For three days the Drustanis traveled through the desert, headed for Nazeen. It was known as the trading center of the world; the bridge between nations and the jewel of the East. Indeed, the magnificence of the great city was apparent for all to see. It was encircled by thick granite walls which stood over thirty feet high, elaborately carved with depictions of great battle scenes. Statues of dead heroes and old gods looked down upon them as they rode through the city streets.
The smell of exotic spices and scented oils drifted from the bazaars, where a hundred merchants and tradesman displayed their goods in the market stalls: bolts of intricate lace and wool dyed in rich colors; copper breastplates and helms hanging from armor racks; rings and bracelets made of every gemstone.
From the entertainment quarter, the sound of music and laughter sundered through the air. Courtesans and prostitutes clothed in vibrant silks stood atop the balconies of the pleasure houses, flirting with men who passed them by. There was an old saying that in Nazeen, anything and anyone can be bought, where price was the only obstacle.
Not a moment of peace can be found in the chaotic city, from which people of differing nations convened to deal in the matter of business. There were the Korelrian, who were tall and dark as night. With ivory skin and flaxen hair, the Lyssenese often covered their faces behind scarves as protection against the harsh desert sun. Large iron rings pierced the nose and brows of the Gur’khan, while the Dalish people were easily distinguished by the dark bands of tattoos which ran down their arms and legs.
For many centuries, the city of Nazeen has gone without kings or emperors. It was overseen by the Guild of Mercers, but gold was its one true ruler, the universal language understood by all.
The general led the caravan group to the harbor, where their ship lay docked. She was Erasmus, one hundred and thirty tons of Asvatan wood expertly carved into shape of a swan. As the general approached, the crew members immediately stopped to salute him. A rotund man with thick, auburn hair shuffled forth through the crowd. He was Anders Trevalion, the captain of their ship.
“General Severin, I’m afraid that our voyage must be delayed for quite some time,” he said in a dire voice.
“Is there something wrong, Captain?” Severin asked with undisguised irritation.
"A storm is coming—a large one."
The general looked up to the fair sky unconvincingly. The day had been hot and clear, not a cloud spotted in sight.
"I see that you are dubious, but I can feel it in the air—call it a sailor's premonition, if you will," the man quickly added.
Severin glowered at the captain, his disdain made evident by the blackened expression on his face. "I would advise you to place less faith in what the air tells you," the general mocked, "and worry more about what will happen should you encounter my displeasure. This ship will set sail for Drustan within the hour, and I will not be delayed by your nonsense," he snapped. The desert heat was becoming unbearable, pushing him beyond lines of civility. Malik Severin refused to stay in the East for any longer.
He could see a sheen of sweat running down the captain’s temple, whether from heat or nervousness, he did not know. The man began to speak rapidly—some words of apology, most likely—but the general did not deign to care or listen further.
The captain turned and shouted commands to the crew, who hurried to ready the ship for passage. The great white sails were released, revealing the image of a serpentine dragon.
With eyes closed, Severin inhaled a deep breath, tasting the wind and the ocean’s salt breeze. They were heading home. At last.
In her entire life, Sura had stayed within the city walls of Asshai. To see the ocean for the first time, was a moment which took her breath away. The water was liquid gold, a fierce blend of copper and velvet blue; the last reflection of the dying sun. Never had she imagined that the sea would be so vast, stretching well beyond the horizon. It seemed infinite, engulfing her in its dark waters.
She would have liked to stay above deck, content to spend the rest of the trip sleeping outside beneath the open sky, but Aaliyah came before her own desires. They followed the captain below, who showed them to their quarters.
For the next several hours, her mistress played the qin as she usually did, unstopping and unaffected by anyone else, seemingly lost in her own trance. And then, the princess abruptly stopped in the middle of a song, “Find General Severin. I wish to invite him for tea,” Aaliyah said in a blithe manner.
Sura froze as she could only stare at her mistress in complete stupor. “Invite him for tea? He killed your father and slaughtered our people!” Sura yelled in exasperation. One did not simply invite a mass-murderer over for tea as if he were some friendly acquaintance. Perhaps Aaliyah has gone mad, Sura thought. Surely, their taxing journey through the hot desert must’ve driven the princess beyond reason.
“—Have you forgotten about that, my lady?” Sura asked.
