The Scorched Throne

II - Adonis

I collapse onto the couch, exhausted from a long day of killing. I don't bother to fold in my wings, their white now sprayed with tiny rubies of blood. Thankfully, the other soldiers in the wide room know better than to ogle at me.

I allow myself to sink into it. It's my favorite in the Imperial Headquarters—imported from the Evermond Mountains, made from butter-smooth leather so dark it feels like I could fall into it and never stop falling. I shrug down deeper, half wishing I could do exactly that.

My thoughts right now are slow, and singular. The aftermath of what I've done, every time, tends to leave my brain the complete opposite of what it usually is; assessing, sharp, and analytical. It feels as though someone has replaced it with a bowl of the mysterious soup served in the Headquarters mess hall.

My eyes flick up towards the gleaming blade of my scythe. It's soiled. The blood is fresh, still carving tiny, pale red paths down the gleaming steel. Later, the blood will turn to a muddied clay as it dries, flaking off as I swing it, only to be replaced by more. It's a constant, familiar cycle, killing and waiting and killing some more.

With enormous effort, I lift my head from its tilted-back position and let it hang down, staring at my hands. They're a faint brown, my relaxed fingers curling ever so slightly, the edges of my palm and fingers rough with callouses. The blood there is not as visible as that of my blade, but it stains my hands in a way it never will to my scythe. Sometimes, I wish it would. At least it could serve as a warning to others: Please stay away. Cordially, you'll wind up dead. I almost laugh bitterly out loud at the thought of it, written neatly in blood across my palms.

The footsteps warn me first. Heavy, even, sharp, and approaching fast. I try to compose myself, though it takes longer than it usually does for my masks to click into place.

I slide my face into blank, dull neutrality. I snap my back straight. I make a point not to look at the blood on my scythe or uniform and am ready barely a moment before she enters.

Tempest, my general, storms into the room—literally. Stone-gray clouds laden with rain writhe around her lean, muscular body, straining to break free. Her matching eyes, angular and ashen, glow from within.

A thick bolt of lightning cracks down like a whip, fracturing the stone at my feet. Tempest, so distracted by her anger, doesn't notice it slipping through her power to nearly singe my combat boots until it's too late. The full brunt of her stare finally lands on me, and her already-seething expression intensifies.

"Sergeant," she says, her voice humming with barely-contained rage. A web of thin lightning lashes out around her as she tries very hard not to shout at me. "Where have you been? One job, Seneca. I give you one rotten, mind-numbingly easy task straight from the Emperor-Commander himself, and yet you still manage to fail spectacularly!" She waves her hands in the air then slaps them back down again, exasperated. "Rank be damned, everyone knows you're the best soldier in the entire gods-forsaken Corps. How could you possibly fail—"

"Good evening to you too, General. I—"

"I am not done speaking, sergeant. Shut your mouth or I will burn off your—"

"General," I interrupt. "It's important. It's about the mission. There's a reason for my failure. Despite your beliefs and Romulus's, I'm not completely incompetent."

She quiets, unamused by my attempt at a joke, still crossing her arms and glaring at me impatiently. She's already strong, and the thick pauldrons capping her shoulders make her look even more imposing. As a recruit, I'd had to train myself not to show how much she scared me—or used to, at least, before I became the Emperor's personal assassin-dog. She can sniff out fear like sirens can sailors.