Chapter 75 Charnel House
CHARNEL HOUSE
VALE
Vale roughly scrubbed his hand over his jaw, feeling the shadow of rough hair beneath his palm.
"Godsdamn it." The King stared at the wax seal, bearing the crest of Medius, which rested on the low table before him.
It was quiet, save for the gentle breeze filtering through. The others were all away, breaking apart and doing their part to get Luella back. Scattered across the Isles and beyond, each unraveling in their own way as they hunted her down.
Graves was away, sending his spies to the furthest reaches for any hint of the Tenebrae’s movements.
His Knight was also doing what he did best: working in the shadows and spying in his own way.
Vale had barely seen the male return, his amulet hanging around his chest, wings gone, as he shifted from raven to male, stumbling to his rooms to rest.
Graves’s screams carried through the night like an omen. In the morning, he’d reappear, wings once more unfurled, eyes bloodshot and shadows beneath his eyes—and his dark, feathered wings once more at his back.
No one dared speak of it.
Tharen had turned the prison island into a charnel house.
He came back coated in gore, pieces of flesh matted in his hair, and his eyes reflected nothing but violent glee.
The Prima was breaking, and if Vale weren’t too, he’d find it somewhat intriguing that Tharen was finally giving in to their Vincire.
Azgorath was despondent. Vale thought the only thing to break through was the mere mention of Luella’s name.
He’d stare at a wall, head bowed, fingers running over the curved edges of his horns, and once her name was uttered, it was as if a trance was broken.
No longer the indolent demon, but a fearsome protector.
And Bastian was a shrunken husk of his prior self. He’d lost weight, denying himself blood, drinking only enough to keep going, like he’d be content to allow himself to be eaten from the inside out.
Vale pressed his palms to his eyes. The breeze knocked against the curtains and made the hooks clink constantly.
Clink. Clink.
Each sound echoed in his heart, the thrum of his blood in his veins, the clicking of his dragon’s talons against his ribcage.
A mad desperation tugged at him.
He was unbalanced, teetering on the edge of insanity.
His dragon perked his head, sensing a weakness. If the beast had his way, Vale would have fucking shifted and flown straight into the heart of Luna, uncaring of the dangers that awaited.
Go to her.
She is ours.
Protect. Keep her safe.
Ours.
Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine—
Vale roared. "Shut up!"
He gripped his golden hair and tugged, eyes wild. He felt his pupils turning to slits. His skin rippled, an onyx scale surfacing on his forearm, glittering in the candlelight. He forced the shift down with a shudder of agony.
"Gods, I need—" Vale’s words broke off.
What did he need?
Sanity? Her?
Both?
Ours. We need her in our hoard. Safe. Amongst our jewels. Pretty flesh sparkling. Naked and cloaked in furs. A warm fire, alone. Safe, safe. Sated. Languid eyes and soft breaths. Hide her where no one can find her, where no one can hurt her.
Mark her.
Take.
Claim.
Vale shuddered at the imagery.
But there was one thing his dragon did not account for.
The dragon huffed, smoke tickling the back of Vale’s throat. They can be there too. But we claim her first.
Vale lowered his voice, aware that, at any moment, the others could return and hear the nature of his seemingly one-sided conversation. "You would let them in our hoard?"
Have before.
"When the castle fell, we needed a brief haven. But that was out of necessity. Make no mistake, the next time we get her in our hoard, it will be for pleasure, not need."
The dragon flicked his forked tongue out over his long-pointed teeth. Why not both? We can make her sweat, cloaked in jewels. Ours. I will share, but only after we have the first taste. His words hissed at the end, a long, drawn-out thing.
It was so enticing, Vale almost sighed at the mere thought.
But the seal of the letter before him broke him from such musings. He could not be afforded the luxury of dreams, not while she was out there, suffering unimaginable horrors.
Their bond was muted; they’d tried everything to reach her. Not even Bastian’s Mind magic could work.
If the absence of the rain was to be believed, she could be… dead. But Vale refused to believe that. She was not.
No, no. Ours. Safe. Take.
The dragon echoed Vale’s thoughts until he had no thoughts, except for those of her and what it would take to godsdamned bring her back.
He found himself reaching for the letter, nail lengthening into a sharp point which he used to break the wax seal. He slid the parchment free, and he read—
With each word read, Vale found his jaw clenched so tightly his molars threatened to snap.
His gaze snagged on the last lines, lingering there:
If your war prize should declare she is with you of her own will, Medius will consider aid.
It was nothing of consequence. A last-ditch effort to subdue his beast. The human kingdom did not wish to cause strife. They were an ally, but even allies to Serpentis were lukewarm contenders at best.
He squeezed the parchment until the edges tore.
If Luella were to publicly proclaim she was with him of her own volition, would that turn the opinion of the other kingdoms in their favor? Would it allow them to freely offer up aid? A plan began to take form in Vale’s mind. But… was she with him of her own free will?
Luella was not. She had been taken, stolen, forced to play the part of a prize of war. And it seemed the other kingdoms knew this. Serpentis was not the only kingdom with a history of war prizes or violence. But because it was Serpentis, with Vale as King, they hated merely because they could.
Show them our strength, the dragon urged. Tear apart anything standing between us and her.
"Are they wrong?" Vale murmured, staring at the stack of letters. The one from Medius had contained a single line of hope, a shred that he should tear into pieces, but he could not bring himself to. "I have done such terrible evil, and for what cause? She has been taken from me regardless."
There was a strange burning in his eyes.
He tried to blink it away, but could not.
Slowly, a single tear dripped from his lashes, falling to the back of his hand, where he still held the quill.
He turned his hand, watching the tear slip down past his rings, until it ran down the line of the quill, turning the ink there watery as it plinked onto the table.
As if entranced, Vale found himself reaching for an empty sheet of parchment, placing the quill’s tip at the top of the empty page. Emptiness, begging to be filled, and he had so many thoughts in his mind, begging to be free.
How did he start?
Mate, hissed the dragon.
Vale started with her name, beauty in simplicity, as the words tumbled from a place deep inside him.
His hand stilled after the first paragraph.
Vale sighed. "This is stupid."
But he was compelled to continue, never one to give up or give in.
He found himself etching the words onto the parchment until the tip of the quill bent and ink bled onto the page.
Vale wrote for so long the candle burned out, and he had to light another.
He huffed as he wrote a long-overdue explanation.
Laughter shifted to anger, then acceptance.
As he wrote the very last words, he found a mellow sense of peace suffuse his body.
The ending felt abrupt, devoid of life, so he added one final line, desperate to keep the Luella of his imagination—the one he imagined hovering over his shoulder, reading as he wrote—content.