Behind us, the Warlord's tent collapsed in flame. Inside it, his body would be found with no wounds, no poison, no explanation—only a look of perfect, terrible peace.
"Kael," he slurred. "Pour the wine."
One evening, the High Sorcerer called me to his private sanctum. He was drunk on power and wine, weary from a battle with a rival kingdom. He slumped in his chair, the magical wards around the room lowered to let in the cool night air. reincarnated in submission
And that was when I learned the secret that the Sorcerer-Kings had forgotten. Behind us, the Warlord's tent collapsed in flame
He took me with him. Not as a daughter. Not as a slave, exactly. As something stranger: a living good-luck charm. A proof of his mercy. A child who bowed to no one but him, and who whispered, "As you command, my lord," to every order, no matter how cruel. "Pour the wine