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Part 1

Malakar

Battle-lust roiled through Malakar as he stared at the lands that lay wasted before him. Fields that had once lined the outer wall of his keep lay burnt to nothingness. Wheat, grain, and vegetable crops were all gone in an instant. His hand gripped his sword. It would make this winter that much harsher—damn the Valmonts.

The only thing that now dotted the fields were spires of skewered men, their gold and white armor glimmering in the fading sunlight. He had commanded that they be impaled by the pitchforks of his farmers, whom these soldiers had raided. It at least appeased his sense of humor to see sharpened tools that had once fed these soldiers shoved up their asses.

Malakar sneered at the gold and purple colors of Valemont’s banner, which still fluttered in the wind, battle-torn and ragged above the fallen soldiers.

“I thought I ordered that burned,” Malakar hissed at his Captain, Vesper, who ran up to stand beside him. Blood, sweat, and other grime coated his tan skin, making him appear darker than he already was. His black armor only added to his dour look.

Vesper scowled, then turned and roared an order to one of the men to take the banner down.

As the banner burst into flames, Malakar wiped the sweat, blood, and grime from his face and sheathed his sword at his hip. With the rest of the army routed beyond the pass that led to his lands or dead, he would not need it.

He turned to survey where his hoard of men clad in black armor gathered their own dead, scattered among the now golden ornaments. Thankfully, it was not nearly as many as he had expected with the numbers that had miraculously appeared at his border. Though it wasn’t the first time King Valmont had sent an army to his lands, this was the first time they had retreated in under a few hours and without the usual number of casualties. He hadn’t even started the impaling before the invading army had scattered back to the pass from which they had come.

Thinking, Malakar locked his arms behind his back and started up the dirt path that led back to his keep. A damn archer had unfortunately killed his horse. It had been his favorite horse too. That’s why he had made that man the first to be impaled.

“Didn’t that all seem strange, my lord?” Vesper asked, voicing Malakar’s very concern.

“Yes, it did. Have the men conduct a sweep of the full perimeter wall; make sure they didn’t leave anything behind.”

“You think it was a diversion, my lord?”

“I wouldn’t put it past Cedric,” Malakar growled.

Though the other kingdoms thought Cedric Valmont a pious, dutiful king, few knew that the bastard could be quite cunning and ruthless in battle. The bastard was also greedy as hell, constantly pining to take his lands by any means he could.

Malakar took in the few of his farmers that lay dead along the path, impaled by Valmont blades. The bastard preyed on the weak more than the others knew too. Even if he had been targeting his food stores, why had the man ordered his men to kill the farmers too?

“Have the farmers’ families compensated and see if they need assistance purchasing seeds so we can actually have food next year,” Malakar ordered.

Vesper nodded, his gaze following Malakar’s with a pained expression. The man’s father had been a farmer once, if Malakar remembered correctly.

As he continued up the path, his men stopped in their machinations to throw their fists to their chests in salute. All were bloodied and scarred, and all had been the men Cedric had foolishly rejected from his army for either being foreigners, poor swordsmen, or just ugly for his glowing army. Malakar had welcomed them all and mentored their individual proficiencies to perfection. And with the reputation of his army, the scarier-looking the better.

“See to it the men have food and wine tonight too,” Malakar ordered.

“Yes, my lord.”

The men would need it. After this, Malakar would no longer tolerate such affronts by Cedric at his border.

The old man had finally declared war.

As Malakar crested the small rise that led to his Black City, he stopped, stunned. There in front of his black gate stood a stake with someone tied to it.

Apparently, he had been right. Cedric had left something behind.

Lysandra

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Tears burned in Lysandra’s eyes—tears induced by the smoke from the still-burning fields and by the pain that now stabbed at her heart.

With another disgruntled sob, she thrashed against the rope that bound her wrists to the stake at her back—a stake her own father had tied her to. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe he had tied her here, at the main gate leading into the famed Black City, the city none from Valmont lands had ever entered or left alive.

“This is for your own good, Lysandra, and for the good of the kingdom,” her father had said as he secured the last knot and then stepped in front of her. Behind him, the field had been ablaze with men screaming and dying as soldiers—her father’s soldiers—chased farmers down and ran them through with their swords.