Aaliyah sighed in response. “The day which I begin to forget is the day that you should throw my body onto a funeral pyre and burn it—with me dead or alive,” she spoke in a voice devoid of inflection, as if she were reciting some tedious fact to an idiot child.
“I beg for your forgiveness, Princess.”
“Go,” Aaliyah said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
With a bow, Sura took her leave. In agonizing slowness, she walked through the dark corridors to the general’s room, trepidation consuming her thoughts.
For days he had avoided them, riding at the very front of the group, not once looking back. His messages were always sent by a courier, never conveyed directly to the princess. Usually, Aaliyah drew men towards her, but the general was one to keep his distance. Whatever his reasons were, Sura was grateful.
There was not another man whom she found to be more terrifying. He possessed a cold rage chilled into silence, tempered only by the strictest discipline. His anger unleashed was a frightening thought which caused her to shudder involuntarily.
For a quite some time, Sura had stood in front of the general’s door as she cursed Aaliyah for sending her there. At last, she finally knocked.
There had been no response. Perhaps he was asleep, she thought, or perhaps he was elsewhere. Relief washed over her, as she would be spared of having to confront the general. With an exhale of her breath, Sura turned around, eager to leave, but then someone spoke—
“Enter.”
Command and total confidence exuded from that single word, spoken in a deep timbre which easily carried through the wooden door. Hesitantly, she walked into the chamber.
The general was lying stretched out across the large bed, not deigning to rise at her entrance, for an insignificant slave who did not warrant his troubles. Rather, he only watched her from the corner of his predatory eyes, silent and unmoving, impatiently waiting for her state the purpose for disturbing his rest. Aside from the twitch of a muscle in his jaw, he might’ve otherwise been carved from stone.
His eyes were black and cold as onyx, deeply set in a cruel face devoid of any kindness. He laid unclothed and unabashed, with only a thin blanket to cover his nakedness. Innumerable scars covered his torso, some old while others were still recent. Time has honed his body into razor sharpness. Across his left pectoral, she could see the faded tattoo of a coiling snake. Indeed, the Viper of Drustan seemed every bit of the devil as he was described.
She felt her pulse quickening as her mouth began to dry, although not from thirst. It was part revulsion, and a more disturbing feeling which she would never admit. "The princess has asked for you," Sura said.
At those words, the general immediately rose as the bed-sheets fell around his waist. With one hand combing through his disheveled hair, he mumbled to her, "I need to get dressed."
Without another glance, she sped from his room and shut the door.
I look like shit, Severin noted as he observed his reflection in the mirror. With bloodshot eyes and a gaunt face covered in ugly scars, he could hardly be described as attractive by anyone. Vanity has never been one of his vices, and yet here he was, fussing over what to wear before the Asharan princess.
This is ridiculous. She is blind. What does it matter what I look like? As the general hastily dressed, he cursed himself for his foolishness. When has he ever been an indecisive man? Or a self-conscious one, for that matter.
He was not himself, and was even more irritable than usual as of late. For the past couple of weeks, his mind has been constantly on edge. The episodes of insomnia, which had tormented his nights for years, has finally returned.
With haste, Severin donned on a pair of trousers and a simple leather jerkin. When he exited his room, he found that the slave girl was still standing in the hallway, waiting for him. As he approached, she eyed him with suspicion, her disdain and hatred unmistakable.
Severin met her scrutiny with an equally venomous look. "What does your lady want with me?"
"Hell, if I know," the girl muttered underneath her breath. She turned around and led him to the princess's quarters, a room not far from his own.
"Your Highness," the general stiffly bowed before the Asharan princess as he approached her, "You have asked for me?"
She sat in a weirwood chair, her expression a blank and inscrutable mask. “Be seated, General. We have much to discuss.”
The last time he had spoken to princess was when he first received her in Asshai. Not a single word had been exchanged between them until now. By keeping at a distance, the general had hoped to avoid conflict, but perhaps such a confrontation was inevitable. So, the time has come for debts to be paid and for scores to be settled.
Severin took his place in the chair opposite from her, a small table dividing them. He sat in silence, waiting for the Asharan princess to speak as the slave girl began to pour him a cup of tea.
“Lumesian tea is made from a rare flower which only blooms once every spring,” Aaliyah began, “It can taste the very sweetest or the most bitter, depending on how it is prepared; a most grueling process which may take hours, but the end result is always worth it, I believe. I beg you to try some, General,” she spoke in a leveled voice which revealed nothing.
