Chapter 23 The King in Rags

I threw a heavy wooden shield at Valerius’s feet and the metal rim dug a small hole in the dirt. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun was a hot, white fire in the middle of the sky. The air in the training barracks was thick with the smell of dry dust and the sour sweat of a hundred angry men.

Valerius stood in the center of the yard with his arms hanging at his sides. He was not wearing his gold-trimmed armor anymore. Silas had stripped him down to a pair of thin, gray rags that were torn at the knees. His chest was bare, and I could see the old scars from the hunts he had led. He looked small without his crown, like a tree that had lost all its leaves in a storm.

"Pick it up," I said, and my voice was cold like a winter wind.

Valerius looked at the shield, then he looked at me. His blue eyes were dull. He reached down with a slow hand and gripped the leather strap. He pulled the shield up, but he did not hold it like a warrior. He held it like it was a bag of rocks he did not want to carry.

I turned to Jarek, my Rogue lieutenant. Jarek was a giant of a man with a face made of scars and eyes that always looked for a fight. He was holding a thick wooden club, and he was tapping it against his palm in a slow, scary rhythm. Behind him, fifty Rogue soldiers stood in a circle, their faces dark with the anger of men who had not been paid.

"The King knows how to fight in a line," I told the Rogues, and I walked to the edge of the circle so I could see everything. "He knows the formal phalanx. He knows how to move as one body. You are going to learn it from him. If he moves slow, hit him. If he misses a step, hit him harder."

Jarek let out a low, mean laugh that made the other men grin. "We don't need a line to kill, My Queen. We just need to know where to bite."

"You need to be an army, not a pack of wild dogs," I barked. "Start the drill. Jarek, lead the charge."

Jarek didn't wait for another word. He let out a roar and lunged at Valerius. He swung the wooden club in a wide circle that whistled through the air. Valerius did not move his feet. He just lifted the shield a few inches. The club hit the wood with a loud crack that echoed off the barracks walls.

Valerius staggered back three steps, his heels dragging in the dirt. He did not growl. He did not shift his weight to strike back. He just stood there and waited.

"Again!" I shouted.

Another Rogue ran out from the left. He kicked Valerius in the side, right in the ribs. I heard a wet thud, and Valerius fell to one knee. He dropped the shield, and it landed in the dust with a heavy sound. Jarek stepped in and brought his club down on Valerius’s shoulder.

Valerius hit the ground face-first. Blood started to leak from his nose, staining the gray dirt a dark, ugly red. He didn't make a sound. He didn't even groan. He pushed himself up with shaking arms, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

"Get up, Alpha!" Jarek yelled, and he kicked a cloud of dirt into Valerius’s eyes. "Where is that big King power now? Where is the man who branded our Queen?"

The Rogues began to close the circle. They weren't training anymore. They were taking their revenge for five years of being hunted. They were taking their pay in blood because the gold vault was empty. A man hit Valerius in the back with a practice sword. Another punched him in the gut.

I stood there with my hands gripped tight behind my back. My nails dug into my palms until I thought I would bleed. I wanted to see him hurt. I wanted him to feel a tiny bit of the pain I felt when the iron touched my neck. I looked at the silver 'X' on my own skin and tried to feel happy that he was bleeding.

But Valerius wasn't fighting.

A normal Alpha would have shifted by now. His wolf would have come out to protect his bones. His skin would have healed the cuts in seconds. But Valerius’s skin stayed broken. The purple bruises on his chest grew darker with every hit. He was letting them break him.

"Stop," I whispered, but the men didn't hear me over their own shouting.

Jarek raised his club high over his head. He was going to hit Valerius right in the skull. He wasn't playing. He wanted to kill the man on the floor.

"I said stop!" I roared.

The white power of my wolf exploded from my chest. A wave of cold air hit the circle, knocking two men off their feet and freezing the dust in the air. Jarek froze with his arm in the air, his eyes wide with fear as he looked at me. The Rogues backed away, their chests heaving, their clubs dripping with red.

The yard went deathly quiet. The only sound was the wind pulling at the rags on Valerius’s back.

I walked into the middle of the circle. The dirt was wet with blood under my boots. I stopped in front of Valerius. He was lying in a heap, his hair matted with sweat and mud. He looked like a piece of meat left in the sun.

"Get up," I said, and I felt a weird shaking in my knees.

Valerius rolled onto his side. He coughed, and a spray of red hit my boots. He moved slowly, his bones popping and cracking as he forced himself to sit up. He looked at his hands, then he looked up at me.

His face was a mask of purple and red. One eye was swollen shut. But the other eye was clear, and it was looking right into my soul.

"Why didn't you fight back?" I asked. I leaned down until my face was inches from his. "You are an Alpha King. You could have killed half of them before they touched you. Why didn't you heal yourself?"

Valerius let out a shaky breath that smelled like iron. He didn't look at Jarek. He didn't look at the Rogues. He only looked at me.

"I deserve worse," he whispered.

The words were small, but they hit me harder than any club. He wasn't trying to be a hero. He was trying to pay a debt that he knew he could never finish. He wanted the pain. He wanted the dirt.