It was now in his grip.
Tomas didn’t see the knife. When he drew closer and grabbed hold of Aron’s shirt, Aron thrust his blade into Tomas’s throat. The boy’s hands shot up to his neck as the blood began to gush, his eyes wide with shock and pain. A moment later, he fell to his knees and then fully hit the ground. His hands clawed at his throat, the dagger still deeply embedded there. Blood swiftly formed a crimson puddle around the boy’s head.
It had all happened so fast.
Cleo clamped her hand against her mouth to keep from screaming. Another did scream—Felicia let out a piercing wail of horror that turned Cleo’s blood ice cold. And suddenly the rest of the market collectively took notice of what had happened.
Shouts sliced through the market. There was a sudden rush of bodies all around her, pushing and shoving. She shrieked. Theon clamped his arm around Cleo’s waist and roughly yanked her backward. Jonas had started for her and Aron, grief and fury etched onto his face. Theon pushed Mira in front of him and pulled Cleo under his arm, Aron close behind. They fled the market while Jonas’s enraged words pursued them.
“You’re dead! I’ll kill you for this! Both of you!”
“He deserved it,” Aron growled. “He was going to try to kill me. I was defending myself.”
“Keep going, your lordship,” grunted Theon, sounding disgusted. They pushed their way through the crowd, making their stumbling way onto the road back to the ship.
Tomas would never live to see his sister get married. Felicia would never see her brother again—instead she’d witnessed his murder on her wedding day. The wine Cleo had drunk churned and soured in her stomach. She yanked away from Theon’s grip and threw up onto the path.
She could have had Theon stop this before it got so far out of control. But she hadn’t.
No pursuers seemed to be following them, and after a while it became clear that the Paelsians were letting them leave. They slowed to a fast stride. Cleo kept her head down, holding on to Mira for support. The foursome walked through the dusty landscape in absolute silence.
Cleo thought she’d never get the image of the boy’s pain-filled eyes out of her mind.
Jonas collapsed to his knees and stared with horror at the ornate dagger sticking out of Tomas’s throat. Tomas moved his hand as if to try to pull it out, but he couldn’t manage it. Shaking, Jonas curled his hand around the hilt. It took effort to pull it free. Then he clamped his other hand down over the wound. Hot red blood gushed from between his fingers.
Felicia screamed behind him. “Tomas, no! Please!”
The life faded from Tomas’s eyes with every slowing beat of his heart.
Jonas’s thoughts were jumbled and unclear. It felt as if this moment froze in time for him as his brother’s life drained away.
A wedding. There was a wedding today. Felicia’s wedding. She’d agreed to marry a friend of theirs—Paulo. They’d jokingly given him a hard time when they announced their engagement a month ago. At least, before they welcomed him into their family with open arms.
A big celebration was planned unlike anything their poor village would see again for a very long time. Food, drink...and plenty of Felicia’s pretty friends for the Agallon brothers to choose from to help forget their daily troubles carving out an existence for their family in a dying land like Paelsia. The boys were the best of friends—and unbeatable in anything they attempted together.
Until now.
Panic swelled in Jonas’s chest and he looked frantically around at the swarm of locals for someone to help. “Can’t something be done? Is there a healer here?”
His hands were slick with Tomas’s blood. His brother’s body convulsed and he made a sickening gurgling sound as more blood gushed from his mouth.
“I don’t understand.” Jonas’s voice broke. Felicia clutched his arm, her wails of panic and grief deafening. “It happened so fast. Why? Why did this happen?”
His father stood helplessly nearby, his face grief-stricken but stoic. “It’s fate, son.”
“Fate?” Jonas spat out, rage blazing bright inside him. “This is not fate! This was not meant to be. This—this was done at the hands of a Auranian royal who considers us dirt beneath his feet.”
Paelsia had been in steady decline for generations, the land slowly wasting away, while their closest neighbors continued to live in luxury and excess, refusing them aid, refusing them even the right to hunt on their overstocked land when it was their fault in the first place that Paelsia lacked sufficient resources to feed its people. It had been the harshest winter on record. The days were tolerable, but the nights were frigid within the thin walls of their cottage. Dozens, at least, had frozen to death in their small homes or starved.
No one died from starvation or exposure to the elements in Auranos. The inequality had always sickened Jonas and Tomas. They hated Auranians—especially the royals. But it had been a formless and nameless hate, a random, overall distaste for a people Jonas had never been acquainted with before.
Now his hatred had substance. Now it had a name.
He stared down at the face of his older brother. Blood coated Tomas’s tanned skin and lips. Jonas’s eyes stung, but he forced himself not to cry. Tomas had to see him strong right now. He always insisted that his kid brother be strong. Even with only four years separating them, that’s how he’d raised Jonas to be ever since their mother died ten years ago.
Tomas had taught him everything he knew—how to hunt, how to swear, how to behave around girls. Together they’d provided for their family. They’d stolen, they’d poached, they’d done whatever it took to survive while others in their village wasted away.