Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) Carissa Broadbent (best book recommendations txt) 📖

the whispers had proven true: General Farlione was exceptionally good at what he did. It started with his triumph in Antedale and only grew more impressive from there. With so few deaths, he skillfully dismantled city after city.

Every time people spoke of him, I had to suppress a small, proud smile.

Of course he would be incredible. I’d never had a doubt.

Still, Maxantarius Farlione, acclaimed general, was nothing to me compared to Max, my friend. I didn’t receive letters from General Farlione — I received letters from Max, riddled not with battle strategies but inside jokes that only I would understand and quiet insecurities that I read in the spaces between his handwriting.

And while Max wasn’t one to pour his contents of his soul into words, there would always be a few dots at the end of the letter, dots that represented a pen that had lifted and pressed to the page, hesitated and jerked. Always right before he wrote, I miss you. Stay safe. Please.

In those six words, I heard all the others he left unwritten. I knew because I would do the same, my pen hovering and dripping over the page. What I wrote was never enough. I miss you. Stay safe. Please.

And so, that refrain went, passed back and forth over dozens of letters. Some days, the worry would eat at me so much that I could barely breathe. Worry for Max, yes, but also for the refugees, for Moth, for all the lives that were hanging in the balance, for the noose Zeryth tightened around my throat.

And then, one day, not long after I returned from one of my most exhausting battles, I was summoned to the refugee dwellings.

And that day, my worst fears came to life.

Chapter Twenty-One

Max

Like most things, it happened in a thousand little steps.

Zeryth gave me other orders quickly. There was no shortage of work to be done, after all. All across Ara, there were Lords who disputed Zeryth’s reign. After a few too-short, exhausting days in Antedale, we packed up and moved on.

I had already decided what I would do. I would repeat Antedale over and over again, as many times as I needed to. I would spin plans to minimize the death tolls as much as I possibly could. I used illusions to smoke out fortified strongholds. I cut off production and starved out cities. I assembled teams of spies and sent them to kidnap key figures instead of barreling through an army’s defenses.

Tisaanah, after all, had taught me that there was so much one could do with the right kind of performance and a little creativity.

I followed her stories closely. It became almost amusing, the divide between what I heard whispered in the streets and what I read in her letters at night. I’d hear the soldiers poring over the stories with hushed, amazed voices, speaking of her as if she was some sort of mythological creature. Some swore she practiced ancient Threllian blood sacrifices, others speculated to her lineage (“Those Threllians will fuck anything, I’m telling you!”), and a few seemed bizarrely set on the idea that she ate, specifically, a rare breed of Besrithian scorpion to gain her power.

I’d listen to these people speak of her with such awe, chuckle softly to myself, and then go to my tent and read her letters — letters filled not with mythological greatness but with her intimate, rambling thoughts (and, with few exceptions, at least one incredibly immature joke). And for my part, I would collect little stories throughout the day for her. I had grown so accustomed to having her near me, to sharing those things with her. Now I hoarded them like ravens hoarded shiny buttons, presenting them to her compressed in paper and ink.

It was never enough to describe everything that I really wanted to say.

For a long time, I tried to keep my distance from most of the soldiers. I was stuck with Moth — he rarely strayed from my side, and though I’d never express it, I preferred it that way — but the less I interacted with the others, the better. They had good leadership in Arith and Essanie, I told myself. I had little more to offer.

But then, one day, not long after we departed Antedale, I was walking through the camp only to come across a makeshift sparring ring, a few soldiers gathered around it. One of the men fighting was getting absolutely destroyed. I stood there for five minutes and saw him hit the ground as many times.

I watched, then paced, then left, then backtracked, growing increasingly restless.

What was I supposed to do? Sit here and let them do it wrong?

Eventually I couldn’t stop myself from swooping in, grabbing the losing soldier’s sword from his hands.

“This is an embarrassment,” I huffed. “Look, try this…”

And that’s how it started. A corrected technique here, a suggestion there, one or two throwaway demonstrations. But soon, they became organized lessons, and soon, more and more of the soldiers began to attend them. They extended beyond fighting, to encompass Wielding, too, and before long I found myself mentally planning entire training structures, identifying the army’s biggest gaps and figuring out how to close them.

One day, I blinked and realized I had taken over Essanie and Arith’s regular training duties, leading the troops through the drills myself. I now knew many of the soldiers by name, and beyond that, I knew their strengths and weaknesses.

I was good at this. I even enjoyed it. There was a deep satisfaction to it, to seeing it all come together — click, like a puzzle piece snapping into place.

But this was also the same thing that kept me awake at night, feeling the weight of all those lives pressing down on my chest. With every new name I learned, my resentment of everything that had led them to this moment festered.

The weeks wore on. I collected another victory, then two, then six. They didn’t have significant