The slave girl had placed the cup before him, but none was offered for her mistress, as Severin noted.
Poison. There had been no doubt in his mind that they intended to kill him with whatever was in that drink.
With narrowed eyes, he met her gaze with a vicious look, "I am not thirsty," he replied in a steady voice that matched her tone.
"—but I insist."
He could have refused. He could have walked away then and she would be unable to force him to do anything. And yet, Severin remained seated as he stared at the steam which rose from the cup.
'All men will die', he could hear it now—that voice which had spoken to him to many years ago, 'Whether it will be the next day, the next month, or the next year—there is no difference. Death comes to all of us.'
As the general looked down into the chalice, he took a moment to reflect upon his life. He had nothing to live for, and nothing to lose. No one to mourn. Only misery followed his path, inflicting death and pain upon to those who were around him.
He held the cup against his lips and drained it in one gulp. His tongue had burned as he forced the scorching liquid down his throat, but not once had he stop or hesitate. One life in payment for another. That was fair.
When the general was finished, he slammed the empty cup back onto the table, signaling to her that he had drank all of it. Severin sat slouched back in his chair, with both hands clenched until his knuckles turned white. With eyes closed, he waited for death to come.
Would it be quick and painless? Or had she meant for me to suffer first? He had not tasted anything out of the ordinary, but some of the deadliest poisons were undetectable, as he well knew.
So, this is where the story ends—the famed general who has never been bested in combat, would meet his unfortunate demise in the hands of a blind girl and her slave, Severin thought bitterly to himself. He had always hoped to die in battle, with a sword in hand—a warrior’s death—an honorable death. Oh, how his enemies would laugh at him now.
The beating of his heart began to slow to quiet pace. He opened his eyes and found her smiling at him, in that mocking way of hers. "Is vengeance everything you had hoped it would be?" he murmured.
“Vengeance?” Her face lit in amusement as a wicked glint flashed in her unnatural eyes. "Did you believe that I had tampered with your drink?”
And why wouldn’t she?
"I killed your father—" and a great many deal of others.
"Well, General Severin,” Aaliyah began as she leaned forth, her voice dropping to a low hush, “There is one thing that you should know about me—I would never spoil good tea. Now that would be a most unforgivable crime.” she said with a sardonic smile.
She was toying with him. So, suffering it was. The beating of his heart, which had previously slowed even pace, began to quicken as a flush of irritation stirred within him, resentful of being subjected to ridicule by a girl half his age. He might’ve liked to strangle her, but then the Empress would never forgive him.
“Did you enjoy the taste?” Aaliyah asked.
The general did not answer, but only scowled in response. The animosity in his expression might have appalled her had she been able to see it. Perhaps then, she would not be smiling so pleasantly.
“The tea is made from the petals of the Lumesia flower, which blooms near the temple where I once took sanctuary. Every spring, the hillside would be covered in magnificent blue flowers. It is a most lovely sight to behold, or so it is said. I regret that I’ve never been able to see it for myself, but I will always remember the smell. It reminds me very much of home,“ Aaliyah said with a nostalgic sigh, “I would have been content to spend the rest of my life there, as a priestess of Iset—”
“A priestess?” Severin could not help but to scoff in disbelief, as he regarded Aaliyah with a critical look. There was not another woman who was more unlikely.
She had lips which beckoned to be kissed, a mouth that could tempt any man to sin. His gaze dropped from her face to her body, resting at the top of her breasts. That day, she had worn a sheer gown that was low cut, revealing too much, and at the same time, not enough. The dress clung to her skin, highlighting every tantalizing curve.
The provocative way which she sat caused him to briefly ponder whether she had chosen such a scandalous garment to purposefully goad him. She was far too devious, and far too coquettish. A woman such as her was not meant to lead a chaste life. A wasted life.
His heavy-lidded eyes met her gaze once again. “If you are a priestess, then I am Queen of Drustan,” Severin remarked dryly.
“Oh, but I assure you that I am,” Aaliyah said with a wry smile. “I can even be your confessor, if you so desire. Are there any sins which you’d like me to absolve you from, General?” she teased.
He wouldn’t even know where to begin.
With both hands placed on the table, Severin leaned forth until her face was mere inches from his, her breath warm on his skin. She smelled of perfume of a light, exotic scent. With his gaze lingering on her lips, and in a brief moment of sheer insanity, he wondered if she would taste just as sweet.
