Calix held the cloak over his chest to keep his medals from making too much noise. The quiet was welcome—the touch of the rich wool was hateful.

He managed to get to his rooms spotted only by a single slave girl, who glanced once at him, then trained her eyes quickly on the floor. He locked his door behind him and let out a long sigh.

Closing his eyes, he smirked. He could feel the burn of small, artificial scratches radiating across his back. But he'd seen the princess' hidden claws before that, when she'd used her prick brother's own knife to remove him from her rightful place.

She was interesting, at the very least. And with a little more practice... he grinned to himself at the idea. He stifled a yawn, then opened his eyes. 

Interesting...and ruthless. But he didn't mind, considering that the game she played suited his own needs just as well.

He quite honestly couldn't believe his own luck, and considered examining it, then decided the princess was right. Perhaps the gods had seen fit to grant him this small relief for once. Questioning it might encourage them to again withdraw their favor. 

Calix pushed himself away from the door, stopping when the cloak swayed and the medals on his chest rang against each other. Breathing deeply in an attempt to control his temper, he removed the general's cloak from his shoulder and held it out in front of him.

The expensive wool was finely woven, dyed a bloody shade that would hide the severity of most wounds. The clasps were not silver, but rather brightly shined steel, treated to resist the corrosion of rain, sweat and blood.

It was something he had once longed for.

His temper snapped. He threw the cloak across the room with a roar, watching it come to rest on the dark stone before the empty fireplace. 

Everything in him wanted to burn it.

A whore. He was no better than a common whore, bought and paid for. 

That cloak had not been earned. He had just begun his long climb to that rank last winter, when Arcturus had come into his tent grinning, holding a letter that declared him a centurion after the skirmish at Verna.

Calix jerked himself away from the memory and shed his coat, placing it carefully over the back of a nearby chair. His fingers brushed over the newest addition, his heart darkening.

Sound filled his head first, as it often did. The clatter of steel against steel. The screams of men and horses. The squelch and suck of the mud under his boots. The raven's caw of his own hoarse voice as he called out orders.

Grana had not been a single-handed charge. Fifty good men had gone with him into hell. Much to his horror, he and four others were the only ones to emerge again from those cursed river caves.

But they were common men, so their lives had meant nothing to the other commanders, to his father, to the king. Only Arcturus had understood why he'd broken down crying, on his knees in the freezing mud and stinging rain when he'd heard the news. Only Arcturus had been brave enough to dare approach him when his sorrow had turned to rage and he'd begun screaming, cursing the gods and their cruelty.

Calix quickly shed the rest of his clothes and went into the bathing room. Sitting on the low bench running along the edge of the pool, he let the sound of rushing water hitting red marble fill the spaces in his mind. The spaces prone to horrific memory and worse imaginings. 

The burning water lapped at his feet, then his ankles. Only when the pool was filled nearly to overflowing did he turn off the faucets. He leaned his head back against the hard stone, letting the water soak in—imagining the roiling darkness always so present within him seeping from his skin and staining the water.

The princess had helped—in more ways than she knew. 

Two days in the castle with nothing to occupy him had left him feeling close to madness. She had been the first engaging thing he'd seen since arriving in the capital. 

Not to dismiss the simple fact that he hadn't seen a woman in nearly six months, much less touched one. The swell of her breasts and the graceful curve of her neck had all but made his mouth water. Then she'd opened her mouth to reveal a sharp mind and a clever tongue.

Beautiful, and soft, she had a core of steel he wanted badly to test.

All it had taken was a smoldering glance from beneath those long lashes after the dining room had cleared out and he'd let her pull him up to her rooms like a dog on a leash.

She had been so deliciously willing too, even after he'd told her why he had been happy to warm her bed. Calix smiled at the memory of the wicked delight on her face when he'd told her why he didn't mind being used, and he'd been just as pleased to realize she wanted something ridiculously similar to his own desires.

Disobedience. To be as frustratingly disobedient as possible.

He let his fingers trail through the water. The king and his father had left him thoroughly fucked, it only seemed right that he return the favor via the king's daughter.

His smile fell.

"They will hate me," Calix murmured to no one, then was ashamed by the tears that stung his eyes.

They would hate him, and he would be unable to blame them.

All the work he had put in to the company his father had chucked him into nearly ten years ago, gone. The hours spent spilling blood, sweat and tears with men who had at first thought him little more than a pampered bitch, gone.

The men of the Seventh Legion would see him as one despicable thing.

A fraud. The rich son of a richer father. An arrogant lord. A boy playing soldier.

