Of Princes and Poisons (Book 2, The Culled Crown Series)

Chapter 2

I was curious about my place in Third Corps. Was I a prisoner here? While he hadn't been rude during the meeting, he also hadn't gone out of his way to be friendly to me. Still, it seemed like we would be spending a decent amount of time together, since he was apparently my guard now—so I felt like I should be able to talk to him.

But I wasn't sure he'd even tell me the truth if I asked.

And the last thing I wanted was to seem like an idiot in front of a stranger. Especially not one I was stuck hanging out with. He'd barely looked at me and I was reminded, for the first time since I'd arrived at Third Corps and I'd seen my reflection, that I looked like I'd had the shit beat out of me.

In a way, I had.

I still carried the fading bruises and aches from my Culling trial. I also had new cuts and scrapes, ones I'd gotten while fighting in the music room during the rebel attack. Nadia had healed some of them and had offered to heal all the others, but I hadn't wanted her to.

None of them would scar, but for the time being, they reminded me of what I'd done. Each tender piece of flesh, every yellowing mark on my skin, was a reminder of the choices I'd made. I thought I should at least live with those choices for a little while.

Callahan's voice broke through my thoughts. "Is it true, what you were saying about the princess—Larkin?"

"Yes. She poisoned me, more than once. And I watched her poison Cohen."

He nodded, his expression thoughtful as he said, "That certainly changes things." His gaze slid sideways, just for an instant, but he didn't say anything else to me.

Up close, he was handsome. His skin tanned, the muscles of his arms and chest well defined through his shirt. His hair was such a rich shade of brown that from a distance it looked almost black. It was long enough that it curled slightly around his ears and fell into his eyes—eyes that were a coppery brown color, almost golden.

But the tattoos were the most interesting thing about him.

I'd never seen tattoos before. In Erydia, they were considered crude imitations of goddess-given marks. They were outlawed in most cities.

Looking at them closely, I didn't think the interlocking lines of black and gold ink that covering Callahan's arms looked anything like my mark. These were intricate and lovely, but they didn't hold the same depth. The black smudge in the center of my right palm looked like spilled wet ink. It ate light, as if it were not actually my skin, but something else.

While it was still on my body, the mark seemed to be separate from me as well. It was a difference I wouldn't normally notice, but up against the beautiful etchings of his tattoos, my mark looked entirely foreign.

It only proved further that no man could make what was blotted on my skin.

In the silence that followed, I thought about what I wanted, what I'd come to Third Corps—the Culled—wanting to do. I glanced over at this stranger. He'd just been given control over my life, over whether or not I could help with the rising rebellion. And I wanted to help.

"Are—Am I—" I fought to make my mouth work. Callahan was looking at me now, his eyebrows raised in an expression of confusion. Heat pricked at my cheeks I tugged the hood further down to hide my face. "Can I train to be a soldier?"

He made a sound at the back of his throat, almost like a surprised sort of laugh. He tried to cover it with a forced cough. "I'm sorry. What?"

"You said that you'd find a job for me to do. I'd like to be a soldier," I hurried forward, rushing my words before he could shoot me down. "I've got some training in hand-to-hand combat. I've fought in an arena. I helped with the attack on the palace. And I'm trustworthy—Afterall, I was the one who gave the Culled the information about the tunnels in the first place. And even you admitted that the rebellion could probably use someone gifted like I am. I can help. I want to help."