I am the fecking goddess of war and battle. The granddaughter of the mother goddess, her mind hissed. I’ll be damned if I’m going to rot in this shit hole and let my people die while I still draw breath.

Adriel laughed softly, his warm breath brushing over her neck as he reached out one hand, his lean fingers slipping behind her head. They gently probed their way through her hair, finding the bump and avoiding it as he skillfully began to knead her scalp. It was deeply relaxing and made her want to push her head into his touch to encourage him to keep going. 

The swirl of feelings that rushed through Keena was both heady and infuriating. The warmth spread over her won out and she could feel herself deflate slowly. She hated when he did that, but it was those sweet, unintentional confessions that had an effect on her that was like taking the wind out of a sail, rendering her anger dead in the water.

Helmer frowned as he scented a faint trace of blood on the air, Barret’s gaze meeting his. Helmer sighed. Of course, their father would have lashed Barret for Andre’s transgressions. Morrigan was here for her biannual inspection, which meant that anything the sons did while the city was under her watchful eye would reflect poorly on the family. And their father. Though Helmer didn’t care that this dishonor could mean the depletion of the senior Borrowmag’s power within Morrigan’s army, of which he was the general, Helmer did care that any loss of power might result in deadly repercussions for the Borrowmag clan as a whole. Morrigan valued the life of the Sidhe she ruled, but only as far as their loyalty lay. Breaking her laws signaled a lack of loyalty that she had rarely shown mercy for.

Helmer had seen the brands on the cheeks of the Wenronian’s that had not escaped Morrigan. Witnessed how they were treated by the other citizens. A cold shudder ran down his spine. There were dogs in Keinuka that were treated kinder than those who’d been branded traitors to Morrigan. Death would surely be the more desirable outcome. 

Helmer got to his feet. “Come on.”

Barret looked at him with narrowed eyes.

He gave Barret a tentative glance. “At this rate, you’re going to bleed through your perfectly pressed shirt. How many lashings?” he asked.

Barret paused, weighing something. “Thirty. One for each of his no-good sons,” he finally admonished.