Constantine's POV
The snow fell in sheets across Fort Freyir, blanketing the stone walls in white that glowed under the pale morning light. Constantine stood among the rows of soldiers, his breath misting in the cold air as the priestess raised her hands toward the statue of Goddess Askah.
He hated this. It was pathetic to watch.
The incense burned his nostrils. The chanting droned on, a monotonous hymn that scraped against his skull like nails on stone. All around him, soldiers bowed their heads, eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer to a goddess who had never answered a single one of their pleas.
Fools. All of them.
Constantine kept his head bowed like the rest, but his eyes remained open. Fixed on the statue of Askah with her outstretched arms and serene marble face. A lie carved in stone. A pretty comfort for those too weak to face the truth.
There was no Goddess watching over them. No divine hand guiding their swords or shielding their hearts. There was only the cold. The hunger. The endless, grinding march of days that blurred into years, into decades, into centuries.
They were all cursed to begin with.
Cursed to walk. Cursed to watch. Cursed to outlive everything and everyone until the very sun burned out and left nothing but ash.
And yet, they still prayed.
They prayed to a goddess who let children starve in winter. Who let plagues sweep through villages like wildfire. Who let men like him exist; monsters wearing human skin, feeding on the living to sustain an existence that should have ended long ago.
If Askah was real, she was cruel. And if she was cruel, she did not deserve his reverence.
The priestess raised her hands higher. "May the Goddess bless this winter. May she guide our swords and shield our hearts."
Constantine mouthed the words along with the others.
A performance. Nothing more.
The ritual ended with the ringing of bells, and the soldiers dispersed in orderly lines toward the waiting carriages. Castle Opal awaited them. The feast. The singing. The endless parade of merriment that made his skin crawl.
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else, General," Captain Benedict said as he fell into step beside Constantine.
"Perceptive as always. Which carriage are we to board?"
Benedict laughed. "Let me lead the way. The Rex's table will have the finest wine in the kingdom. Even you cannot complain about that."
Constantine said nothing. Wine did nothing for him. Not anymore.
The ride to Castle Opal passed in silence, at least on Constantine's end. His men traded jokes and speculated about which serving girls might be amenable to their advances. He stared out the carriage window, watching the snow-laden trees blur past.
"Twenty-nine days have passed, ey?" Captain Benedict sighed from beside him. "I miss my children. Soon, our patrols will end once spring hits."
Constantine fumbled in his pocket and stuck a cigarette between his lips. "Time flies fast."
"It does." Benedict's face softened. "Soon, my one-year-old son will be running around the fields. Can you imagine? By the time I return, he might already be walking."
Constantine struck a match and lit the cigarette. He inhaled deep, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling a slow stream into the cold air.
Twenty-nine days.
The number pulsed at the back of his mind like a second heartbeat. Benedict counted the days until he could hold his son again. Constantine counted them for a different reason entirely.
He could feel the hunger stirring beneath his skin, coiling in his stomach like a serpent waiting to strike.
Soon. He would need to feed soon, and no one—not even Vanriche—could stop him.
The main hall of Castle Opal blazed with light and noise. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, honeyed fruits. Musicians played in the corner, their lutes and harps weaving melodies that the crowd sang along to with varying degrees of skill and sobriety.
Constantine grabbed a goblet from a passing servant. He brought it to his lips just as Benedict appeared at his elbow.
"Sir."
The urgency in his voice made Constantine lower the cup. He couldn't even take his first sip.
"Speak, Captain."
"We've captured one." Benedict leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Another potential. Found him wandering near the eastern border."
Constantine's jaw tightened. "Have you informed the Rex?"
"Not yet. Thought you should know first."
He finished his cup in one go and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Come."
Constantine spotted Rex Albrecht on his throne at the head of the great hall, a goblet in one hand and a forced smile on his face as a nobleman prattled on beside him. The Rex's gaze swept the crowd, landed on Constantine and Benedict approaching, and the light in his eyes died.
He knew. He always knew why they were approaching.
Constantine had become the bearer of disappointment, again and again, like some cursed herald. But he didn't mind. As long the pay came on time when doing this cursed job.
The Rex raised a hand, silencing the nobleman mid-sentence. "Forgive me. Duty calls."
He rose from the throne and descended the steps, gesturing for Constantine and Benedict to follow. The crowd parted for them, curious glances trailing in their wake as they slipped through a side door and into the corridor beyond.
The meeting chamber was cold compared to the warmth of the banquet hall. No fire burned in the hearth. The Rex didn't bother lighting one.
"Another one?" he asked, his back to them as he stared out the frosted window.
"Yes, Your Grace," Constantine said. "Captain Benedict's patrol captured him this morning."
The Rex's shoulders sagged. Just slightly. Enough for Constantine to notice.
"How many does this make? Twelve? Fifteen?"
"Seventeen, Your Grace."
"And how many have proven to be actual…Wielders?"
Constantine's silence was answer enough.
"Very well." The Rex rose from his chair, his joints cracking with the effort. "Let us see what manner of charlatan you've brought me this time."
The three of them headed toward the west wing in silence.
The temperature dropped with each step they descended. By the time they reached the dungeons beneath Castle Opal, Constantine felt the cold seep into his bones in a way it hadn't for centuries. It reminded him of the nights patrolling the borders of Fort Freyir, when the wind cut through armor like it was paper and frost clung to his eyelashes.
This was colder. Colder than the snow outside, colder than the marble floors of the great hall.
Torchlight flickered against damp stone walls as they continued down the narrow stairs, their footsteps echoing into the darkness below.
Then, they finally reached their destination.
The man in the cell looked up when they approached. He was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with dark hair that hung in matted strands around a gaunt face. His clothes were torn, muddied from travel. But his eyes—
His eyes were sharp. Alert. They swept over the Rex, over Benedict, and then settled on Constantine with an intensity that made something in his chest tighten.
"So," the Rex said, his voice echoing off the walls. "You claim to be a Wielder."
"I claim nothing." The man's voice was steady despite his circumstances. "Your men decided what I am before they even asked my name."
"And what is your name?"
The man hesitated, but Constantine nodded his head.
"Tell him."
"Romulo."
The Rex studied him for a long moment. "Tell me, Romulo. What can you do? What gifts do you possess that make you worth the trouble of keeping alive?"
Romulo's gaze flickered to Constantine again. Held there.
Constantine felt his pulse quicken. There was something in that stare. Something knowing.
"I sense things," Romulo said slowly. "Things others cannot."
"How vague," the Rex muttered. "How terribly convenient. Easily a lie that any bastard could tell."
"Not vague at all." Romulo's lips curved into something that was almost a smile. His gaze drifted past the Rex, past Benedict, and settled on Constantine like a blade finding its mark. "For instance... your man there."
Constantine didn't move. Didn't blink.
"What about him?" the Rex demanded.
Romulo tilted his head, studying Constantine the way a scholar might study a peculiar insect. "There is something... ancient about him. Something that does not belong in this room. In this century, even."
The dungeon went silent.
Benedict shifted beside him. The Rex's brow furrowed.
Constantine remained perfectly still. His hand did not move to his sword. His expression did not change. But beneath his skin, his blood ran cold. The hunger that had been coiling in his belly reared its head, alert, defensive.
"Explain yourself," the Rex commanded.
Romulo's smile widened a fraction. "His blood sings a different tune than yours, Your Grace. Older. Darker." He paused, letting the words hang in the stale air. "I wonder what it is…"
Constantine's eyes darkened.
They might have found a real Wielder this time around.