But that fleeting notion quickly dissipated, as the stark reality returned. Even as they sat together, they were still apart, separated by a gulf wider than any difference of race or birth. Above all, they were enemies, a fact that was unalterable. "I am in no mood for your games," he growled in a low voice, “Speak what you have to say, and then leave me be.”
And with those threatening words, any trace of humor had left. The Asharan princess leaned back in her chair as the mask returned, concealing all thought and emotion. Her expression was set stern as she spoke to him in that leveled voice devoid of inflection, “There is something that I’ve been wondering—for many generations, House Kartane has been too proud to intermarry with outsiders. They firmly believe that the imperial bloodline must be kept ‘pure’. So, why now? Why must I wed Ramiz? We both know that the Drustanis will never accept me as one of their own.”
Severin hesitated for some time before responding. Meanwhile, his suspicion of her only grew. “We have word that Kantha has built a large fleet,” he began as he eyed the Asharan princess warily, watching for any subtle gestures which may betray her thoughts. “They are mobilizing their troops. Drustan may risk the possibility of an invasion in the near future,” he answered truthfully.
“Ah,” she breathed as her grin returned, no doubt relishing from hearing the fact. “But, do you truly believe that Ashara will ever support Drustan? After you have butchered our king, slaughtered our people, and desecrated our sacred temples?” she asked so nonchalantly.
The general himself doubted such an alliance, but his duty was to obey, not to question. He would escort her safely to capital, as commanded. What happens afterwards was none of his concern.
“When the time has come, and if the Asharans refuse to cooperate—will I face the same fate as my kin, when I am no longer of use?”
He did not contradict her. “Take my advice—do not ask too many questions. You will not like the answers you find. Life in the Drustanis court is nothing like the sheltered existence which you've led in your temples with your priests,” he spat out the word with contempt.
There was not a group of people whom Malik Severin despised more. They would sit in their temples, chanting their false prayers and doing nothing of value or importance, growing fat off the charity of gullible imbeciles who funded their schemes.
“Exaggerate your helplessness. Play the part of the witless blind girl, if you wish to live for long,” he hissed. And with that brusque advice, Severin abruptly stood to take his leave.
The general stood on top of the human bones which lie scattered across the dark caverns, in a never-ending sea of dead corpses. The stench of blood and rot permeated the atmosphere, suffocating his lungs. He could not breathe. He could not think.
“Traitor…”
He could hear it now—that voice which had spoken to him so many years before. “A traitor…”
The voice echoed throughout the caverns in a maddening repetition which would not cease no matter how much he wished for it to stop. It taunted him. It called to him. “A dog without honor…”
His will was not his own. An omnipotent force compelled his body to move, no matter how hard he tried to resist. The general followed the source of the sound, which led him to a pathway that spired to the upper level. Barefooted, he climbed five thousand agonizing steps. Shards of rock pierced the soles of his feet, until his flesh was raw and crimson, a trail of blood left in his path.
At last, the general reached his destination—the source of his despair. It was here where the voice was clearest. He stood in a room for which there was no ceiling, where only darkness loomed above.
Four burning trees lie ahead, one carved with a face that was old ancient as time itself. Its eyes were two endless black voids, all-knowing and all-seeing. They seared into his soul, stripping him of his flesh until he shivered, presented naked before them as the day he was born. Nowhere to run. Nothing to hide under.
When the voice had spoken again, its lips would move,
“How many of your brethren have you killed?”
The general fell to his knees and wept, begging for forgiveness.
“Your deeds are beyond repentance...”
The flames had quickly spread, consuming his body in an inferno. An excruciating pain overtook his mind, banishing all other thought aside from the agony. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound of his anguish was drowned in the crackling of the fire.
Severin's eyes opened to the first sound of thunder, a deafening roar which jolted his mind completely awake. He sat in the darkness, breathing deeply as his pulse raced. His stomach was still in vicious knots, sickened by the sights which he had seen.
For twenty long years, he has suffered from restless nights and dreams plagued by memories which refused to be repressed. Malik Severin had never wanted a conscience, and yet here it was, manifesting itself in his nightmares. A mere unwelcomed annoyance.
The sound of rainfall soon filled the emptiness of his room, followed by thunder. He could feel the sharp sway of the ship, no doubt from the clashing waves.
