“He cannot be destroyed!” Trajan roars among the meeting with the Elders and his Right Hand, Nataša. Nataša is the only one here who knows the truth about Aramei’s Blood Bond to Viktor.
“It is not a proposal,” Trajan goes on, standing tall and dictatorially at the head of the enormous U-shaped table. “I want him alive.”
The Elder, Kruag, places his rugged hands upon the stone table; the sleeves of his dark robe drapes just above his scarred knuckles.
“Why do you protect Viktor? Why must he be left alive?”
Trajan’s iron hand comes down upon the stone table, splitting it in half. Pieces of rock crumble at his feet, leaving a two-foot gap between the halves of the table. All of the Elders straighten their backs and raise their chins a few inches—but never higher than Trajan’s—to show absolute respect.
“If Viktor dies,” Trajan says in a searing, growling whisper, “you all die.”
Golubac Fortress – Serbia – Summer 1780
The fortress is overrun. Trajan suspects that someone from the inside has let them in; that troops were ordered away from key gates just before dawn.
The plotting against Trajan and his blasphemy has finally begun to unfold.
“Stay with her!” Trajan orders Nataša. “Once you get her outside the forest, make sure no one finds you! GO! NOW!”
Nataša grabs Aramei.
“Milord!” Aramei cries, reaching out for him in Nataša’s grasp. Tears barrel from her eyes. “My love! Please! You cannot stay behind! Please, come with me!” She screams so stridently that her voice becomes hoarse.
Trajan rushes over to her, ripping her from Nataša’s hands. Pain and desperation is seared into his features. His dark, rugged facial hair streaked with blood from the Black Beast he killed just moments ago, the one that tried to get into the room at Aramei. He kisses her passionately, savagely, holding her head in both of his enormous hands. “I will find you! I will come for you!”
And Nataša rips Aramei from Trajan’s arms and carries her down the top tower and into the bowels of the fortress by means of secret passages.
Bulgaria - Western Stara Planina – Winter 1782
The conspirators have all finally been captured. Six weeks after the attack on the fortress and the battle was won, Trajan ordered the seizure of any and all who were behind the plot to dethrone him and kill Aramei. If they only knew that simply to kill Viktor, which they wanted in the beginning, would have also achieved their great plot against Trajan and Aramei as well.
Now they sit in prison; nine different prisons spread throughout Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania and even as far south as Greece. Nine of the conspirators were Elders; each of them had served under Trajan’s father.
“Execute them all,” Trajan orders Nataša as she stands before his throne. “It is your commission to carry this out.”
“Yes, Milord.” She bows very low and holds it there for several symbolic seconds. Her belly is pregnant with her and Trajan’s second child.
“And see to it that their heads are sent back here.”
Bulgaria - Western Stara Planina – Fall 1792
It has been thirty years since the day Viktor bonded Aramei to his blood. But she hasn’t aged a day. Trajan’s blood has kept her alive and youthful and strong for so long. The empire of the Black Beasts is more powerful than it has ever been with Trajan at its head. But it is also more tumultuous and uncertain than ever in its history. Trajan rules with an iron fist. He takes no prisoners anymore, and passes execution without a trial no matter the severity of their crimes.
Fear is what makes this empire impenetrable. Fear is what gives birth to conspirators. But Trajan is becoming delusional in his reign. Blinded by his life with Aramei, Trajan is beginning to misjudge everything else around him.
All that he sees is her.
She is everything to him.
“Why can I not bare your children?”
Aramei sits in Trajan’s lap upon his throne, cradled against his chest.
“You will one day, my love.”
“But it has been so long, Milord.” She lifts her head and takes his bearded chin into her fingers and brushes her soft lips against his rugged ones. “It is all that I want: to give you a child. If I can conceive, I can feel whole.”
Trajan’s head moves slowly to look down into her eyes. He moves her fingers from his face with the side of his hand.
“You do not feel whole?”
Aramei lowers her eyes, understanding the true nature of his question.
He lifts her chin in his fingers, gently forcing her gaze. “Never be ashamed to speak your mind to me, Aramei. You are the only soul in this world who can defy me and not die for it—now tell me; do you not feel whole?”
Her eyes flutter gracefully underneath her lashes, giving her that natural coy, childlike appearance she is known for.
“No woman is ever whole without bearing a child,” she says softly. “It is nothing more than what nature asks of me.”
Trajan can’t look at her now. I see it in his eyes, the reason for that impenetrable, brooding stare into nothingness. He can’t bring himself to tell her that because of the Blood Bond, she is barren. The only life her body can sustain is her own and not even blood as powerful as the Sovereign’s is strong enough to allow her body to carry another life inside of it.
He almost smiles, but only allows her to see it in his eyes as he looks back down at her eager face.
“You will bear my child one day,” he says, kissing her forehead. “It is only but a matter of time. Just be patient.”