Her own good? How could any of this be for her own good? Her father had invaded the Dark King Malakar Kolol, the butcher of the east, and was now tying her to a stake, leaving her here to be found by him in front of his black city.

Yet, no matter how she wailed, pleaded, and cried, it had all fallen on deaf ears. Her father had simply given her one last kiss on her forehead and left.

Perhaps she had burnt the last wick of her father’s patience. Always, her father had tolerated her headstrong, opinionated ways. When she had run off his last advisor, her father had merely locked her in her room for a day. And when she had embarrassed the visiting Prince Alric by stabbing him with a dagger in the middle of court, her father had merely locked her in her room for two weeks.

This—this was a whole new level of punishment.

With her lip quivering while snot, tears, and smoke burned her face, Lysandra glared at the road before her, where her father had disappeared, abandoning her in what was effectively hell with the burning fields and dying men.

Lysandra sucked in a breath as a tall, dark figure clad in black armor, made blacker still by the sun setting behind him, crested over the hill. Though she couldn’t see his face, she knew who this was. All in the West knew of him: Malakar Kolol, The Butcher of the East. The lord of the Black City. The lord of what was soon to be her own personal hell was returning home.

As was Malakar Kolol’s trademark, the sharp cries of men being impaled sliced through the air around him. Unfazed by it, he marched forward, each of his steps making the panic in Lysandra’s chest wind tighter and tighter.

Though she had never heard rumors of him impaling women or children, it didn’t mean the man couldn’t start. All over again, she cursed her father for leaving her here as she railed against her bindings, rubbing her wrists so raw that they began to bleed.

With a gasped sob, she relented. Her father had tied them too well, and she had no dagger or sharp object to help it along. Sniffling, she straightened her spine against the stake and upturned her face, determined to meet her doom with as much dignity as she could muster.

When Malakar reached her, he froze and glared down at her, his glare as cold as ice. Lysandra stared back, stunned. All the rumors had painted a grotesque-looking, horrid figure of a man, and they had been grotesquely wrong. There was nothing ugly or unbecoming about this man at all.

Eyes the color of ice in the coldest of winters glared down at her from a regal-looking face, made of a long sharp nose, a strong jaw, and thin, wide lips. Hair as black as his armor curled about his back in the wind like a banner that reached to his waist. A thin circlet made of obsidian sat on his brow. The man looked like the angels the priests painted on the cathedral walls.

The priests said the lord of Hell had been an angel once.

Malakar arched one dark, thin brow. “So, Cedric did leave something behind,” he said, his voice deep and rolling.

Lysandra swallowed hard and fought the quiver that resumed in her bottom lip. She would not panic and make a fool of herself in front of this man. She would not meet her death as a whimpering damsel in distress.

“I am Lysandra Valmont, and I demand you untie me at once or just…kill me now and get it over with,” she commanded in the most regal-sounding voice she could muster while squeezing her eyes shut.

A dark, rich chuckle that she could feel in her bones rolled from the man. “Kill you? Kill the princess of the West?”

Hot breath fanned Lysandra’s cheeks, and she quickly opened her eyes to find Malakar’s face only inches from hers. Wicked, terrible things glittered in the man’s icy eyes.

“No, your highness, I have far, far worse things than death in store for you.”

Part 2

Malakar

“Is that really the princess of Valmont?” Vesper whispered to Malakar in disbelief.

“It is,” Malakar assured as he stared at the vexing woman from his throne.

While he had only seen her once, she was a creature he would never forget. She had been vivacious and vibrant against the backdrop of Cedric’s dull court with her bawdy humor and quick wit. He would never forget the horror on Prince Alric’s face as the woman stabbed him in the hand with a fork, either. She had not flinched when he had spoken to her dressed as a lowly merchant.

Malakar had been spying on Cedric’s court that day, trying to gather information on the next troop movement toward his lands. It had been how he had prevented even further casualties today. And though he had seen his father scold her for her outbursts, he would have never thought the man callous enough to leave her staked in an enemy king’s gate.

