“Is that what this is about?” The Aquila barked, smoke billowing from his mouth. He shook his head and stalked towards the slope below his den, red feet kicking up dried dust. Tension rippled through his well-muscled back, illuminating dark patterns formed by the cape of black fur along his shoulders and spine. While he was a golden boy once, like his father before him the dark truth of their heritage came through. A bloodline of madmen and savages made up his lineage, and damned him to follow it.
Ezekiel rounded on Max, but did not approach him. He did not trust himself. “If I die,” he said slowly and deliberately. “Then Myrika and Vesper will lead. They are capable together. You and Helotes will serve them as warriors and the clan will go on. One person is no more important here than the group—understand that,” he emphasized, and paused to breathe in smoke. His hand trailed up to the metal at his throat, touched it briefly, and fell.
“These people came for my father,” Ezekiel went on darkly. “They believe themselves righteous. Holy,” he hissed. “They think we’re beasts who should be ripped from the earth.”
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