A whore—selling away his hard work and scarred skin for a rank not earned, but bought. 

Calix ducked under the water and screamed until his throat was raw and he was a breath away from drowning himself. How dare his father take those men away from him! How dare he rip him from the front lines and force him into this self-important cage of a castle.

He surged back to the surface of the pool, gasping in a great breath, water pouring down his face and getting caught in his eyelashes. It blurred his vision. He shook his head, spraying water droplets, then surged out of the water, snatching up a towel and drying off.

Action. Movement. He needed a distraction. He needed a way to work off the rage roiling in his blood.

His new sword, the only fine thing to come of this whole disaster, was sitting on a low table between two comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace flanked by leaded-glass windows. He went into the dressing room off his bedchamber to find his things had been already neatly stored, his armor placed on a cross in the far corner.

Calix didn't think that would be necessary, instead pulling on a pair of worn leather trousers. He stamped into boots that still had mud and blood in the creases of the leather and in the laces. He tucked the ends of his trousers into the boots and laced them tightly. Finally, he found a belt—he was still attempting to recover from those last two months of battle with only quarter rations.

He would have been happy to leave like that, but didn't want to scandalize some poor serving woman, or give any of the court ladies something to giggle and blush over every time they saw him. So he dragged a loose white shirt over his head and snatched up the sword.

It needed a proper breaking in.

Seven wrong turns and swallowing his pride enough to ask a servant finally deposited him on the south side of that horror-trap of a castle. He pitied any army who would attempt to breach that, for he now believed it entirely possible that a whole barbarian horde could find themselves lost in those labyrinthine halls. 

The familiar sounds of shouted, good-natured insults and swords singing against one another guided him to the barracks, luring him to the sandy pits of the training ground. Calix sighed as he took in the sight of over a dozen men moving slowly through fighting techniques, feeling like he'd settled back into his own skin.

It was almost like he was back home when the men fell silent and still, one by one, as he made his way through them toward the captain of the guard. Calix could feel the whispers sliding against his skin, but had learned to ignore them long ago as he stopped in front of the table the captain was leaning over.

Looking down, he found several reports and averted his eyes before he remembered he was a general. Almost nothing was above his pay-grade now. A scowl plucked at the corner of his mouth, but he shook his head and cleared his throat.

The captain didn't even twitch.

"Captain," Calix said.

"Not now," the man growled, still not looking up.

Calix raised his eyes to the blue sky. Clouds gathered to the north. It would be a cold night in Brunia for the men. "Captain," he tried again.

"Are you deaf or fucking stupid, boy?" the captain snarled, finally looking up.

Calix raised an eyebrow as the man paled.

"G-General. I, I didn't realize it was—I mean—" The captain stopped stuttering and snapped out a salute, fisted hand pounding once against his chest before holding his arm out straight in front of him, hand still fisted.

Calix returned the salute. "At ease, Captain," he said quietly. "I was just wondering if I might spend a little time training with some of your men?"

"Of course, sir," the captain said briskly, nodding toward the sandy ring. Then he cast a curious look at the lord.

"Yes?" Calix asked with some amusement.

The captain only shook his head. "Nothing, my lord."

"Julianus," he said sternly. "Or sir, if you must. Out here, I'm no better than any of these men." He smiled, the expression self-deprecating. "Just another sword, Captain, that's all I am."

"That's not the way we've heard it, sir," a soldier suddenly piped up.

The captain bristled, but Calix raised a hand and cocked his head at the soldier. Thin and wiry, he looked like he'd barely just made it to manhood. He paled at the attention, but was nudged from behind by his compatriots.

Calix sensed the other soldiers drifting closer with interest and sighed internally. Better to deal with it now, he supposed, even if that would be more of a fight than he'd come looking for. "Oh?" he asked. "And how have you heard it then, boy?" 

His throat bobbed nervously. "There've been stories, General, about you. How you've wiped out entire armies single-handedly."

Calix nearly started in surprise. He hadn't been expecting that.

The soldier continued, "It's said that you've got the gift of Eretanes running in your blood."

At the mention of the war god, his mood soured and he couldn't stop the small snarl that curled his lip and made several of the guards flinch. He quickly reined in his temper, and instead let out a good-natured chuckle. Nodding, he said, "And I suppose I should be taller, too, right?"

That inspired a few uncertain snickers.

"What else have you heard?" he asked, crossing his arms and frowning in thought. "Because I've heard that Cen—General Julianus sacked Antelium with balls of fire from his ass."

Now the men laughed outright, punching each other's shoulders and ridiculing each other. Calix smiled, then turned to the captain. Loudly enough for them all to hear, he said, "I'll try not to rough 'em up too much, Captain."