Aramei smiles and it lights up her face.
“Then you will never deny me?” she says, part thoughtful, part seductively playful. “You give your word that whenever I am ready and feel that I can conceive that you will come home from any war you’re fighting, to be with me?”
Trajan’s lips smile now as he gazes upon her. He traces his finger along the length of her jaw and says, “I give you my word.”
Serbian Carpathians – Central Serbia – Summer 1810
Forty-eight years have passed. Many wars have been fought and Trajan’s offspring with his mates have died fighting them. And as promised, even when Trajan was amid these wars, he came home to Aramei the moment he received word that she needed him. Aramei never really knew where Trajan was most of the time. In these years, he had begun to enslave human girls to care for Aramei in his stead. But this decision did not mean that his love for her began to falter. Trajan knew that in order to protect Aramei, he would have to take many matters of war and strife into his own hands. This was the only reason he ultimately chose to leave her in the care of others.
Viktor Vargas was fulfilling his life’s goal to make Trajan’s life a living hell. Viktor was becoming brazen and rash, sending his rogues ahead of him right into open war when he knew they were clearly outnumbered.
Viktor wanted death so that he could finally get the ultimate revenge on Trajan.
Trajan couldn’t let this happen. His orders to protect Viktor had become futile because Viktor sought death. He couldn’t take his own life, however, because his bond to Aramei forbade him to. To kill himself would be to kill her and no two souls bonded by blood can will themselves to harm the other. Not even a rogue.
Everything he did, every choice that Trajan made was for Aramei.
“And what is your name?” Trajan says to the beautiful red-haired girl on the floor beneath his throne. Her arms are stretched out on the floor above her head; her back arched over, touching her forehead to the stone.
She lifts her face.
“I am Evangeline, Milord. I am your servant.”
Trajan inhales deeply of the air and looks down at Evangeline warily. “You are not human.”
“No, Milord.”
Trajan contemplates the moment. About a dozen eyes are watching them. Aramei sits quietly in her throne next to his—angelic white next to authoritarian darkness.
“I like her, my love,” Aramei says. “She has a kind face.”
Trajan looks over. “A kind face does not mean treachery cannot live beneath it.” He lifts his leather-covered wrist from the arm of the stone chair and waves two fingers in a whimsical circle.
“Yes, but I want her.”
Trajan, who could never deny any of Aramei’s wishes, looks back at Evangeline.
“Very well,” he says, nodding. “You will be my love’s chief servant.”
Nataša’s narrow eyes widen with disbelief as she gazes across the room at him. She steps forward wearing her battle armor with a sword of pure silver attached to her hip. She grips the hilt of the sword and bows.
“Make I speak freely?”
Trajan nods.
Nataša glances at Evangeline next to her.
“Why trust this one so easily simply because Milady bids it so?”
Evangeline raises her pale-colored arm and her hand slips from underneath the long sleeve of her black dress. For a moment, Nataša’s chin rears back and she goes to put up her hand to knock her away, but then she stops. She appears confused.
Evangeline places her hand on Nataša’s shoulder.
“I will never harm her,” she says with words as soft as powder. “I am here to serve and protect her. Nothing more.”
Nataša nods reluctantly, as if her mind is fighting with the muscles in her neck. She steps away from Eva and bows to Trajan once more before moving back to stand in her position near the tall, stone pillar.
Serbian Carpathians – Central Serbia – Summer 1812
Fifty years into the Blood Bond and today, Trajan’s world will be turned on its head.
Eva bursts through the double-doors of the throne room. “She is on the ledge, Milord! She walks along the ledge of the wall!” Her voice is vociferous, tearing through the vast room and echoing off every stone wall.
Trajan jumps from his throne, his long leather coat falling about his tall form.
“Come, Milord!”
Eva grabs the fabric of her sheer black gown to keep it from dragging the floor behind her and she rips away in the direction she came without looking back.
When Trajan makes it outside the walls of the castle, he sees Aramei’s soft light-colored hair blowing briskly in the high breeze. The wall she walks along was made on the edge of the mountain, which overlooks the river below nearly one thousand feet.
Stunned by what he’s seeing, Trajan hesitates before dashing across the stones and grabbing her just before she tumbles over the edge.
“Aramei, my love! What were you doing?” Trajan’s face is misshapen by terror. He holds her out in front of him by her petit shoulders, shaking her as if she were an unruly child. But then he gathers her close, practically crushing her weight against his; her head cradled in the palm of his hand. “Are you unhappy? Will you never feel whole?” He squeezes her.
He pulls away and looks upon her, searching her face for answers.
She just looks at him, cocking her head to one side curiously. “Milord, why do you say these things?” She smiles as if she believes he’s just being dramatic. Then her gaze strays beyond him and she looks bewildered.