Siren Song (The Fated #1)

Prologue

When the siren died, Zuher fell to madness.

The halls were bathed in blood and silence. Rumor said the earth itself trembled with his fury. Nothing quite matched the taste of a siren, and without his, Zuher suffered.

Still, a year passed before Zuher called him.

Every cell in his body screamed for him to stall, or turn tail and sail the other direction. Reality and logic denied such ideas, however, and so he reluctantly answered the call. After all, it mattered little how many leagues laid between him and his master. Refusal would only mean eventual pain.

A collared man remained collared for life; therefore, his desires meant nothing. Only Zuher's mattered.

Upon arrival, he ignored the curious eyes that seemed to burrow beneath his skin like nightmares, just as he ignored the loudly spoken insults and admiration. Such a strange place this country was. The glamour-hidden scars that marked him a slave labeled him as property, and they treated him as such. No one felt the need to muffle their words. Had he been viewed as a man, they might have at least whispered.

"I wish he was for sale. Imagine coming home to that."

"I heard he's a wild one. They say he killed a noble for calling him pup."

"I thought he was dead."

"Nothing good will come of this, I tell ya. Best be staying away from that one."

"You're late. We expected you to arrive weeks ago."

The greeting focused his attention, and he offered the doorman a lazy smile. At some point in his life, discarding the voices became second nature. He, of course, had no desire to figure out when. That meant reflecting on memories better left buried. Still, it was a useful skill.

"The summons said return, nothin' else," he explained. "I assumed that meant I was free ta make my way back as I wanted."

He hadn't, actually. The last time he'd arrived late to a summons, he'd been locked away for weeks. During that time he'd had only a single visitor, and they hadn't been of the friendly sort. Regardless of whether or not his master's note contained a deadline for his return, he was expected to hurry. He could only pray to the gods that Zuher was in a good mood.

As if reading his thoughts on the matter, and agreeing, the doorman offered him a seemingly sympathetic smile.

"Best be going, then. You wouldn't want to keep him waiting."

He nodded and continued through the now open door. His gaze focused on the man seated at the far end. Within the moment, he picked up on the annoyance in his master's otherwise relaxed demeanor. It was in the rhythmic impact of his fingers against the arm of his chair and the tightness of his thin, rouged lips.

The drumming stopped. "You're late."

He held his tongue, not about to repeat his flimsy excuse. Instead, he bowed his head.

"My apologies."

Zuher nodded, content with the words. His fingers resumed their motion, his gaze unfocused. Curiosity stirred in the back of his mind. It rose above the eternally-burning, cold anger that buried him everytime he stepped foot in this room. It was strange for Zuher to be so consumed by a request that he didn't have time to punish tardiness.

"Yes, well, now that you're here, I have a new task for you. I need something."

He always did.

"You need only ask, Master."

Refusal wasn't an option. He was bound by the very blood that ran through his veins. A shudder near racked his body as he recalled the last man to think death was better than service. Not a night went by without the screams being relived in his nightmares.

"Then, listen."

As Zuher spoke his orders, tension froze his frame. Gods, Zuher was arrogant. To ask such a thing--it was near impossible. If he were anyone less skilled, or less well-connected, it would've been easier to fetch the cup of the gods, than this.

Still...

His jaw locked, mind racing. This abhorrent quest rivaled all others to date. He would be dancing a fine line. If he failed, Zuher would be the least of his worries. The gods themselves would see him punished for hubris. Boiling alive would be a blessing.

If he could twist fate to his side, however, the future would be up to chance. A prayer to Koun near graced his lips. It took everything he had to conceal the hope flooding his system from his face. He pretended to be reluctant, to be afraid.

His body trembled with concealed excitement.

"It will take time," he warned. "They are a cautious people. But, I will succeed."

Or he would die.

Either way, it would be worth it.

Wolves hated cages, and his collar was more suffocating than any iron bars.