“Fyet da, Otas,” Roden said after spitting out a mouthful of blood, the splatter hitting the doppelgänger’s highly polished boots. The prim, older Draeken glanced down at his boots in disdain and took a step back with a frown. Ironic, since Otas Olnek had been born a beggar. Roden may have done his share of hypocrisy, but this Hillas was by far the biggest hypocrite of them all. Everything Otas had accomplished was simply because he’d volunteered to look like someone else.

Roden had awoken to find Otas standing over him and knew they were about to have a ‘conversation’. The first round was just warm-up.

Otas looked down upon Roden. “Things would be so much simpler if only you’d died back at your base like Hillas wanted.”

He chuckled, though the movement cost him dearly. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Otas motioned to the guardsman at Roden’s side. The guardsman swung the heavy shock baton, and it landed with an electric jolt on Roden’s already injured wing. He snarled, only to have his restraints retract, brutally yanking him back against the wall. His limbs were taut and unable to move. He stood spread out before Otas, naked save for his kilt, which the imposter Hillas left on likely to reflect the real Grand Lord’s sensibilities and certainly not out of civility for Roden.

“You really think you can pull this off, Otas? You’ve done nothing original in your life. Everything you’ve done was to imitate a once-great lord.”

He tensed his muscles for what came next: first a hit to the gut, slamming the air from his lungs, then a battering on the limbs. Pulsing agony sent his body into spasms with each connection from the shock baton. An especially direct hit to his shin brought a grunt. The sound was all the guardsman needed; he turned up the intensity meter on the baton, and more hits ensued.

When he could breathe again, he ground out his next words. “Is that all you have, Meyt? I taught you better than that.”

He had no idea what the guardsman replied with; his right ear was ringing too loudly from being struck, his ear drum likely shattered. At least he could see that he’d pissed off the guard, and he’d take every win he could get. A few more hits and he’d pass out again. It was the only thing he could do until he killed this bastard impersonator.

Meyt lifted the baton high above his head. Just as he began to swing, a hand grabbed the guardsman’s forearm.

“Enough,” Otas said before pulling his hand back. “We don’t want him to be irreparably damaged. Not yet. He still has an important role to play. You’ve done enough for one day.”

Meyt handed over the shock baton and left, only to be replaced by another guardsman.

Roden glared at the guardsman from his base. “I knew it was you who poisoned my rum, Elng. Tell me, what made you betray your people?”

Elng pursed his lips. “I’m looking at the betrayer of my people.”

“You’d rather follow an imposter?”

Elng didn’t reply. His jaw was clenched too tightly shut. He’d chosen the wrong side and he knew it.

Roden tried to keep his head lifted to watch as Otas walked over to the wall and pressed a button. Several pillars rose from the floor in a half circle around Roden, and he was forced to pull his wings even tighter to keep from getting skewered. He pressed another button, and a hum filled the room, nearly drowning his ability to reason.

Roden frowned. Why would Otas bother using a disjunctor around him? A disjunctor’s only purpose was to prevent Sephians from sensing their tahren. What game was Otas playing to shield Roden from Nalea?

The elder strolled toward him, the bars and restraints the only things keeping Roden from biting out Otas’s throat. Otas crossed his arms over his chest, putting his fat belly on display. “You will provide your staunch support to me onscreen. Your speech will be broadcast across every Draeken channel tomorrow.”

Roden managed a sneer. “Why would I pledge my support to a pale imitation?” The restraints pulled at him, burning his limbs. An unquestionable pop sent a blinding pain into his shoulder. He sucked in a breath. Dislocated.

“If you don’t play your part well,” Otas said. “Nalea will die a long and painful death. I’ll broadcast footage of you torturing and killing your own consort.”

The restraints slackened a little and Roden struggled to stay on his feet, the muscles in his legs shaking, his lungs struggling for air. He forced himself to look up at the imposter. “I look forward to tearing the wings from your back, Otas. They’ll decorate the walls of my office.”

Red fury filled Otas’s cheeks. He spun around and stomped toward the door. In the doorway, he paused. “If you don’t help me, your consort will die.”

Roden refused to show concern, refused to let Otas see any sign of weakness for Nalea.

After watching Roden for another long moment, Otas left the room, leaving Roden alone with Elng and the hum of the disjunctor. He sagged. His dislocated shoulder sent a screaming reminder, but he could no longer hold his own weight.

