How he’d made it to the thick of battle and carved out a pocket for himself was something he’d never be able to explain. Maybe it was a matter of skill, or maybe it was one little miracle after another. Regardless of how he’d made it to where he was, he’d made it there all the same. And the bodies he stood on, a mound of corpses like a throne, were keeping him at the advantage. Anyone who charged at him had to traverse over the slippery bodies below.

  Worse than the gore and death beneath his feet was the fire closing in around him. The cries of horses and the crack of buildings collapsing muted the futile screams of the soldiers who’d never leave the town again. Milo swung his sword, round and round as he gnashed his teeth in a fury of rage and madness. The sky was fast turning black and his lungs were burning, but his arms wouldn’t relent. He couldn’t stop fighting after he told everyone else to retreat. He had to give them a chance to escape, to live, if only for a little while. It was more than he could give Lukas.

  He wanted to give up, to break down and fall and cry. He wanted to mourn, but it would have to wait. And if he was lucky enough to escape with the few fortunate he’d saved, he’d find Makler and either spit on his grave or kill him himself. The bastard! He knew what was coming! And maybe it was Milo’s fault for not understanding, but Makler should have known. He was a kid, barely sixteen, and hadn’t seen a day of real combat until now. How could he, let alone anyone else, have known what was coming?

  Who was coming…

  War.

  Milo turned as a silver horse charged by. Makler had deceived them all and conveniently was nowhere to be found. The coward. No wonder he’d lived so long. He stood in the battles he knew he could win, and built up a reputation, but turned tail and never faced the wrath of Conquest and War. Milo wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen it at all. Anger burned through him, setting his radiant glow brighter as it reached in vibrant beaming tendrils in every direction. Walls of trees and shrubs broke through the ground as if summoned, and insects swarmed in a cloud around anyone too close. He swung wildly as soldiers charged at him, and a scream ripped through his throat like a vicious roar.

  There was no stopping them. They were already in. The walls were burning, and the dead were too many to count. And the more he fought, the faster the world began to spin. His head was dizzy in the chaos, and he couldn’t find which way was up and which was down. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He just had to kill one more, distract one more, and maybe a few more people would live. Humanity would survive a little longer. He lurched forward, breathless, and his vision blurring in a hazy storm of glitter. He couldn’t keep going…

  And then it stopped. Silence fell over him, and he was drifting in the wind. He’d never felt so light. It was like a dream, tumbling through the vast sky and bathed in the glorious gold rays of the sun. He could hear the music of loud trumpets blaring around him and the delicate plucking of a harp. It was unlike anything he’d known in his short life, but he felt at ease listening, enjoying the song for what it was as it enveloped him. But the bliss didn’t last.

  Without warning, his body was heavy again. He gasped and shot up, his eyes filling with the faint light of an incandescent bulb hanging in the middle of the room. He gasped and rolled to his side. Where was he? Every part of his body ached as if they’d dragged him behind a horse for miles. He leaned over and vomited on the floor. He wiped the corner of his mouth and pulled himself back, reaching over his side in search of his sword.

  “You’re awake,” a man said, stepping closer from the other side of the room. Milo squinted, adjusting to the light and the way his head was still spinning. “You know, for a minute I was worried you weren’t going to wake up at all.”

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  “What?” His voice came out sounding more hoarse than he’d expected.

  The man kneeled in front of him. The scent of smoke and cinnamon and something Milo couldn’t pin wafted from him and made his skin crawl. Every part of him, beyond explanation, hated this man. The man, though, smiled pleasantly. His gold eyes twinkled and his bright copper hair shone with radiance despite the dim light. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

  Milo’s nose wrinkled, and he curled back, reaching for his boot. It was an old trick Lukas used when they were out hunting together, and for once, it came in handy. He plucked the knife from where he’d tucked it alongside his ankle and flicked it open. In a swift throw of his arm, he drove it into the man’s neck, sending him back with a pained groan. Milo winced and leaned forward. His ribs ached and the single swing was almost too much.

  “You little fucker!” he hissed, clambering back.

  Another voice chuckled from along the wall. His lips twisted in a serpentine grin. “I’ll have to remember that trick.”

  The other man staggered to his feet, ripping the blade from his neck and tossing it on the table. “Take the knife if you want it.”

  “Really? It’s iron. It’s worthless.”

  “Take it!” He snapped, “Since you didn’t take it the first time before you brought him down here.”

  “It wasn’t my job to check him.” The tall blond man frowned as if offended. “You’ll have to take that up with Asherah. I had other things to do.”

  Callan pinched the bridge of his nose and turned around. He marched back toward Milo and grabbed the sliding door. “Don’t worry, kid. I hate this as much as you do.” He pulled the bars shut and locked them in place. “We don’t take prisoner. You’re just an unfortunate exception.”

  “Who are you?” Milo coughed out as he gripped his chest.

  Callan stared at him, looked him over, and then turned back to his companion. “He needs a healer.”

  “Then get a healer.”

  “Charon,” he warned.

  “Callan,” he smirked. But when Callan glowered, he rolled his eyes, huffed, and headed out. The door, beyond anywhere Milo could see, creaked and then clapped shut.

  “He’s lucky I like him,” Callan sighed. He stared at Milo, thoughts flashing over his face as he reached up and rubbed at the wound on his neck as it healed unnaturally fast. A heavy pit fell through Milo’s stomach. He didn’t have to say who he was. He already knew. This wasn’t a Razen soldier. This was their leader, a Horseman. A god. War.

  Milo crumpled forward again with a groan. He wasn’t sure when he’d taken the beating of a lifetime, but he was certain every rib was laden with heavy bruises or broken into shattered bits. He coughed and spit on the floor, fighting through the pain. Milo gasped between sharp shocks. He couldn’t think straight if he tried. He ground his teeth together, trying to make sense of what happened.

  “Where the hell am I!” he shouted at the floor.

  “Ayden,” Callan said flatly.

  Milo stared at the stones below him, damp from the ground beneath. Ayden was almost ten hours northeast of Bethany and was among the few cities he remembered, and it fell a long time ago. Sweat trickled down his temples and clung to his wavy locks. They’d taken him to a city, but why? It wasn’t as if they were using it for much more than supplies. Everyone knew that. Not that they could do anything about it, but the Resistance had known for at least a decade.

  “I like Charon,” Callan reaffirmed, “but I don’t like you.”

  Milo looked up at him, his gaze darkening as their eyes met. No, they didn’t like each other. They hated each other. A grin pulled on Milo’s lips as his body trembled in pain. “I’m going to kill you.”

  Callan smiled and leaned against the bars. “You killed a lot of my soldiers. You’re talented, I’ll give you that, boy. But you won’t kill me. Not today, and not any tomorrow you think you have.”

  He straightened up and headed back for the door. Milo shifted to protest, but what little he had left in him drained away and he collapsed against the hard wooden cot. He panted as his vision darkened and the memories of Lukas and Kelsey and Michael, his dad and his mom, and Brendan Filch, and all the other people he was sure were either dead or thought he was, raced back and haunted him like a bad dream. He wanted to cry, and his heart squeezed tight in his chest, but not a single tear came out. Bethany had fallen, and everything he’d ever known was gone. He couldn’t change anything, and the only choice he had left was to live.