Lysandra. It was a beautiful, powerful name. It meant “liberator” in the Western language.

“Why did King Cedric bring his daughter to a battle?” Vesper asked, still thoroughly confused. Nervously, he shifted in his spot beside Malakar’s throne as his dark eyes darted between the princess and him. Though Vesper was handsome himself, women had always made him nervous in a way Malakar never understood.

Like the noble that she was, the princess stood in the center of the hall, her nose held high, and her vibrant lavender eyes defiant, even though her arms were still bound at her back and all she wore was a thin white shift, so soaked with her own sweat it was practically see-through.

“I think the better question is: why did he leave her?” Malakar said as he leaned back against his throne. Made of pure black granite, the stone felt good against his sore muscles, easing the tension in them and helping him think.

“What are we supposed to do with her, sire?”

Malakar raked his eyes over Lysandra’s short nose, with freckles dancing across it, her round-shaped face, and long, muddy brown hair that draped to the middle of her back. While she wasn’t ugly at first glance, the woman looked nothing like the other nobles. She was plain-looking in a manner that peasant women were. No artifice or preening had been used on this woman. In fact, her lavender eyes were the only striking feature on her face.

Malakar’s eyes traveled farther down to the thin white shift that covered her body. It was a body that made up for the features her face lacked. Round and full yet trim in all the right places, with fair, smooth skin and rose-tipped breasts visible through the horrid gown, she was a sight to behold.

“I haven’t decided yet. Cedric left her for a reason,” Malakar mused as his gaze remained frozen on her body, as if it would somehow impart the answer he was looking for.

“Just kill me and get it over with, Butcher of the East,” Lysandra hissed, telling him she was listening to their conversation. As it had before when she first saw him outside, a rose hue flushed her round cheeks.

A vein pulsed in Malakar’s temple as she addressed him by the title the Westerners had given him. While he didn’t think it wholly unwarranted—he had done his fair share of butchering to tame these lands once inhabited by warring barbarian tribes—it was the pot calling the kettle black.

“Tell me, princess, do you know why your countrymen gave me that title?” Malakar asked, his deep voice reverberating through the acoustics of his throne chamber.

Lysandra shuddered at the sound but never dropped her haughty look.

“Because that’s what you are—a butcher. The barbarian of the East, the Impaler. You don’t leave a man, woman, or child alive. Just like you did in Cartha.”

Rage boiled Malakar’s muscles into action. In one swift move, he leaped from his throne, drew his sword, and held the blade’s edge to Lysandra’s throat.

“I did not and do not kill women and children. You have your father’s advisors to thank for the bodies that litter Cartha,” Malakar said in a calm, cold tone, which only underscored his fury.

“But you did impale the men?” Lysandra asked, her brows raised. “Just like you did outside.”

Only the quick bob of her throat gave away her fear, while her lavender eyes held his, firm and defiant. They made his blood boil in a different way completely as he stared at them.

“Well,” Malakar dropped his blade and shrugged a shoulder. “Men are fair game in war. We are what feeds its appetites. Let’s say I just extend the same mercy to your father’s men that he extended to my farmers and their families.”

Briefly, the defiance faltered in Lysandra’s eyes. Then she turned up her nose, sniffed, and her lavender eyes grew hard again.

“At least he doesn’t raid neighboring countries,” she countered.

Malakar raised both his brows and pointed his sword toward the large window beside them that held a wide view of the blackened fields.

“What do you call what’s outside? A friendly visit?” Malakar hissed.

Lysandra’s throat bobbed as she swallowed and shifted on her feet while trying not to look out the window.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked again, trying to change the subject.

Malakar spun on his feet and returned his sword to its sheath. He would not kill her—not until he knew why Cedric had abandoned his own daughter in the lands of his greatest enemy. But as to what to do with her in the meantime, he had no clue. He was not accustomed to having hostages.

“My lord, a missive,” a guard suddenly bellowed as he trotted down the long red carpet to the hall, a rolled parchment in his hand. “We found it tied to the stake as we were removing it from the gate road.”

