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

to what amounted to nothing more than bad luck. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong people.

Our next target was less than a hundred miles from here. And Meriata was a central hub for rest and pleasure seeking, the kind of place that soldiers — soldiers from any army — would find themselves drawn to.

I had been careless.

I’d been so desperate to come here for my own reasons that I hadn’t stopped to think of the risks. I had been so damned careful, until now.

I rose. “Get up, Moth.”

He looked up, confused. “Why?”

“Do you have your sword?”

A sudden stillness fell over Moth’s face. He nodded.

“We aren’t alone here.” Slowly, I lifted my chin towards the stairs. Moth followed. The maids’ eyes followed us silently. The most frightened looking maid was young, but the barkeep looked old enough to be unsurprised. Perhaps this was not the first time this had happened here. There had been many clashes like this in Meriata, after all, during the Ryvenai War.

We crept up the stairs and rounded a corner.

The first thing I saw was blood. It rolled from beneath the doors, creeping over floorboards.

“Fuck,” I hissed.

I shot Moth a look. What was better, for him to stay here alone or to come with me into what would almost certainly be a fight? He hadn’t even seen combat before.

“Stay here,” I said.

“You can’t go in there alone—”

“Stay here, Moth,” I said again, and I didn’t give him any time to argue with me before I was gone.

I conjured my magic to the surface of my skin, flames at my fingertips and simmering at the edges of my blades. In two steps, I was around the corner and pushing open the door. And just as it always did in times like this, my brother’s voice was in my ears:

Evaluate. Judge. Act. That’s all there is.

Evaluate. The first thing that hit me was the blood — there was so fucking much of it, spreading over white sheets, over wooden floors, so much that it took a moment for my eyes to find the source. There, crumpled on the floor near the foot of the bed, was a body. One of my soldiers. His throat was torn open, his sword clutched in his hand. A few feet away, another bloodied figure, a partially-dressed young woman, lay lifeless.

Judge. The blood was warm. The bodies were fresh. Whoever did this was still here. I backed out of this room and threw open another to see another body, another one of my dead men, this one looking as if he was killed so swiftly he didn’t even have the chance to fight.

And then, to my left, I heard a thump.

I turned. The sound had come from the next room over, and ended quickly, like whoever was responsible had hurriedly tried to cover it.

That’s where our assailant was. That room.

Act. I readied my weapon and backed out of this room, moving down to the next one. I opened the door—

—Only to see a soldier standing there, as if he had been about to open it at the same time.

He stared at me, wide-eyed. He was covered in blood, so much so that it was impossible to see what type of uniform he wore. He was young, barely older than Moth.

Time suspended for one split second, the two of us staring at each other.

And just as quickly, the spell broke.

He started to raise his sword, but I countered the strike quickly, sending him staggering back. His weapon went clattering to the ground. I pushed him against the wall, my staff against his throat

“Who are you with?” I demanded. “Aviness?”

The boy was afraid. I could see it in his face, even though he was trying to cover it up with hatred. His lips twisted into a forced sneer.

“I killed them,” he said. “I’ll kill you, too. In the name of the true king.”

Stupid kid. I wanted to tell him, Do you think Aviness has any clue who you are? Do you think your life is worth his crown?

Instead I loosened my grip on my magic. The edges of my blades were now bright with flames, unleashing a wall of heat over us.

“Do you know who I am? I’m Maxantarius Farlione, and those are my men that you’ve murdered.”

The boy let out a ragged breath. His eyes widened, even though he tried to hide his fear.

“How many of your men are here?” I demanded. “Tell me that and you’ll keep your life. Think very carefully about how you answer.”

Hesitation.

“Jorge?”

Moth’s small voice came from behind me.

Fuck.

“Moth—” I began to bark a command, and did not get to finish.

Here’s the thing about teenage boys: they’re stupid.

In my split second of distraction, the boy I had pinned against the wall raised his hand and a large ceramic lamp from the bedside table went careening against my head.

I staggered back.

A Wielder. Fantastic.

And this is how it always goes. Control to chaos in less than a second. By the time I righted myself, the boy was lunging for me, his sword back in his hand, the other raised as he tried to push me back with another wave of magic. He was a good Wielder for someone so young, but still inexperienced. Two steps, two slashes, and I had him down on the ground.

But then there were footsteps. The noise had alerted the soldier’s companions, no doubt. I whirled just in time to see three more figures fly into the room, Moth lurching through the door and against the wall, his sword raised.

I didn’t have time to think or breathe or utter commands.

Three against one. I’d faced far worse odds before.

But there was something especially vile about this sort of fight, the kind fought not in chaotic battlefields but in these close, intimate quarters, close enough to hear every dying breath, close enough to see the terror in their eyes as your blades run through their guts. It’s ugly, and pathetic, and terrible.

Pain shot across my side, blood soaking my jacket. Still, my