Warlord of the Titans: A Legend Reborn

By J.K. Jones

Omega Kristján Black's life is about to take a dark and dangerous turn... 

When his cousin's debt is called, Kristján is sold off like a piece of meat to the highest bidder, a ruthless warlord named Theron Decimus. 

Stripped of his identity and thrown into a world of violence and savagery, Kristján knows that his life is no

• Language: English
• Publisher: jkjonesauthor
• Release date: Oct 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781998809080

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

Age of the Barbarians

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Reykjavik, Iceland

Five years later…

Lanterns washed the room in a drunken golden haze. The floorboards creaked like old bones beneath the shifting weight of his feet, while intricate wooden carvings made up most of the outer structure. Kristján kept his gaze low, pinned to the table that was still warm from the meager meal he’d had earlier. Rats scurried around his feet, while the stench of sour milk and sweat lingered in the air.

That’s how it has to be, dearest. Nathanial’s voice was like the soft strings of a melody. He reached a delicate hand forward, long slender fingers poised to touch, but skittered away like a cockroach at the last minute.

They haven’t touched in years. Two large men loomed by the door; their hulking statures were enough to make Kristján’s knees quake. Beady eyes drilled into him, and he caught a whiff of their open disdain. Filthy skrælingjar. Well, they could fuck off to hell and back. Yet still, Kristján snaked his hands beneath the table, hiding the talon-like claws and his perked ears flattened.

B-but… Kristján’s voice was tired. Weak. Nothing but a frail squeak of nonsensical sounds.

Don’t you want to leave? Isn’t this the perfect opportunity? Nathanial cut him off, a hint of impatience in his tone. Come now, it won’t be for too long.

The words made his head snap up. He gazed at Nathanial disbelieving before his eyes darted to the men by the door carrying heavy iron chains. A viperous grin slithered over Nathanial’s lips, and his black hair cascaded over his broad shoulders, pooling on his lap like ink. Pale as the moon, Nathanial’s peach blossom eyes were curved with mocking laughter, and his pink lips were the color of red wine.

Cousin, he half moaned and half pouted. Don’t you want to do this favor for me?

Acid sloshed around in Kristján’s stomach. Favor? How the fuck was any of this a favor? Nathanial always had this way of twisting things, downplaying the seriousness by cooing noises. The reality was that Kristján was being sent to his death and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

He wanted to spit, but instead, his hands curled around his ratty clothing. Nathanial’s shirt gaped at the collar into a large V-neck; his slender hands were those of prestige, while he dripped with diamonds and jewels. Kristján wished to the Gods he’d choke on them.

A knot swelled in Kristján’s throat, and tears burned his eyes. This was it. There was no going back now. Nathanial was a Þrælar of nobility, his status worth more than gold. They both knew Kristján couldn’t refuse. Not if he wanted to keep his head and neck intact.

It’ll be a few years at most, Nathanial continued, drumming his fingers on the table. You’ll be back before you know it.

Kristján didn’t dare argue. If he did, he’d cut Nathanial to pieces in one fell swoop. Yet, Kristján refrained. He was smarter than that. Although they were cousins, the skrælingjar had no rights and Nathanial could decide to just kill him and be done with it. Where…will they take me?

Nathanial stood suddenly. He swept across the room, intoxicating the air with his sweet scent of pear cider. He walked toward an old picture hanging on the door. It was of the three of them when Nathanial came to visit as a child, towering over Kristján with their arms around each other, while Kristján’s mother hugged them from behind. Nathanial thumbed the photo gracefully, but his brow twitched, and darkness clouded his features.

Fear seized him by the throat.

Kristján wanted to jump up and snatch the photo off the wall to stop him from crushing it. Nathanial’s mouth curled in disgust, before he pivoted sharply, forcing a waxy smile.

To Dalvík, he said. You’ll be back in no time. Now, I really must be going, so say goodbye and we’ll be on our way.

