King of the Titans: A Legend is Born

By J.K. Jones

Revenge is a dish best-served cold, or so they say... 

For Julian White, revenge is a burning obsession that consumes him day and night. He's spent years honing his skills as an assassin, waiting for the perfect moment to strike back at the man who took everything from him.

Now, he's finally found a way to get close to the King

• Language: English
• Publisher: jkjonesauthor
• Release date: Oct 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738731848

J.K. Jones

Hey there, I'm J.K. Jones, a Canadian author who likes her coffee black and loves to write dark M/M romance novels. I grew up in the bustling city of Toronto, and it's given me a bit of a different take on things. I'm just passionate about telling stories that grab your attention. I've been into creative writing for a while, and it's cool how I can naturally put together characters and plots that keep folks hooked. You might have come across my books like "Claw of Exile" and "Weeps Indigo." They're all about diving into the messy parts of love and relationships. I've been hanging out in Toronto for as long as I can remember, just doing my thing and spinning tales. I hope my writing connects with you and adds a little something to the world of dark M/M romance.

Book preview

Chapter One

Reykjavik, Iceland

image-placeholder

The Age of Barbarians

He wasn’t here. Julian’s frown deepened, turning into a bitter sneer as he lightly stroked his harp. They said he would be. He plucked the strings with a little more force than necessary, gazing around the room.

It was sophisticated, and cultured, with many of the high courtesans bringing food to the men. Music was played with transcendental skill and grace. Even the poetry was read with eloquence, brought to life by dancers so fluid they moved hearts and spirits alike.

Madame Zelina would expect nothing less.

Yet he wasn’t here. The Arctic demon. Rumor had it that his tastes were more sinister. The brothels entertained nothing more than seedy inhabitants, built for the gaudy Þrælar soldiers and filled with wicked men, no doubt a haven for all Þrælar.

Fucking bastard. Julian struck his chords violently, tugging expertly on the strings to bring the attention in the room back to him. Julian’s body was angled, hands and neck relaxed, as it connected to the soundboard that braced against the tension of the strings.

The chatter stilled. All the soldiers turned to him in awe. Even in silence, the harp was divinity, a musical instrument that called to men like sirens in the abyss. They said the harp was the voice of angels, created by Zathos, god of the stars. To Julian, it was the serenity of the forest, the light through the boughs, the everlasting sweetness of his mother’s smile.

The sound was soft like flower petals, vibrant hues heard by the soul. Julian moved his hands over the instrument, imagining himself as an artist with a palette and brush, creating clusters of explosive color, bursts of exceptional rays of assimilated beauty.

The Arctic demon. A tumultuous mane of blond hair and blond freckles on skin that was as white as a new page. He was a dream from an Icelandic gem, born of the green lands and wheatfields. A demon at best and a wayward barbarian at worst. A stark killer feared by everyone in the Titan Vale.

And he wasn’t fucking here.

Julian clenched his teeth, strumming the chords with his eyes closed in fake rapture. Damn him. After all the work they had gone through, it had been all for nothing. The song slowed, trailing off like a raging fire simmering into ambers.

The soldiers looked stricken, their gazes wide, enchanted, as Julian stood from his seat and gave a short, stiff bow. They applauded him immensely, showering him with praise and admiration. Julian swallowed the shouts as he would hot coals.

Thankfully, it was over now.

Brushing his pants, which were simple and wide, stretching to his bound shoes, he stood there for a moment. The shoes were made from a pretty rare fur cloth but were otherwise an ordinary design. He grabbed his animal-skin jacket and draped it over his white long-sleeve shirt, which stopped right above his narrow waist. The sleeves were lightly decorated, reminiscent of his time as a jarl before everything had come crashing down around them. The rectangular neckline revealed his pale skin, plunging toward his firm chest.

Let them look. Julian took off to the bar, ignoring the numerous eyes that followed him. He downed three shots, relishing in the burn down his throat. Footsteps creaked behind him. Then a hand clasped around his bicep.

Not tonight, Julian.

It was more charming inside than outside. Lavish tapestry and silk hung over three log beams that supported the upper floor and the torches attached to them. Hundreds of memorabilia from the old days, mainly frail statues of Zathos that would most likely be torn down soon, adorned the walls. It was packed tonight, mostly karls, but Þrælar soldiers seemed to be the primary clientele here.

They were swarming across Reykjavik like ants, with more and more arriving every single day. Taking up space and residence, breeding like parasites all over the city. The Þrælar barbarians were uncouth creatures, wolves that slovenly thought they owned everything just by right.

