She held his gaze for only a moment longer before slipping away from him without another word.
And Jonas went hunting for his prey amidst the confusion and turmoil. His main targets were Magnus and the road engineer, but he hoped to find Aron as well. Now Aron had Brion’s as well as Tomas’s death to answer for in blood.
He glanced into each tent he passed, roughly fighting off anyone he came across. And almost too easily the guards went down. They were so used to lording over weaponless and weakened slaves in this private, secluded location that they hadn’t been prepared for an attack of this magnitude at the crack of dawn—nearly fifty rebels ready to do whatever it took to gain an advantage against the king who would enslave their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers.
Jonas wiped a spray of blood from his face and continued on. He pushed open the next tent flap, and his gaze fell on someone he recognized immediately.
Aron Lagaris lay sleeping on the ground. Rage lit within him at the memory of this bastard killing his friend. Killing his brother.
“That drunk last night, were you?” Jonas snarled. “Wake up. I want you to know that I’m the one who ends your life.”
He took another step, entering fully into the tent, now frowning. Aron’s eyes were open and staring. The front of his shirt was stained with blood—blood that soaked into the dirt floor.
The realization hit him hard. Aron was already dead.
Someone grabbed him from behind, a strong arm crushing his throat.
“You think Paelsian scum like you can attack us so easily, that we won’t be able to kill every last one of you?” It was a guard, a large one with bad breath. “Think again, rebel.”
Jonas arched his blade upward, but the guard caught his wrist, wrenching it to the side to break the bone with a sharp crack. Jonas roared in pain and lost his concentration for a split second.
That was all it took.
The guard brought his own blade down, sinking it straight into Jonas’s heart.
Then he yanked out the blade and shoved Jonas forward. Jonas stumbled to the ground hard, only a few feet from Aron. He looked up, gasping, his vision swirling. The guard was a hulking black silhouette surrounded by morning light.
He wiped the blood off his hands. “You honestly thought you could stop us with your little group of savages? Gonna go kill me a few more before breakfast.” He was laughing as he left the tent.
Jonas’s chest bloomed with agonizing, searing pain. His life bled out onto the tent floor, oozing bright red, sliding across the ground to mingle with that of Aron’s.
“Brion . . .” Jonas’s throat was thick, his eyes burning. A memory—his and Brion’s childhood, running through the vineyard, stealing sweet, plump grapes, and being chased by Jonas’s angry father, who’d—so unlike his son—accepted his destiny without a fight, who’d always followed the rules set forth by Chief Basilius, even when these same rules left his family’s bellies empty.
Catching up to the always rebellious Tomas, who laughed at their antics—Tomas, who never followed a single rule in his life unless he made it himself. And Felicia, his bossy sister, who just stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head and warning Jonas that he’d get in trouble one day for not toeing the line. Felicia was strong—strong enough to survive without him. Strong like their mother had been before the wasting disease had taken her. Jonas had heard rumors that Cleo’s sister had died of a similar ailment.
I never told her that. I should have told her.
Images of the princess with golden hair slid through his mind. He was in the cave again, kissing her as if he had no choice, confused by such overwhelming feelings toward a girl he’d previously despised and wanted dead. But even the coldest hate can shift into something warmer if given enough time, just as an ugly caterpillar can turn into a beautiful butterfly.
Images of Lysandra, smiling, her unexpected beauty this morning like a blow to his gut. The flashing of her brown eyes when she was angry, arguing, always giving him a hard time. But he was glad he’d accepted her as one of his rebels because she was so skilled, so determined, so damn passionate she lit a fire inside of him with only a few words.
And now he would die staring into the glazed eyes of Aron Lagaris. For months, Jonas had wanted vengeance toward him so much, more than anything else. And now the boy he’d hated more than anyone else in the world was nothing more than a shell—an empty shell.
Death solved nothing. It was only an end.
And now his own end had come.
A small surge of light caught the corner of his fading vision. Someone had entered the tent. His last gasps of breath were so slight he would already look dead to anyone but the most skilled healer.