A scowl darkened Malakar’s face as he took it and noticed the seal holding it closed—King Cedric’s seal. His scowl turned to a snarl as he unfurled it and read it.

“What does it say?” Lysandra asked. Hope had replaced the defiance in her voice.

“The nerve,” Malakar growled, tossed the parchment to Vesper, and plopped down onto his throne.

With confusion, Vesper read the missive aloud.

“King Malakar Kolol, I, King Cedric of Valmont, cannot believe you have stooped so low as to steal my one and only daughter from beneath me. I demand you return her unharmed immediately. If you do not, I shall send the finest warriors I can find in all the four kingdoms to rescue her from your vile clutches. Should they return her harmed or dead, I shall call a council with the other three kingdoms, and it shall be war.”

Lysandra gaped at Vesper as he read, her expression just as disbelieving as Vesper’s. Then red consumed her face, and tears made her eyes glassy.

“What? Stole me? He was the one who left me here!” she roared with indignant rage.

“What does this mean, my lord? I don’t understand,” Vesper asked as he turned to Malakar with the parchment.

Malakar rested his chin in his palm and watched as the princess stomped and cursed with as much rage as he felt in the middle of his throne room.

“It means the princess is our new guest.”

Lysandra

She should have guessed it. She should have known this was all one of her father’s elaborate plots when he had wrested her from her room in the middle of the night and tied her to a stake. But for what? Why would he go this far and leave her in the middle of her greatest enemy’s territory? What was there for her father to gain by this? That she couldn’t figure out.

For all her father knew, Malakar could have simply killed her upon finding her. His reputation certainly implied he would. And yet, he hadn’t. Had her father known that?

Heat still seared Lysandra’s face as she glared at the blackened farmland that spread as far as the eye could see through the massive window of the tower bedroom Malakar had given her. She supposed she should be grateful it wasn’t the dungeon. Lord knew that’s where she would have thrown him had their roles been reversed. Still, she didn’t know what Malakar’s long-term plans for her were.

Lysandra’s frown turned to sorrow as a group of farmers far off in the distance worked to restore the blackened field. The sight pained her almost as much as the thought of her father using her like one of his pawns. There had been no need to burn these poor people’s fields. Malakar fed his army from a secondary store and not the main fields. Everyone in the three kingdoms knew that, and yet, her father had still burned them.

She felt ashamed of it. It had hurt even more to hear Lord Malakar order that the larger portion of his own stores be provided to the farmers so they wouldn’t starve. It was a generosity she had only rarely seen her father exhibit.

“My lady, are you awake? I have breakfast,” Vesper’s voice called from behind the door.

Lysandra let out a long sigh and ran her hands down the elaborate black gown that had been left for her. Two days had passed since she had arrived, and in those two days, several dresses had been delivered to her. All of them were black—which, judging by the all-black and silver décor of the castle, shouldn’t have surprised her—but she had been surprised by the gesture. Poor Vesper had been assigned as her personal attendant, too.

“Enter,” Lysandra called, never taking her eyes off the blackened field and the men who dotted it like black ants. Everything was black here. Maybe what was wrong with Malakar was that he just needed a little color.

“I have your meal and some news,” Vesper said with his usual cheerful voice as he set down a tray laden with bacon, eggs, and toast in front of her.

The man, like Malakar, had not been entirely like his reputation. He was tall, thin, pale, handsome, and clearly not interested in women at all. Vesper, the ravisher of women, as he was known in the West. How wrong those rumors were. She was fairly certain one of the guards at her door was this man’s lover, and she had caught him eyeing Malakar in the same way she had been more than once.

“Malakar died in his sleep?” Lysandra snorted as she finally tore her gaze from the farmers and poked the bacon with her fork. It felt wrong to be eating this while the farmers outside were toiling to restore their own food stores in hopes of not starving this next season.

Finally, she pushed it away from her and toward Vesper. “Give this to one of the farmers. I’m not hungry today.”

Vesper’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he nodded. “As you wish. And no, Lord Malakar is alive and well this morning,” Vesper chuckled. He waved his hand and seated himself in the chair across from hers. “Though he is riding out to meet one of the knights your father sent to rescue you.”