When they were done scattering their filth, defecating on every surface, they came here. Expecting seedy, quick gratification, only to realize the girls were something else. They weren’t harlots with painted faces, spreading their cheeks and asses for mere sport. These women were cultured, high-ranking jarls with refinement and elegance that far surpassed any Þrælar soldier.

The other smaller tables were occupied by people who seemed to be close with each other, though they happily welcomed others in their midst. Even most of the stools at the bar were taken. Julian turned slightly, mouth forming into a thin, almost perpetual grimace.

Madame Zelina sent him a piercing glare, her brown hair woven with strands of gold and auburn lights, an autumn beauty. Did you hear me, boy?

What did she know anyway? Karls didn’t have it as bad as the jarls. They didn’t have nearly as much trouble, while it was open season on jarls. It wasn’t fair. He wouldn’t succumb to this garbage. The Þrælar soldiers controlled everything. Why couldn’t he give recognition to his god? Julian gave her a terse nod, aware of the soldiers nearby.

Her ornate dress flowed from top to bottom and had a halter neckline, which gracefully revealed the relatively simple dress underneath. The delicate, corset-like tied fabric of her dress covered her stomach, where a light cloth band worn high around her waist broke up the continuous movement.

Madame Zelina’s face held a fierce expression that Julian didn’t dare cross, regardless of his endeavors. Okay, he lied, knowing full well he would start trouble.

She gave him a dismissive once-over, then jerked her head to a group of Þrælar soldiers. Get to work, then.

Julian did. He played his harp, stroking mercilessly at the strings, and sang a brittle song, invoking emotions of melancholy. He recited Zathos psalms, hymns, and accolades, much to the displeasure of Þrælar soldiers. When he’d finished, they grumbled openly, murmuring sneers of insolence and lack of propriety.

He didn’t give a fuck. However, he made the grievous mistake of looking out into the crowd. His breath caught as if somebody clamped a hand over his throat, suffocating him.

Calyree Halsall gazed back with hard eyes. He’d tortured Julian for years just by existing. Tonight, he didn’t pretend he was here for anything but blind malevolence.

Before the wars, many Þrælar wolves had been enslaved to jarls, and after the wars, when they’d gained their freedom, they’d sought acts of vengeance against the jarls. They’d decimated their cities, toppled their statues and structures, razed cities and civilizations to the ground. All the great houses had been destroyed, bringing the jarls to their knees by destitution. He and his family were all that was left.

Shit.

Julian stood and gathered his stuff, hoping to slip out of the room before being noticed. He darted past the throng of soldiers and courtesans to the hallway.

If he could get out the back door, then maybe he could be home for dinner. The corridor was long and narrow, sparsely lit, which made it difficult to see what was in front of him. A torchlight flickered, almost as if a black shadow was about to descend on him. Footsteps thundered behind him, and a hand tugged ruthlessly on his arm.

Julian jerked back, eyes widening and heart beating out of his chest.

Calyree’s face bled from the darkness into the light.

Chapter Two

image-placeholder

It was what nightmares were made of. Calyree’s face was marred with vicious claw marks slicing down the right side. He leaned forward, his foul breath ghosting over the shell of Julian’s ear. Not so fast, jarl scum. I brought a few of my friends with me tonight.

Problem? Madame Zelina appeared out of thin air, her voice chilling.

Calyree scoffed, his hand on Julian tightening. He was wearing a Þrælar soldier’s uniform, made of gray drab gray wool. None whatsoever, karl, he derided. Why don’t you fuck off? I’m in the middle of something.

Not in here, you aren’t. As I’ve told you before, he is off-limits.

As I’ve told you, fucking bitch, Calyree said, I’ll take him when I damn well please.

Madame Zelina’s eyes flickered bright red while the air thickened as a black cloud of mist swirled around her. Let him go, or else I’ll fucking gut you like the Þrælar shit you are.

There were very few karl mages and none as powerful as Madame Zelina. Without any backup, Calyree would be dead before he could shift into his wolf form.

His eyes danced between the two of them. Then he released Julian. Fine, witch. He chuckled darkly. You can’t protect him forever.

I will as long as I live, Madame Zelina said sternly. Now get out.

Calyree’s eyes flashed dangerously. He spat on the ground, then swiveled around and stormed out. Madame Zelina turned her glare back to Julian. I told you not to start trouble, boy.