It was the beginnings of a storm. So, that fool of a captain had been right after all. Malik Severin should have been afraid, and yet, he felt oddly calm.
With a heavy sigh, he fell back onto the bed, waiting for sleep to claim him, but in such conditions he knew that sleep would be near impossible. With his keen senses, he could almost hear the splatter of each raindrop, the splashing of ocean waves, and the creaking of every wooden plank.
And then, an entirely new melody drifted to his ears—the sound of a woman singing, in a voice that was low and haunting. It was not loud— scarcely above a maiden’s whisper—and yet he could still hear it clearly all the same.
He rose in an eerie way, as one who was under the spell of a siren’s song. He did not remember going, but the general eventually found himself standing in front of her room once more—outside the very room which he had left in hurry earlier that day.
Her door had been left open. Inside, the Asharan princess was sitting in the darkness of her bedchambers, unlit by any candle. It must have been in the late hours of night then, as the others were all fast asleep, but for the two of them it seemed.
Despite her lack of sight, she could play the qin flawlessly with a precision which he could not help but to admire. She had the most exquisite hands, graced with long, elegant fingers. They glided in waves over the silken strings, producing harmonic notes which floated through the air. Her expression held a tranquil look, her eyes fully closed. Severin closed his own, joining her in the dark.
He did not understand the words which she sung, but one did not need to know the lyrics of a song to appreciate its beauty. Her voice had lulled him into the first sense of peace he experienced in a long time. In that moment, they were the only two people who existed in the world. He could hear of nothing else—not the pounding rain or roaring thunder—but only her.
As the final note was struck, the general opened his eyes. The noise from the storm slowly filled room once again, as he was brought back to reality. When the song had ended, Severin turned and began to walk away. The wooden floorboards of the ship creaked underneath his weight, betraying his position.
"Is someone there?" Aaliyah asked as she turned in his direction..
The general stood perfectly still, debating over his next step. His inner voice told him to leave, but his body would not obey. “I had meant to apologize for my behavior. It was... rude of me," he said at last. A strange feeling overcame him. Severin could not remember the last time he apologized to anyone. Remorse and regret was not something which he had ever allowed himself to feel. A man of his profession could not afford to.
"It is forgotten," she said simply.
He lingered by the entrance in awkward silence, not wanting to leave and not knowing what else to say. Idle conversation was never something which Severin cared for, a meaningless diversion which he has always attributed to flatterers and fools. Nonetheless, he now found himself wanting just that, if only to hear the sound of her voice in response. "That song... what is it called?" he asked.
The Asharan princess smiled at him so sweetly that he might’ve been led to believe that she truly bore him no ill will, were he a less cautious man. "It is an old Malazan tune about an angel; Raziel is his name. He is the guardian of the shadow realms, the punisher of wicked souls—" she answered.
Malik Severin did not believe in Hell, but if such a place existed, he would be in it.
"—The legends say that once every ten thousand years, he is reincarnated as a mortal so that he would understand the pain and suffering of man," Aaliyah continued, "It is said that when Raziel is reborn, the skies will turn completely red to mark of his coming. Or at least, that is what the Malazan people believed."
"Their empire had been destroyed over five centuries ago. I'm surprised to find anyone that still speaks their language." Especially one so young, Severin might've added. He did not know her exact age, but the Asharan princess could not have been much older than seventeen or eighteen, at most. And yet, she carried herself in a way that seemed wiser than her years.
"I speak many languages, General. The priests have taught me more than just prayers, you know," Aaliyah said with a sardonic quirk of her lips.
"Do you miss them?"
"Not single a day pass where I do not think of them. They were the only family I had ever known. When I was very young, my father had sent me away, believing that I would remain safe if his enemies do not find me,” Aaliyah turned towards him with an ironic lift of her eyebrow. “The priests raised me since I was a child. I loved them deeply, even more than own father. Is that such an awful thing to admit?"
Severin did not know whether she had actually expected an answer from him, but he had none to give. He was an orphan himself, never knowing the love of a parent. In this matter, he had no words to offer.
"When the Drustanis came, they had refused to give me up, even when subjected to torture. All of them had been executed and the temple was burned to the ground. Their only crime was sheltering me," she said bitterly.
“Don’t you desire vengeance for their deaths?” he asked in a ruthless voice, but there had been no contempt or accusation.