Kristján choked on despair, tears brimmed before spilling over, but he hung his head and did what his cousin commanded. The journey to the backroom felt endless. Kristján felt as if he were walking in slow motion, his body on autopilot. Opening the door, his heart thundered in his chest when he took in his mother lying on the cot.

Kristján fell to his knees, fisting the blanket as he sobbed. Her pale skin was chalky, covered in a thin film of sweat while her cheeks were hollowed. Her lungs rattled with every breath, like the sound of coins in a basket, and Kristján knew this would be the last time he ever saw her.

Don’t be afraid, Mother used to say, cupping his cheek. Kristján’s mother had been raped by a jarl noble. When her Þrælar family found out, they disowned her, forcing her out of the house and into the streets. Skrælingjar were considered rare, an abomination due to the intense hatred between jarls and the Þrælar, a sick amalgamation fused with dark magic.

Mother! Kristján cried, burying his face in the cot. I’m sorry.

She got sick several months ago with yellow fever. Kristján worked at the factory for years before they fired him when new management took over. They didn’t want someone as disgusting as a skrælingjar to be seen by their customers. Kristján had been forced to do odd jobs here and there, but they never kept him for long and it was mostly out of pity.

Dearest? Nathanial called from the kitchen. Are you almost ready?

Kristján clenched his jaw so tight that it nearly snapped. He pressed a kiss to his mother’s forehead, inhaling deeply, trying to imprint the memory of her in his mind forever. Then he stood, gathered what belongings he could, and threw on his beige cloak. The white fleece shirt hung off his lithe frame. Apart from the tears and stains, it kept him relatively dry from the bitter cold.

Kristján’s pants stopped at his ankles and were torn at the kneecaps, while his shoes had more holes than anything else. He packed what he could, biting his lip as the tears refused to stop falling, and threw the knapsack over his back. He turned back to his mother lying on the cot, her body still as if she were asleep, but Kristján knew otherwise.

The doctor told him by tonight she would be dead.

There was nothing he could do. No burial. No gifts to Addum, God of the Moon. Nothing to guide her soul to the netherworld. Maggots already writhed in her toes, and the rats would feast on her tonight. A shudder ripped across his skin, but he forced himself to keep moving. He blew out the candles and turned off the lights; his heart clenched when the door was firmly closed.

Nathanial was pacing the kitchen, irises the color of liquid gold. Finally, he breathed out, but it was poised like a knife over his chest. Come along now. Your new adventure awaits.

Kristján wiped the tears from his cheeks; he felt chilled to the bone. Who did you sell me to?

Never mind all that. Nathanial waved his hand dismissively. He slipped the photo into the bag holding all Kristján’s belongings. It’s only for a little while, trust me. Now come, this place is making my skin itch.

The man took his bag and clasped his hands in chains. Kristján kept his head low as they walked him out of the only home he’d ever known like he was some prisoner. At night, the street was still bustling with people. Few stopped and stared, but Kristján ignored them. Nathanial brought him to a small carriage, then pivoted abruptly.

"Oh. Nathanial laughed, but something ferocious glinted in his eyes. There’s no room inside! You understand, right, dearest? Plus, you’re used to walking, aren’t you? The ride will be quick, don’t you worry. We’ll just chain you to the back to make sure you don’t escape. I can’t have my asset running off, now can I?"

Crisp winter air slapped at his skin, snatching the little warmth he had left. Kristján bit his tongue until it bled. He said nothing as they chained him to the back of the carriage, and the horse took off at a moderate speed, slow enough for him to keep up.

Nathanial was always like this. He never cared. Even if they were cousins, to him Kristján was nothing. A yellow stain upon pure white snow. Nobody knew of their relations, and Nathanial would rather die than tell anyone. Grief settled like a shard in his chest. Kristján tried to breathe around it, but his lungs cinched tighter and tighter.

He looked back at his house, watching it fade in the distance until it became an indistinguishable speck.

