Cayylen paced in his cell. He had to get out before they executed him. Cayylen, son of Braxxon, the Duke of Miin, serving a death sentence. The notion was more than he could fathom. He was the heir to the wealthiest region of Xerra, but that wouldn't save him. He'd been caught in the middle of training. The punishment for warriors passing down their skills was an immediate death sentence for both the master and the apprentice. He'd been teaching his nephew the way. Strength ran deep in the roots of his family tree. He'd seen the traits in the boy from an early age, so when he was approached, he couldn't turn his blood away to find another teacher.
Cayylen prayed to the gods that Hexxer still lived. Anger filled him with a white-hot rage that blinded him. One day the warriors would rise again to restore the true religion to Xerra. The pretender on the throne would enjoy no mercy as his life ebbed under a warrior's blade. Hopefully mine.
Cayylen slammed his fist against the stone wall and raged until his throat hurt.
He wasn't ready to die, but being trapped here was its own kind of death. "I wish they'd hurry and get it over with," Cayylen mumbled to himself. He leaned against the cold stone; his head hung low, his soul mired in despair. And then the door opened.
A woman came tumbling into the cell to land on the rough stone floor, crying out in pain. The door slammed shut. The terrified woman peered up at him through her long brown hair. Loose hair meant she was either a prostitute or a woman who'd just married.
Judging from her short, sleeveless dress, she was a new bride. Purple. She wore the color of his house, but she was not of his people. Her lighter skin and golden brown hair marked her as laborer class. Long ago her people had been bred to be subservient, hardy workers for the upper classes and warriors. The practice stopped long ago, but there was still a stigma associated with her ancestry even though those of laborer descent outnumbered everyone else on Xerra three-to-one.
Confusion and anger bubbled in him. He could handle death for his beliefs, but not mockery. The woman appeared terrified. Her big brown eyes were huge and very prominent in her small, regal features. He'd never seen a woman who was so beautiful in such a simple way. It had been far too long since he'd had a woman under him.
Cayylen's eyes narrowed as he pierced her with his gaze. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
She gasped, rolled on her side, and curled into a ball.
Then he remembered his flippant last request. He'd asked to be given the daughter of his enemy. But this woman was no enemy. "Damn the gods!" This girl was meant for him to enjoy, but he was no rapist.
She shook. He saw her damaged knees bleeding and something twisted inside him. A connection hung between them. Maybe it was just that they were captive here together, or maybe it was...
He refused to let his mind speculate over a Soul Union. He had no male he'd be willing to share a bride with, so the revered Soul Trinity was never going to be his. Soul Union was far rarer, and the impossible odds of finding his mate here, while he awaited death, was laughable. Something protective rose up inside of him and made him angry at himself for putting her here with him. He had never thought for a moment they would give him a woman when he'd made the flippant request.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"Please don't kill me," she whimpered. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, and he had the strangest urge to wipe them away.
"Do I have a reason to kill you? What have you done?"
She paled. His words had the desired effect, and she stopped crying. "I -- nothing. They've sentenced me to death, and you are to be my executioner."
Cayylen loosed a long string of curses under his breath. These idiots believed the rhetoric about warriors becoming bloodthirsty maniacs. Lies were told to children to profane the glorious past and prevent the young from seeking out the once illustrious ranks of the Warrior's Guild, Protectors of Xerra.
Cayylen crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you believe I will kill you?" He took a step toward her.
She scrambled away until her back hit the wall opposite him. "Yes."
He imagined what he must look like to her. He stood twice her size and bare-chested. Men no longer honed their muscles as the warriors did. In only two generations, society had made his guild monsters. Stories of how they sacrificed babies to achieve immortality and a change of cultural attitude toward polyamory contributed to the spreading of falsehoods.
"Why? Have you ever met a warrior?"
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