The man scoffed. "Some of them could use a good knocking about."

"And you think the pretty lord-bitch can do it?"

A hush descended over the training grounds, and Calix watched as the other soldiers slowly turned to look at one of their own. A sullen-looking man with hair an inch too long for regulation and a few days' growth of beard stood and swaggered toward Calix, who only narrowed his eyes.

That was a tame insult compared to what he had endured the first three years in his father's army. Certainly not anything that could upset him now. It was more in line with what he had expected from the others—an assumption of his uselessness based on the accident of his birth.

"Brocchus," the captain warned, but once again Calix held up a hand. There was only one proper response to words like that.

He drew his sword, pointing it at the man, who stiffened. Then Calix abruptly turned his back on him and stalked to the fighting ring. The coarse brown sand crunched under his boots.

Magpies chattered in the branches of trees near the kitchens, the harsh wock-wock of their calls ringing across the grounds of the castle. He stripped off his shirt, tossing it to one of the soldiers, all of whom had crowded around the ring in anticipation.

A cool morning breeze kissed at his chest and arms, staving off the heat of the rapidly rising sun. A sun he put to his back.

Brocchus hesitated at the edge of the ring, eyes tight as he looked at the scar on Calix's chest. He stared like he could see through Calix to the SHV tattooed on the back of his right shoulder. 

Calix knew he was still a little on the thin side, having lost nearly fifteen pounds and most of it through his chest and arms. However, that thinness had given him the appearance of a starving, vicious wolf and people had started to look twice at him for it.

He could see doubt begin to flicker in Brocchus' eyes, and gave him a faint smile. "What?" he taunted. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a pretty lord-bitch?"

Murmurs fluttered through the crowd of soldiers, bets being placed. Both Calix and the captain studiously ignored that.

Brocchus sneered and stepped into the ring. Everyone went silent, eyes glued on the two men as the guard tried to circle the general. Calix didn't move. He didn't need to.

"They keep saying you were in Mortania," Brocchus said. "But none of us remember seeing where you were."

Calix's eyes turned to slits. Not just a palace guard who'd never seen any real action then—most likely a legionnaire who had served his time on the front and had wanted to add a little more to his pension by serving two extra years here in the capital.

"Probably letting the kitchen boys fuck you while the rest of us were fighting."

Well that was a bit more creative. Calix snarled quietly, but didn't respond. He'd spilled his own blood in Mortania. Words didn't disprove that.

The guard prowled around for a moment longer before realizing Calix was going to force him to make the first move. Murmurs and quiet jeers were beginning to ripple among the onlooking soldiers.

Brocchus swung his sword, and Calix took half a step to the left. There was a sharp snick as the blade found the sand.

A laugh came from those watching.

"Can't you do better than that?" Calix drawled.

Then he got what he came for.

Brocchus went red with rage and Calix slipped to that in-between place in his mind. The one that quieted his thoughts and noticed every detail. The one that could see the flash of a sword and know exactly where the strike was going to land.

Their swords clashed as they moved about the ring. The sand caught at the low heels of his boots, but it was better than mud.

Brocchus thrust his blade forward, trying to gut him. Calix stepped to the side, extending his arm as he batted the sword away for extra measure, and the guard struck him.

A fist smashed into the side of his mouth and shouts sounded all around him. Blood pooled in the space between his lip and lower teeth. He swiped his tongue along the inside of his lip, tasting the copper tang of his blood. 

He spit, the glob of blood and saliva landing an inch away from Brocchus' boot.

Calix leapt forward, swinging his sword down toward the guard's head. The swords smashing together sent a jolt up his wrist and his arm, all the way to his heart.

He battered away at Brocchus, sending blows raining down around him. They twirled and skidded around each other. The sun climbed a little higher into the sky. Calix lost himself  to the dance, savoring the burn and strain in his muscles as he let the fight stretch much longer than it needed to.

Brocchus was breathing heavily now. He was getting tired. Calix sliced into his calf, just below his knee before once again raising his sword, intending to stop just shy of cleaving the man's arm from his shoulder.

A clean, solid victory.

But Brocchus twisted wildly out of the way, stepping on Calix's right foot. A hand pressed into the back of his shoulder, pushing him away and he roared in pain as his weak ankle popped loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Brocchus grinned as Calix went to a knee, his ankle refusing to hold him. The guard lifted his sword above his head. The world threw itself into a frenzy around Calix, every battlefield instinct in him ripping away the manners usually observed in a sparring match.