She shook her head slowly, her eyes downcast. “Blood only leads to more blood. Where does it end? I do not despise you, General, or any other Drustanis. Iset teaches us to forgive. ‘The greatest mediation is a mind that lets go.’ Those are her words.”
Her voice had been pained, and her sorrow genuine. As much as he wanted to believe her, Severin found that he could not. Benevolence was not a trait which he possessed or readily understood.
"Just what will you do if after you have died, you've come to find that no such gods exist? And if your entire life had been wasted, spent idolizing something which was never real? What then?" he asked.
Aaliyah tilted her head to the side, as if in contemplation. Then she shrugged. It was done so carelessly and without thought that he believed she was toying with him again. A woman such as her never gave straight answers.
Severin could do naught else but to glower at her in response, a barrier of silence erected between them. And then, she had said something which completely perplexed him—
“Are you married, General?”
Every muscle in his body tensed. Severin stared at her in puzzlement, as if she’d asked whether he had three heads or six arms. That had been one question which he did not expect to receive, the furthest thought from his mind. “No, Your Highness,” he replied in a gruff voice which he’d hardly recognized as his own, “I have never wed.”
“No?” Aaliyah asked with a slight teasing in her quiet voice. “But you must be over fifty now—”
“I am thirty-seven,” he corrected quickly enough.
“Ah. Since I was a young girl, I have heard tales of you. I have always envisioned you as someone… older.”
“I've held a sword since I was ten, and have fought in battles at the age of fourteen.”
"You were practically still a child then," she remarked in horror. "Does the Drustanis army usually recruit boys so young?"
"No." He had been a special case.
Aaliyah waited patiently for him to elaborate, but the general remained silent. Sensing that he was uncomfortable to speak more about the matter, she changed the subject, “And now that the war is over, what will you do?”
"The Emperor has granted me some land for my services," Severin answered humbly. In truth, the Emperor had rewarded with him enough wealth to live out the rest of his life in luxury, along with a castle surrounded by two hundred acres of lush soil.
"I've never had the opportunity to see it for myself," he admitted, "Perhaps, I will finally retire to my home and tend to the land—sow some seeds and watch the crops grow," Severin answered in jest. The life of a farmer was even more mundane than the life of a priestess.
And with that, Aaliyah laughed. He did not think that it was possible for her to be any more exquisite, but when she laughed, her entire face transformed. She became very much alive, possessing the radiance of a thousand splendid suns. The sound of her delight was far lovelier than any nightingale's song.
Her laughter. Her smile. A man almost could start believing in angels and paradise. And then, it was gone, fading perhaps too quickly. He did not want it to disappear. Severin began to wonder what it would take to make her laugh again. He might’ve given anything, if just to see her smile, a genuine smile that wasn’t feigned for once.
And what a novel sight that would be, he cynically thought.
"I must confess, I cannot picture you doing such a thing. From the horrible stories they tell of you, I would imagine you were..." she trailed off, unable to find the right word.
"...Some demon?" he interjected.
Aaliyah nodded.
The briefest hint of a grimace flickered across his face. He has been called by every foul name which existed. Bastard. Devil. Traitor. Most have been rightly deserved. But of course, no one has ever dared to call him by such names in his presence. People who crossed Malik Severin never lived to tell about it.
He decided to humor her notions of him, “Did you know, Your Highness, that once every full moon, I sprout horns and grow fangs?”
Aaliyah’s mouth curved the tiniest bit upwards. It was almost a smile. “Is that it? I expected wings and a tail. You disappoint me, General.”
“Alas, I am a simple man, made of flesh and blood as any other.”
"No, not simple at all, I believe." she remarked quietly. Her pale eyes were downcast as she spoke in a more dire tone, "Men who are accustomed to war often find themselves restless in times of peace. Tell me, would you ever be content living the life a civilian?"
It was his turn to be without an answer. War had been the only thing which Severin knew. And now that it was over, an empty feeling gripped his heart. His days were plagued by melancholy and a sense of longing. He craved for the rush adrenaline, for the blood coursing through his veins. The only time he had ever truly felt alive was when he fought.
Severin opened his mouth to respond, but no words formed on his lips. He was spared of having to answer her question when a commotion came about—he could hear the shouting men above the deck. The sound of people running sundered through the halls. As he looked out the door, Severin saw that Captain Trevalion was frantically rushing towards him.
“What is it?” Severin asked.
The captain looked up to him in utter terror. “General—the ship is under attack.”
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