Son of War Itself

Rastaban’s blood went cold.

“What do you know about my mother?” he hissed.

Shanka stepped back; her golden eyes were half-lidded, hypnotizing. “More than you ever could.” Louder, she said, “One week.”

She and Malia vanished into the shadows.

“...General?” Khouri asked.

Rastaban’s hands curled into fists. “If it’s war she wants, it’s war she’ll get.” His head was spinning. He was Rami’s son, and he hadn’t lost a single battle yet. He would show this upstart woman and her band of harridans what war really meant.

And he had no mother - he was the son of war itself.