Chapter 22 · Voices Under the Sand

The brand burned like someone was still holding the iron to my chest.

Kael had me by the collar, slammed against the arena wall. His fist cocked back. The ninth lamp's mark throbbed under my shirt, hot enough I could smell my own skin cooking.

"Arlen." He said it quiet. Dangerous quiet. "The lamp called you Arlen."

I didn't answer. Couldn't. The voices were louder now, a dozen dead Ashmar all talking at once, layered over each other like bad radio static. They wanted something. Needed something.

"Say something." Kael's knuckles pressed into my throat. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not wrong."

He hit me.

Not hard. Not like he wanted to. Just enough to split my lip, enough to make the point. When he stepped back his hand was shaking.

"Six months." His voice cracked. "I mourned you for six months. Drank myself sick at your empty grave. And you've been here? In this?"

I touched my mouth. Blood on my fingers, same as always. "I didn't choose it."

"Then unchoose it." He grabbed my arm, the grip brutal. "You're alive. You're the commander. We can—"

"I'm not."

"Bullshit."

"I'm not your commander.