It was just a few hymns—

"It’s never a few hymns, Madame Zelina spat. You sang songs honoring Zathos in a room full of Þrælar soldiers. Have you completely lost your mind? If the girls weren’t around to distract the men, you would’ve been dead by now."

It didn’t matter. The whole point was to bring the Arctic demon here. How could he do that if word didn’t spread that there were still jarl supporters around?

You’re almost eighteen. Madame Zelina sighed deeply. He’s right. After you come of age, I can’t protect you anymore.

Julian softened and he took her hand in his. I’m sorry. Where would he be without her?

I know. Madame Zelina patted his hand affectionately. Help the girls clean up, and then head straight home. No detours. The men are rowdy tonight.

Julian nodded, putting his bags aside and following her back out the main hall. It was after midnight by the time he left. Most of the tables were cleaned, with the tavern chairs stacked and ready to be used for tomorrow night. He tied his hair into a low bun and made sure to put on a hat before he exited the tavern.

When he reached home, the lights were off. He lived in an apartment above a bakery, one of the very few spots left for jarls. Misha and the children were sound asleep. Julian slipped inside his bedroom and dropped his belongings into his closet. He stripped down naked, then studied his body in the mirror: frail, pale skin, striking emerald eyes, and brown freckles.

Jarls tended to be on the delicate side, unused as they were to manual labor. His waist-length red hair was the only thing that would give away his nobility. Woven from the heavens, people used to say, as if the fine strands were created by starlight and the cherry red of sunshine. Julian sighed. At seventeen, he looked demure and unthreatening.

Good. He needed to be able to get close enough to stab the Arctic demon in the heart. Was it true he bled ice? Was the Arctic demon made of icicle shards? Julian didn’t know. Even if he died in the process, it would be worth it.

Julian dressed in a silk lavender slip. Before sitting on the floor, he took out his vast array of knives he kept hidden in his jacket and work boots. Efficiently, he sharpened his knives, which were thin as needles.

Hatred was all that was left.

His parents had been slaughtered by Þrælar wolf rebels, torn to shreds, and then eaten alive. Julian heard it still, saw their faces as they’d told him to hide and not to come out no matter what he saw. That night a Þrælar wolf had decimated the House of Whiteford, one thousand years of jarl history, customs, and culture, destroyed by fire and ash.

A Þrælar wolf.

Julian gritted his teeth. The Arctic demon. Forged in hellfire, the Þrælar wolf had slipped through their guard. He’d known the area well. A former slave turned mass murderer.

One of his stepfather’s most trusted slaves. Julian’s bottom lip trembled as his mind flickered back to that horrid night.

With his own two hands, he’d dug the holes in which their bodies rested. The soil had been rich beneath his hands. His fingertips had bled, ripped, and torn, but he’d dug through clay, mud, and frozen dirt. Jarls believed that if bodies were not buried, they were automatically taken by Hithar, the god of death, straight to hell.

Julian couldn’t do that to his parents. And so he’d dug, long and deep into the night, with his siblings screaming and crying at his side. He’d kissed their foreheads, caressed their soft skin before he’d covered them with dirt. One day he’d right all the wrongs, bring order back to the world.

And it all started with this.

The death of the person who’d started it all. The death of the Arctic demon.

Chapter Three

Dalvík, Iceland

image-placeholder

Isle of Titus

W hat vaileth truth? Or by it to take the pain? To strive for steadfastness. How to be just and flee from doubleness?

Will you shut the fuck up? Federico snarled, twisting his arm around the rope connected to the sails. He let go, allowing the sails to take over, guiding them to their destination. The wind was with them. The breeze carried the ship speedily, each wave pushing the bow through the deep sea.

Lucious Rex loved it here.

From the endless stretch of blue above and below to the sunlit air and the briny scent, he longed to call home. It was peaceful. A humble majesty and wicked terror all wrapped in one. An everlasting push and pull of fear and wonder, the sublime and the grotesque.

He gave a silent thanks to Addum, god of the moon, for being able to witness such a sight.

It brought memories of yesteryear and promises of days to come. Lucious thumbed his forefinger; the leather glove chafed against his skin. Not long ago, he’d been muzzled in a jarl prison, drinking his piss for water. Now he was here, on the greatest ship with a crew like no other.

Lucious took a deep breath, anchored and measured. The sail blossomed like a petal, stark white against the blue sea. The rest of the boat was solid as an oak tree, with warm browns that reminded him of his clan and hearth. Of a family no longer alive and a mother’s smile turned into agony.