Elng watched him from across the cell.

“You’re a fool,” Roden muttered at the guardsman.

The door opened, and he inwardly cringed. Another torture session so soon?

A scuffle. An electrical charge filled the air, and then a loud thud.

Roden found the strength lift his head just enough to see Elng’s unmoving form on the floor, and Wync hitting several buttons on the wall. He smiled and winced when the movement aggravated his split lip.

Roden’s restraints retracted into the wall, leaving him to free-fall forward. The pillars disappeared into the floor and Wync lunged forward to grab him just before his head cracked onto the hard metal surface.

“Lea. In another cell,” Roden murmured as his surroundings went in and out of focus.

An arm slipped under his dislocated shoulder, and he moaned.

“Sorry, but you’re the priority. I have to get you out of here, Commander.”

“No, she’s—” Someone reached under his other shoulder—the one with the gunshot—and black fog bled into his vision. His wings and feet dragged along the floor as his guardsmen carried him into the hallway. He’d barely registered the alarms blaring. His troops clearly needed to work on their diversion tactics.

A blaster shot whizzed by his head. Wync returned fire while the second guardsman, Gix, covered his body with hers. He grabbed her neck and flattened them both on the ground. As Wync laid down a barrage, Roden pulled her ear close to his lips. “Gix, I need you to do something.” Before she could respond, he relayed his instructions.

When he released her, she unholstered another blaster and handed it to him. “I’m not sure I—”

“Go!” he ordered.

After throwing an anxious glance over her shoulder, Gix ran back down the hallway the way they’d come.

Staying low and against the wall to avoid the gunfire, Roden turned and fired a strafing line across the hallway. Wync had downed one of the guardsmen already, leaving only one. Two blasters firing at him convinced the last guardsman that fleeing was the wiser option.

Silence reclaimed the hallway and Roden pulled himself to his feet with a grunt. Wync reached out, and Roden held a hand up. The larger Draeken stepped back with a shrug. Roden started moving forward as quickly as he could—which was pitifully slow—while trying to avoid stumbling in the spinning hallway. When they reached the next intersection, Roden took a left.

“Our ship is this way,” Wync said, nodding his head in the opposite direction.

“We go this way.”

“No time,” Wync replied. “We’re cutting it too close already.”

Roden had spilled plenty of blood in his time. Being ruthless was one of his best traits. No life was worth even a hundredth of his. Until now. “You prep the ship. I’ll be right there. We need her.”

“But, sir…”

Roden didn’t respond. The sounds of blaster shots erupted down the hallway he needed to enter. His body utterly without strength, he had to make this quick. The sounds of dozens of boots pounding on the floor came closer. He cranked a knob on his blaster, widening the blast path and stumbled down the hallway.

“Fyet.” Wync threw his hand in the air, then grabbed him by the shoulders and twisted him around. “Sorry about this, sir.”

Roden couldn’t raise his arm in time to block the punch to his face. His vision blackened with white pricks of light. With consciousness fleeting, he brought a knee up hard to Wync’s gut. The larger guardsman bent over with a wheeze.

Roden fell and waited as his tunneled vision widened. By the echoes in the hallway, they were vastly outnumbered. With his injuries, he was more of a ghost than a warrior, leaving Wync and him to certain death if they remained. He was useless in this condition. He scowled. “Let’s go.”

Wync helped Roden to his feet. By the time he stumbled into the ship bay, he knew he’d failed. The place had turned into a battle zone. Ships were on fire. Draeken fought Draeken. Sorrow filled him as he followed Wync to a small transport ship near the edge of the bay. Gix was already in the pilot’s seat, plugging in navigational points, and Wync claimed the only other seat. Roden didn’t argue. Mentally and physically, he was in no shape to give orders. With a sigh, he collapsed onto the floor.

He’d signed Nalea’s death warrant tonight. He’d forced his troops to choose between himself and Hillas. How many Draeken would die for his decisions? Everything he’d done was to save Draeken lives, not destroy them. This was the last thing he’d wanted.

Movement at his side brought his eyes open. “Did you get it?” he asked, fighting for the strength to speak.

Gix nodded as she injected something into him. “This will help with the pain,” she said. Her next words sounded distant. “You’re safe now.”

“No.” He sighed as the drug began to steal his mind. “We just started a civil war.”