Ridged hands and floral scents made the edges of his vision blur.

Nathanial had sold him to clear his debts.

As if his life was worth nothing more than a penny.

Chapter Two

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"W hat the fuck is this, Nathanial?" the man spat, arms folding over his chest. Fur adorned his shoulders, his leather breastplate was glossy in the night, and his ginger hair was shaved close to his scalp. His eyes were hardened evergreens, set into a fierce glare while the rest of the men loaded the ship.

The silver-white moon hung above their heads, casting a milky glow along the surface of the sea. A wintry wind blew harshly, covering the man’s vermillion beard in frost.

My gift to you. Nathanial’s voice was light as a feather, his hands splayed, and his lips quirked into a coy smile. Dearest, this is the best I could come up with.

It’s a fucking skrælingjar, the man sneered. Take it away before you scare off my men.

Pshh! Nathanial admonished. Don’t be rude. Kristján is perfectly capable of working off my debt as we agreed.

"I didn’t agree to jack shit, you mad fuck—"

But if you’re not satisfied…perhaps you wouldn’t mind if my father found out?

The man looked like he wanted to spit fire, his face flushing furiously. Dammit. You’re a ruthless bitch.

Excellent. Nathanial beamed, clasping his hands together. I’ll take my leave now. Kristján is a good boy, not like that other filthy skrælingjar. You have nothing to worry about.

The ocean breeze tousled Kristján’s thin shirt, and tears burned his eyes again when he took in the massive ship that sat brazenly magnificent on top of still waters. Rotten fish filled his nostrils, the stench making him almost gag, while the light mist of brine left a salty taste in his mouth. The men’s gazes were penetrating as they sized him up one by one. A skrælingjar on a ship was just like inviting a curse.

Kristján swallowed around the blockage in his throat, knees quivering as they finalized the deal. If that’s it then, I’ll take my leave—

Panic made him start. Heart pounding, he reached out to grip Nathanial’s arm tightly.

White rage flashed in Nathanial’s eyes before he stamped it down quickly, his smile stuck like porcelain. What is it, dearest?

Mother, he said, throat feeling like sandpaper. Make sure you bury her. Make sure—

Of course! Nathanial cooed, slowly wrenching his arm away. She’ll get the finest care. My most capable doctors are on their way there now. I promise. Don’t worry about a thing. Then he looked away and sighed. "I really must be going now. Be a good boy. Okay? I’ll see you soon."

Lies. All of it.

Kristján nearly choked from the weight of it. Bastard. His mother had nursed him when he was sick. Dried his tears. Listened. Loved. But to men like Nathanial, all of that was meaningless now. Hatred brimmed to a boiling point. Meanwhile, Nathanial carried on heedlessly.

Nathanial brushed up on the man, pressing an icy kiss to his cheek and releasing a heady scent of pheromones. The bristling alpha calmed immediately; his rough hands curled around the trunk of Nathanial’s swan neck. You should’ve just let me fuck you… he said gruffly. That would’ve been payment enough.

Nathanial teased his nose over the man’s lips, dipping forward to steal a kiss. I’m engaged… he whispered heatedly. What kind of omega would I be?

"The filthy kind. The man’s voice deepened. The best kind."

You’d like that wouldn’t you? Nathanial’s hand slipped to the front part of the man’s pants; he massaged his bulge until he began to stiffen beneath his fingers. You’d invoke the wrath of King Titus just to fuck me?

Yeah, right, the man scoffed. He’s too busy fucking the jarls to notice. Useless prick. The Arctic demon? What a joke. More like the Arctic bitch.

"Soon," Nathanial growled, pressing up against him, moving his hand faster and faster.

The man’s face grew heated. He grabbed Nathanial’s wrist roughly. Don’t start something you can’t finish.

Nathanial’s lips tugged into a smile. "You win…will you take him? For me? Please?"

The man made a strange noise in his throat, then released Nathanial. "Fine. You owe me. Big."