It was Lysandra’s turn to raise her brows. “What?”

Vesper pointed a long finger out the window. Lysandra followed his point.

With firm, determined steps, Malakar walked down the gate road, his hand clasped on his black-hilted sword. With the morning sunlight glistening on his face, he looked like one of Heaven’s resplendent dark angels the priests said God used for war and was far more gorgeous than he should be. He was Malakar Kolol, the Impaler. He had slaughtered thousands on the battlefield, and she would do well not to forget that. And yet, that had not stopped her heart from nearly exploding with how he had looked at her in his throne room.

At the gate stood an equally tall man, with long golden hair and golden armor that looked far too shiny, in the style of one of her father’s men. She squinted at the noble chin and helm decorated with long white feathers.

“Is that Lord Rosfeld?” she asked, unable to hide the disgust from her voice.

Vesper’s brows rose. “Yes, it is. You don’t sound pleased he’s come to save you.”

Lysandra’s lip curled as she rose to her feet and placed her hands on the window. Her heart raced inexplicably as Malakar drew closer to the gate.

“Hardly. The bastard tried to bribe his way into marrying me with my father. Thankfully, he never offered enough. Though he is a lord in our court, he is one of the ones with the fewest land holdings. My father always assumed he was just trying to grasp at more lands.”

“That was probably a fair assumption; you are a well-propertied woman as the Princess,” Vesper said with a laugh. “But something tells me that’s not completely why he didn’t betroth you to him.”

A smirk pulled across Lysandra’s lips. “I told my father if he married me to him, I would be a widow in a matter of days.”

Vesper let out a laugh, which made Lysandra smile more. “Did you know that he beats his servants regularly?”

“No, I did not know that,” Vesper said, a curious look crossing his face as he cocked his head to the side. “Does this bother you?”

Lysandra’s smile fell as she could see Malakar tense while words were exchanged between the two men. “I don’t approve of beating servants. Nor do I approve of my father setting fires to these fields. No matter our grievances, I don’t like that he tries to starve these people.”

A grin spread across Vesper’s face. “You should tell Lord Malakar that when he returns.”

Lysandra’s pulse quickened as Malakar drew his sword while Rosfeld did the same. Rosfeld, while known for being pompous, was also known for being a decent swordsman.

“Will he be alright?” Lysandra whispered as the two men charged one another.

“Who, your highness? Lord Malakar or Lord Rosfeld?” Vesper whispered in her ear.

Lysandra shivered as she had not heard him rise and move to stand beside her. She ignored him and clamped her teeth on her lip as the two men’s swords flashed in the morning sunlight and clanged loudly enough through the air that she could hear it faintly through the window.

Several swings flashed, and the men swerved across the road like dancers until their swords slashed for each other’s throats. Lysandra gasped and clasped her eyes shut, unable to watch, then forced them back open to see the two men stagger away from each other.

Lysandra’s fingers curled against the window as her eyes fixed on Malakar. His black hair curled in the wind, and for a long moment, he hunched over his sword. A fear she didn’t understand gripped her as she watched his broad shoulders rise and fall.

Then, as Rosfeld went stiff and fell face-first to the ground, Malakar rose to his full height and sheathed his sword. Lysandra let out a rush of breath, then choked when Malakar’s ice-blue eyes locked with hers.

“It will take far more than that to best Lord Malakar,” Vesper said, full of pride. “He is the one who tamed these lands, after all.”

He waved a hand in the air, then turned and started for the door.

“So, he did conquer the barbarian tribes?” Lysandra asked, tearing her gaze from Malakar’s to stare at Vesper, who hung on the great door with a mischievous grin across his face.

“He didn’t conquer them. He united them, your highness. There is far more to Lord Malakar than meets the eye.”

“United them?” Lysandra asked, confused and curious. This contradicted the rumors she had heard at court.

Vesper’s mischievous smile grew. “When you speak to him, ask him about his lineage,” Vesper said with a wink.

Lysandra opened her mouth to ask, but the wiry man was out the door before she could get a word out. With a perplexed frown, she turned her gaze back to the king clad in black armor who still glared up at her from the street below.