Maddening Marauders

PROLOGUE

WELLINGTON JR.

The body of a well-dressed man crashes to the light gray marble floor in front of Wellington with a sickening thud. His dark brown eyes, now lifeless, stare into the gaudy elegance of the throne room.

The rich, coppery stench of blood hits Wellington’s sensitive nose like a punch. He tries to focus on the intricate gold vines spiraling around the marble support columns, their polished leaves choking the structure. Just like how the tight silk collar chokes him now.

Sour saliva floods his mouth. Nausea rises. The six-year-old child stares down at his shoes, taking deep breaths but to no avail. Sweat breaks out across his body.

He takes a step back and bumps into someone, his father. Large, calloused hands grasp his thin shoulders, anchoring him.

“Pull yourself together now,” his father whispers.

Wellington nods, swallowing bile. He slants a look at Dowager Queen Sheela, who stands smiling beside the corpse, the man she’d just killed with one hand.

“Take out this garbage,” she says, rubbing the small of her back, her pregnant belly jutting out beneath a garish pink gown.

Courtiers erupt into applause. Their cheers echo through the marble chamber.

A crew rushes forward with mops, brooms, and stark white body bags.

“How is she so strong, Father?” Wellington whispers.

“She must have gotten a new bio-enhancement,” his father murmurs.

“What was the man’s crime?”

“He annoyed the queen. Now hush.”

The dowager queen ambles to the rear of the hall, toward her new seat of power: a towering, nine-foot-tall black throne. She ascends its three steps and eases down onto a velvet pillow with an exaggerated sigh. Her fingers brush the skulls under the armrests, tracing the daggers jammed through their mouths.

Wellington remembers when a simple red velvet throne stood there. He recalls the jovial king who sat upon it, ruling the Marauders’ Syndicate with a firm but fair hand. That was only a year ago. Life was better then. Safer. But the king vanished, leaving his wife to rule instead.

A young man approaches the dowager queen and whispers into her ear. Wellington’s older half-brother.

Wellington doesn’t understand how his half-brother can stand by that horrid throne with pride and adoration shining in his hazel eyes. The eighteen-year-old recently earned a promotion that allows him to be so close to the queen—his highest ambition, as the queen richly rewards loyalty and unquestioning service. His half-brother always loved credits more than anything.

A courtier woman steps forward, placing a bejeweled chest full of gold plates before the throne. “You have my house’s support. We excitedly await the arrival of your baby. Have you decided on a name yet?”

The dowager queen rubs a spot on her side. “I will call her Intonia Varia Yane. Ivy for short. She is already as horrid as the plant she’s named after, choking the life out of me.”

A commotion sounds at the entrance of the throne room.

Boots slam against the marble.

The crowd parts.

Two burly thugs drag a disheveled, black-haired man between them. A thin line of blood drips from the man’s bruised lips, staining his fine clothing. One leg bends unnaturally at the knee.

The smell of blood hits again. Wellington breathes through his mouth, digging his nails into his palms.

The dowager queen scoffs. “Why are you bothering me?”

The first thug gulps. “We caught him in the mines. He was trying to free the, uh, prisoner. The o—”

“I know who he is!” she snaps, then marches down the steps to the barely conscious man.

She grabs a fistful of the captive’s hair and jerks his head up. “You made a fatal mistake, my friend. Now, you w—”

“He is the rightful heir!” the man shouts, blood spraying across her dress.

She throws her head back, laughing. “Not anymore.” With terrifying ease, she lifts him off the ground by his hair and adds, “I was inclined to grant you a quick death, but now, I changed m—”

“Wait!” the captive shouts. “Please! I have something that you’ll want!”

The dowager queen drops him. He crumples, screaming as he lands on his broken leg. The thugs catch his arms, dragging him upright.

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What could you possibly offer me?”

“There is an item, rumored to hold sway over even the archg—”

“Whisper it to me,” she commands.

The thugs release the captive, and he limps forward to whisper into her ear. Her brow furrows. She extends her hand. “You tried to give that to the prisoner?”