And I always pay my debts, Nathanial sang, then flittered off with the wind, leaving Kristján standing there in the mud. The man’s eyes snapped back to Kristján, his throat bobbed, and he stroked his beard. "Fuck, he cursed again and shook his head. Follow me."

Nathanial’s beauty was that of an icicle. It was as cold and alluring as it was deadly. There’s no doubt Ikses, the God of Winter, would be jealous.

Kristján could only pray that the Gods made his dick rot off.

The man boarded the ship. Kristján trailed behind, his chains dragging on the floorboards. Various men scurried around the helm. They all stilled the moment Kristján came aboard, their eyes widening in shock. Don’t mind them, just stay close to me, the man said guiding him to the deck below to a single room; inside there was one small bunk bed and a night table. The air was dank but warm from the bitter cold. Put on these. He handed Kristján woolen clothes and shoes, which were much better than the ones he had on. "In the morning, you’ll start your shift, clean out the chamber pots, wash the deck, and after you’ll be sent to work in the kitchen. My name is Narfi Gýmisson, our crew is named the White Shark Raiders, and the ship is called the Black Riff."

Kristján nodded trying to take it all on. Although he’d be a slave here, he might as well make the best of it. Narfi’s face was enclosed by shadow as he regarded him for a moment.

How old are you?

Eighteen, Kristján replied.

Have you had your first heat?

Kristján felt his cheeks warm. He stared down at the floor, twiddling his thumb. Since skrælingjar were so rare, things like heats and ruts weren’t normally discussed because their designation usually came very late. The mutual hatred between the Þrælar and jarls made them both steer clear of skrælingjar in public, but in private they were raped and brutalized by both. Kristján hasn’t had his first heat yet, but he could tell from various other skrælingjar omegas that it wouldn’t be welcomed. Most of them were sold to brothels or beaten to death in the trenches, their clothes stripped away while they lay naked in the gutter.

Kristján never hated his designation more.

His heart throbbed, but he willed his voice to be steady. Not yet.

You’ll lock yourself in here when it’s close to your time. We can’t have you inciting violence amongst the men, even if you are a skrælingjar. Some of the men haven’t fucked in months. You’ll be wise to remember that, Narfi warned.

Dread pooled in his stomach and his hands curled around his clothes.

Narfi cocked his brow, then leaned in taking a whiff of his scent. You’re pretty…I don’t like pretty. It’s dangerous. In fact, you look just like your cousin…if not better. He inched forward, crowding Kristján’s space. Too bad you’re a filthy skrælingjar or else I’d have you bent over the nearest desk. Luckily for you, your cousin’s debt will be paid in full once we’ve docked in Dalvík… Narfi’s eyes drank him in hungrily.

Heat flamed his skin. Pheromones marinated the air, filling it with the heavy scent of sandalwood. Kristján’s chest heaved. He backed up as far as he could go, hands braced against the night table.

Until then, you’ll keep your mouth shut. There is a prisoner on board. High profile. Only you will feed him. Only you will attend to him. He’s drugged. Delirious. He attacks all my men, but he won’t attack you… Narfi inhaled loudly. That’s only because you’re pretty.

Bile surged in his throat, and Kristján turned his face away, trying to stamp down his growing fear. Narfi’s hand pinched his backside, and the ends of his beard tickled Kristján’s throat. Blood thundered in his ears, and Kristján tensed as nimble fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pants. If you do this, I might reward you with your freedom… Narfi said breathlessly, hot air cascading over Kristján’s cheek. Understood?

Yes, Kristján forced through clenched teeth.

Good. Narfi backed away. I’ll come to get you tomorrow when you start your shift. Sweet dreams.

Kristján’s knees nearly buckled. All the air fled in his lungs and dizziness swept over him like a tidal wave. Damn alpha. He gritted his teeth, hands curling around the night table in a white-knuckled grip. What the hell was he going to do? Kristján looked at the clean clothes and the small basin of rapidly cooling water in his room. He took off his rags and climbed in, using a bar of soap to clean the dirt caked on his skin.