All Þrælar were considered Titans in the old world. Their massive wolf forms rivaled the gods. But then came the wars and their enslavement to the jarls.

For fifteen years, Rodmin White, a jarl Zathos priest who ruled the House of Whiteford, had held him captive. Most of his youth had been wasted as the man had taken whatever pleasures he could from him. Lucious recalled the abuse with vicious clarity. The haggling old jarls thought chaining a young Þrælar wolf to a stake and batting him with swords and spears was sport.

If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the sting of the whip on the back as Rodmin had flailed him alive for giving another Þrælar his dinner. Yet the monster had never been done. Rodmin had liked to take him, rough and ruthless, stabbing his cock into him and moaning when he’d cried in pain.

Lucious could never forget how the twisted fuck had looked, with his razor-sharp eyes and bitter tongue. A priest of Zathos. Yeah, right. He was glad he’d killed the fucker. Everyone else had been collateral damage.

Lucious had never meant to be a martyr. At the time, all he’d wanted was the bastard dead, but his actions had sparked worldwide chaos, inspiring other Þrælar to rise and fight against their masters, killing jarls left, right, and center.

He smiled, thinking about the early days, when the revolution had taken shape. It began with a few bandits, Þrælar just learning how to shift and communicate in wolf form. Lucious had taken them all under his wing. After they’d killed the masters, they had been rudderless. They’d needed a leader. They’d needed someone to turn to.

Then had come the wars against the jarls. They wouldn’t be so easily overrun. However, Lucious had trained the strongest wolves to fight, instructing them to seek Addum on the full moon and shifting with them so that they knew their wolf guides. After two months, they’d had six thousand strong Þrælar, and after a year, they’d had a hundred thousand. More had joined daily, coming to Lucious with their stories of mindless rape and slaughter at the hands of jarls.

Vengeance had torn through him. It had been all he’d lived for, breathed for—nothing else had mattered. Zathos statues had toppled, buildings burned, jarls had been eaten alive by the wolves they’d enslaved.

A demon had entered him. Filled him with gluttony and bloodlust. Lucious had known nothing else. He’d wanted them all dead. Malice had taken root inside him, like a knife with rusty edges kept by one with blood on their hands.

His vision snapped. It bent, fragmented until it burst. A memory? A phantom of a ghoulish redhead that had brought him water during rough sessions with Rodmin. Laughter like wind chimes, skin whiter than snow, soft touches, and whispers of encouragement.

A jarl maiden in Whiteford House had saved his life. It’ll be all right. I will set you free. Of course, the little one hadn’t known. The minute the chains had been off, Lucious had shifted into his true form, mauling Rodmin and his wife to death. Then he’d freed the other Þrælar to do the same to their masters. Since the Þrælars did not age the same way humans did, he had ample time to get away.

Leaning over the railing, Lucious stared at his reflection in the water. His brows met regal dignity, a long sharp nose, an angular jaw, and tumbling blond locks. He gripped the sides, testing the durability of the ship. It was a slender, flexible boat, with a symmetrical end with a true keel. Like many others, this one was clinker-built, which was the overlapping of planks riveted together.

A mermaid’s head protruded from both the bow and stern for good luck. Although Lucious knew that with Addum by his side, he wouldn’t need it.

How long?

Federico came to stand beside him. Very few knew him the way Lucious did. Federico Stavka didn’t let anyone get close to him. At the very least, Lucious admired his loyalty and revered his optimism and courage.

Black, perfectly groomed hair tied in a ponytail revealed a bony, joyful face with narrow green eyes. With a pensive expression, Federico thumbed his thin lips, gazing at the men rowing. A large beard delightfully complimented his eyes and left a gracious memory of his fortunate adventures.

A week at most, Federico said. If we ever get Brodie to shut the fuck up.

You love it, bitch! Brodie chirped from his position on the side with two pairs of oars. He heaved with the other men, grunting loudly, his upper body large and straining from physical labor. Silver, frizzy hair awkwardly hung over a long, tense face. Wide gray eyes watched thoughtfully over the horizon as if they'd grieved with for so long.

A scar stretched from just under the left eye, running to the left side of his lips and ending on his left nostril. Juan and Velvel, his other crew, stood next to him, both of them ready to disembark.

Good. They were almost there.

Chapter Four

image-placeholder

"D o you think you’ll ever find her? The redhead maiden who saved