He nods and pulls a bloodied scroll from his vest pocket, placing it in her palm. “I was wrong. You should have it. In exchange for my life, I give you this encrypted scroll. It will lead you to t—”

Her dagger flashes.

A crimson gash appears on his throat.

The crowd gasps in delight mixed with horror.

The man gurgles. “Why? I told you everything . . .” He falls to the ground, twitching.

The queen wipes her blade on his sleeve, then slides it back into her dress.

The cleaners return and remove the body.

She points at Wellington’s half-brother. “Send a message. Invite everyone to a competition. One million galactic credits to anyone who deciphers the scroll.” She tosses it to him. He sprints from the room.

“Court is adjourned,” the dowager queen calls out, then leaves the throne room through a side exit.

Father waits until the chamber is empty, then pulls Wellington behind one of the columns.

“Remember this day, son,” he says. “That woman is an imposter. One day, the Syndicate will rise again. Only you have the skills to make it happen. Promise me.”

“I promise, Father,” Wellington whispers.

He would never forget.

One day, I will make the queen pay, and the Syndicate will rise anew.

CHAPTER 1

RHONA

My body slams into the ground, facedown.

Oomph!

Pain erupts—sharp, blinding—as my nose crunches and my split lips scrape the coarse red sand. It burns. Every nerve screams. My battered body is a tapestry of agony, painted with sweat, blood, and grit. The hot, metallic tang of my blood coils in the air, mixing with the sunbaked scent of the fight circle. The melded generals never gave me a chance. Not that I expected one.

I am so tired.

Get up. Get up!

Grains of sand embed themselves into the raw skin of my palms as I drag my arms beneath me. My muscles seize in protest. Pain cascades over me.

I whimper.

Blood mingles with salty sweat, the mixture dripping into my eyes. My right one’s already swollen shut, a pulsing mess of bruising. The unrelenting heat from the midday Teryn sun scorches my back through my black dress uniform.

Through blurry vision, I spot the edge of the fight circle. So close. Just a hand’s span away.

But I can’t leave the fight.

Not until it’s over.

Come on, Rhona! Pull yourself together! For the love of swords, get up!

I push up to my hands and knees. My arms quake, a breath away from collapse.

I need just one moment. One second to think, to plan.

“Not so fast,” Milt growls.

A boot drives into my stomach.

The force of the kick hurls me to the side. Air flees my lungs in a hoarse cry. My ribs protest. I curl, folding into myself, with arms over my head, protecting it.

This is it. The reckoning I’ve always known was coming.

Gasping for air, I watch Milt through one blood-streaked eye.

His leg draws back.

And the last thing I see is his boot flying straight at me.

CHAPTER 2

RHONA – SIX HOURS EARLIER

Hot wind stirs the red sand around me, wafting the bitter scents of dust and scorched stone into the air. I step forward to join the end of the line with six fully melded Teryn warriors on my left—battle-tested, spirit-bound, glowing with the quiet intensity of those who carry true power. I am not one of them.

I glance back over my shoulder.

The sun peeks over the jagged silhouette of the Mountain of Pain behind me. Its golden light claws down the cliffs and spills across the lowland plains, baking the world in an unforgiving heat. I feel it in the soles of my boots, rising off the stone platform where we’ve assembled at the edge of the City of Honor.

In the far distance, beyond the city’s spires and fortress walls, the River of Death yawns dry and desolate. A scar across the land, etched with ancient cracks and uneven rocks. It earned every mark. Unlike me.

Mocking voices rise from the edges of the crowd, carried on the wind.

“She is not even melded,” someone sneers.

“Yet here she is,” another voice replies, laced with contempt. “She was always an impostor.”

Staring ahead, I ignore their words. I’ve heard these same doubts since I failed my Trial at the age of fifteen, where I was supposed to earn a spirit—the source of a warrior’s unique battle form, along with their exceptional strength, speed, and sense of smell—to meld with as proof of my honor.

That was the moment I stopped being a future warrior hero and became a reminder of failure.