There was a mirror on the door, and Kristján stepped out of the tub to stare at himself.

Pretty. The word felt like sneered mockery. Skrælingjars were anything but pretty. Two large gray wolf ears twitched over his head, while his thin bloodless lips curled over his teeth, his canines long and sharp. His eyes were too wide, a pair of beseeching orbs of burned leaves and swirling greens, while his black hair sat like a mop of curls on his scalp, the tendrils framing his face and the nape of his neck.

Not pretty. Ugly. Abomination.

Kristján almost drove his fist through the mirror.

You’ll always be beautiful, Kristján, his mother used to say, pressing a kiss to his temple. Bitter tears slipped from his eyes, and he changed into the woolen clothes, sighing because they felt thick and plush against his skin. The room was quaint, and most of the cabin was kept in mint condition. He folded onto the bed, tears drenching the pillow, and fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Three

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The barge was a red cherry upon sunlit waters. Kristján gripped the edge of the ship, gazing out into the horizon. The sails were pretty as white petals, tinted a bluish-gold. Crates, chests, and barrels lined the solid oak walls, the browns reminding him of home and hearth.

Tears cooled on his skin, and amidst the swirling tide, his brows met icy water with regal dignity, sending a silent prayer to Addum as his home was wrenched from his grasp.

Get back to work, a voice snapped behind him, kicking over the bucket of water he was using to wash the deck. Kristján scurried to pick it up, the dirty water spilling over and muddying all the progress he’d made in the last hour. The place was an open cesspool.

The rest of the men snickered, their sunken eyes greedily watching him. Anger flared inside his chest, but he stamped it down quickly. It was no use in a place like this. The more he reacted, the more they found reasons to provoke him. Most skrælingjar received the brunt of their disgust anyway.

Kristján was so used to being kicked in the dirt that he didn’t even know what it felt like to be clean anymore. Bastards. He cursed the lot of them. He began mopping again, ignoring the sneers behind him as the world narrowed down to one task.

The Black Riff was a disgusting place. Filled to the brim with sordid men, criminals escaping all kinds of punishments. Narfi watched from the quarterdeck, his red beard a brilliant flame as he shouted orders to his men on the docks. Every time their eyes met, Kristján wanted to sink beneath the floorboards.

Narfi had dragged him out of his room in the wee hours of the morning, putting him to work in the kitchens, cleaning and doing the dishes, and emptying chamber pots. Most of it would’ve been fine, if Narfi didn’t insist on watching, then patting, Kristján’s ass whenever he needed to bend lower for an exceptionally harder task. It would get worse before it got better.

Kristján was well informed about vile men. His mother made sure he kept a small dagger in his shoe just in case. More than once he’d had to fight off his fair share of alphas who got too handsy. For now, he’d bide his time until he could figure out a way to escape.

Skrælingjar! a man called. The captain is requesting you.

Placing the mop and bucket aside, he headed toward the quarterdeck, but the minute he stepped away it was kicked over again. Kristján flinched as the water spilled, the murky water sloshing against his feet. Laughter rang like bells behind him, but he kept moving to ignore the jeers.

Narfi’s fur coat pooled around his knees, while the sun licked over his scalp, covering it in a golden haze. He kept his hand on his axe, body poised, and he turned when Kristján approached him.

Skrælingjar, Narfi clipped, lips curling into a smile. You missed a spot.

Rage quickened his blood. It thrummed through his veins hot and thick threatening to overwhelm him. It was too much. Kristján tried to breathe around it, but it lodged in his throat like a thorn. Mother’s death was like a boot against his chest. He felt raw, beaten. There was no way out.

Narfi’s eyes were black beady pits, devouring every reaction as if starved. Kristján’s back straightened, but it was too late to hide