will you carry out your task with honor?”
“I do,” he said, saying the words expected of him, even though he didn’t believe any of it. Honor belonged to the weak, not him. Never him. He was a destroyer of warriors, the methods he employed never involved a code. Morality had no place in his world. “I will.”
“Then let it be so.” Raising his hands, Rodin turned his palms up and, holding each one high, bowed his head. “Go, Commander. Take your warriors. Make good on your promises. May the goddess guide you on your quest.”
Zidane nodded. “The will of the Archguard be done.”
“Iazen,” the priests shouted in Dragonese, giving a final blessing, voices rising like a thunderclap against the high ceiling.
Fisting his hand, Zidane placed it over his heart. He thumped his chest three times. The drumbeat woke his dragon half. The beast seethed in its cage, begging to be set free as the males in his kill squad struck their own chests. The thud echoed, reverberating inside his heart as he turned to face them. His gaze landed on the last warrior in line. His first in command raised a brow, asking for orders without words.
“Ready the plane, Yakapov,” Zidane murmured. “We leave for Seattle within the hour.”
“Very good, Commander.”
Zidane hummed as his warriors moved to obey. Seattle, the Emerald City, where Bastian still thrived, but wouldn’t for long. The place he planned to make his new home. His mouth curved. Very good was right. Indeed, nothing could be better. Without looking back, he left his sire behind and strode across the chamber toward enormous double doors, already dreaming of dead Nightfuries and the battles to come.