He pushed off his good leg, tackling the guard around the middle. A pommel smashed into his upper back, near his spine as Brocchus went to the ground. Pain zinged up Calix's leg, but it didn't matter. He pinned the man, straddling his chest. With his free hand, he grabbed Brocchus' sword arm, just below the wrist and squeezed.

Tendons slipped under his fingers as he crushed down onto Brocchus' wrist until the man gasped and dropped his sword.

Calix let out a heavy breath through gritted teeth, and put the point of his sword beneath the man's chin. One twitch of his hand would spill the man's throat out into the sand beneath him. The world calmed.

Slowly, savoring the words, he asked, "Are you sure I'm the bitch?"

Brocchus didn't reply.

"Yield," Calix said, the word vicious and guttural.

Everyone watched with baited breath. Calix leaned forward, allowing his weight to compress the man's chest, knowing how he would soon struggle to draw breath. Then he turned his sword until the razor edge glided along Brocchus' throat.

Calix smiled and let the sword slip, just a little. Brocchus' eyes went wide as the sword nicked his skin, a thin rivulet of blood trickling down the side of his neck.

That thing inside Calix—the beast that had grown more ravenous as he had—growled in satisfaction. Satiated, for the moment.

"Yield," Calix whispered now. Purring as Cassia had purred for him last night.

Brocchus gritted his teeth, then nodded.

"Say. It," Calix demanded, pressing the edge of the blade farther into Brocchus' skin.

"Yield," Brocchus finally croaked. "I yield."

"That's what I thought." Then he drew his arm back and struck Brocchus, driving his fist brutally into the man's jaw.

The guard's head snapped to the side and Calix heaved himself to his feet, limping to the edge of the sand pit. He stumbled there and one of the soldiers—the boy who had first spoken to him—grabbed him.

Not hesitating, he dragged Calix's arm over his still-bony shoulders and helped him over to a nearby table. 

"Tullius, Antius, take him to the stocks," the captain ordered, and Brocchus was hauled roughly to his feet and jerked away. Calix raised an eyebrow and the captain said, "For conduct unbecoming at the very least. Poor form in a sparring match. He also just struck an officer."

"Leave it," Calix said, fingers lightly probing the bruise blooming at the corner of his mouth. "I've been hit harder in a whorehouse."

The men around him all laughed.

"Sir?" one of the men said. Calix looked over to find a man perhaps a little older than himself and nodded his head, signaling for him to continue. The man stepped forward. "Sir, I just wanted to say thank you, in case I don't get the chance again."

Calix's eyebrows drew together, and he ignored the throbbing in his ankle for a moment longer.

The man shrugged. "My brother was at Lorna in Marbel five years ago, sir. He told us what you did there. How you defied orders. He said he would have been a dead man if you hadn't decided to sneak over the wall instead of charging the gate like you were ordered."

All Calix could do was nod, his back flaring with remembered pain. He'd been flogged for his insubordination. Twelve lashes given in front of the entire company, each keenly felt. It would have been more if Lorna hadn't fallen.

Arcturus had emptied his pockets to pay for the salve he bought in a nearby village to keep the wounds from becoming infected in the stifling summer heat of that southern, swampy wasteland.

The scars were still there, lightly etched in his skin.

"All right, enough of that, boys," the captain said gruffly. "Let's get the general on his feet and up to the castle. Court physician's better than what we have down here, sir."

Calix shut his mouth at that, knowing he would still likely have to use a crutch for a month, if not more.

The boy and the man who had thanked him each took an arm, the captain himself carrying Calix's sword as they made their way back to the castle. He gritted his teeth with each agonizing step.

He had torn the ligaments eight years ago, charging across a plain dotted with the holes of a rat-like creature. In the middle of a fierce clash with a very large Mortanian, he had stepped in one of those holes, nearly destroying his ankle.

He should have died then and there. 

Now, it was still prone to weakness and twisted easily—something he had tried to remedy with tightly laced boots. 

They finally made it into the castle, and the captain had a servant lead them back to Calix's rooms. On the way there, they passed the princess.

She was seated upon a bench in one of those grand hallways, speaking to a young man in a black coat and vest, richly embroidered with gold and emerald thread. The princess looked over as they passed, her dark honey eyes locking with Calix's, but she didn't say a word.

Not a flicker of expression or remembrance of last night crossed her beautiful features, not even a subtle blush, and he nearly wanted to grin. Delightful creature, indeed.

He schooled his features to polite blankness and they all nodded respectfully—the captain bowing—before continuing on their way. Above the huff of painful breath, he could hear her speaking again, and wondered who the man was.