Wild ― Piper McLean

―xix. the song of the false eight

He'd crafted their false fate so perfectly.

"Gods," Verona breathed. "Oh, gods."

"Let's go," Michael said sharply—an order. "If you aren't ready for battle in five minutes, there will be consequences."

"We're not going anywhere until you tell us what the hell you were thinking," Lawrence argued, eyes narrowed at Michael.

But their fate was here—just not how they'd expected.

A probatio barged into the tent, breathing hard as if he'd just run a marathon and a half. "We're under attack!" he managed through pants, his sword at his side and stained—not with blood, but with something like shadow, something pitch black.

"That's impossible!" Michael said, but he was already reaching for his sword. "We would have heard them—"

"They're—they're like ghosts," the probatio all but whimpered. "Just—shadows. They snuck up on us, we didn't—we didn't see them until it was too late."

"How long?" Jordan demanded, already flipping her coin into the air. It landed in her hand as a gladius, gleaming in the low light of the lanterns.

"A minute, maybe," the probatio said. Verona only noticed then the tears streaked down his face, the look of terror in his eyes. "But it's—it's a massacre."

Jordan didn't wait for him to say anything else. She shoved out of the tent, the rest of them right behind her.

They stepped out to a bloodbath.

Blood coated the snow, seeping into the ground. All across the clearing they'd made camp in, blood and shadows and corpses littered the area.

"Oh my gods," Auggie whispered.

The shades were like their own shadows, weapons in hand. No blow against them by Imperial gold did any lasting damage, but their shadow-swords pierced through legionnaires like they were nothing.

There was no time for armor, no time for strategy.

As one, the false Eight summoned their weapons.

It was so cold—had it been this cold before?

Why hadn't she brought her coat?

"Praetor," Logan said, but his voice was tight—harsh. There was no respect in it, not anymore. "What are your orders?"

But Michael was motionless, staring at the carnage with his mouth open in horror. All his false bravado fled in the face of true bloodshed, swept away by pure, unfailing fear.

"Michael," Jordan said sharply. "What are your orders?"

"I don't—This isn't—" He shook his head—a coward to the last, and if Verona had any room left for a feeling besides horror, she would have been disgusted.

Where was the praetor who'd promised to lead the legion into stardom, the centurion who'd led them to victory in war game after war game?

It was all a façade—just like everything else.

Jordan didn't wait for him to pluck up his nonexistent courage. "Fifth Cohort!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "Close ranks!"

In the sky, birds soared over the carnage. Ravens, crows, vultures. The owls that had followed them all the way here flew away now, leaving behind the tragedy they'd warned of.

Why hadn't Verona just listened?

"What do we do?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"We fight," Jordan said—a leader to the last, Michael's polar opposite. She should have been praetor—she should have been praetor.