Chapter 16 Rhea #2
The room feels claustrophobic, its walls lined with shelves of leather-bound books I'd bet my life he's never read. A single window allows weak morning light to filter through, catching the dust motes swirling in the air.
"This meeting could have waited," Craven says, shuffling papers on his desk with exaggerated importance. "I have the ball to prepare for."
My teeth clench. The realm continues to suffer, Heratrix has returned after a millennium, and this fool worries about a ball?
"With respect, Your Majesty," Tahr's voice flows smooth as honey, "the sooner we act against the Screechclaws, the more lives we will save."
Craven's face contorts with barely concealed disdain. He looks like he's trying not to roll his eyes, and my fingers itch to slap the petulant expression off his face.
"Lives," he repeats flatly. "How very noble of you to concern yourself with the common folk, Lord Flarebane."
I dig my nails into my palms to keep from saying something I'll regret. This man, this joke of a king, has held the fate of Embernia in his soft, uncalloused hands for too long.
I feel Tahr's consciousness brushing against my mind, a familiar pressure like fingers testing a locked door. As panic rises in my throat, my first instinct is to balk, but I refrain. Right now, I have to let him in. This is what we planned.
—Zephyros? I call.
—I am here. His deep voice rumbles through me, steady as stone. I will watch his every move.
I loosen my mental shields enough to let Tahr sense my surface thoughts—determination, focus on the mission, impatience with Craven—but keep my core doubts hidden behind layers of protection Zephyros has helped me build.
This is why I'm still here, playing this dangerous game. Not for Tahr, whom I no longer trust, but for Embernia. If Craven's mind must be molded, it will be by my hand, not Tahr's. I need to ensure the realm's fate remains the priority, not whatever ulterior motives Tahr might harbor.
—Ready, darling? His voice slides into my mind, smooth and practiced.
—Ready. I force confidence I don't entirely feel into the response.
King Craven drones on about logistics and appearances, completely oblivious to the silent conversation happening right in front of him. His hand waves in the air, and I find myself fixating on it as we prepare to reshape Embernia's future.
Together, Tahr and I slip into Craven's mind like thieves into an unguarded treasury. I expect the chaotic jumble of voices—the Strepitus that blocked me before—but instead find smooth passage.
The first sensation hits me like a physical blow. Fear. Not ordinary anxiety or nervousness, but primal terror that claws at my consciousness. It's raw, visceral panic that makes my heart thunder in my chest as if it were my own.
I see flashes through Craven's eyes—shadowy figures with talons, scales erupting from human skin, wings unfurling where there should be none. My muscles coil, ready to spring, run, hide, escape whatever is coming for me. The terror is so complete, I nearly bolt for the door.
But it's not my fear.
I bite the inside of my cheek. The sharp pain anchors me to reality, and along with Tahr, I push past the initial layer of turbulent emotions.
Doubt swirls like a cyclone. Distrust festers like an open wound.
Hatred burns cold and relentless. But beneath it all, actual thoughts form a different narrative than his external babbling about tonight's ball.
—Could Father have been wrong? he asks himself. Could all those dusty records be mistaken?
Images flash through his mind of a young Craven bent over those texts, his father's hand cracking across his face when he questioned something. Hour after hour of memorization. The prophecy. Warnings. Elaborate contingency plans handed down through generations of Stonefalls.
—They said Heratrix's rider would be from an ancient lineage. That Omneira would be born of tragedy and loss. That one would ensure I keep the throne while the other one saves Embernia.
Confusion clouds his thoughts as he stares at Tahr and me, trying to match us with those descriptions. He fears we don't align with what he was forced to memorize since childhood.
A soft thrum begins inside Craven's mind. It's subtle at first—a gentle vibration like distant wingbeats. It's the same soothing rhythm Zephyros uses when my thoughts threaten to spiral out of control. But this isn't coming from Zephyros. The vibration emanates from Tahr.
The sensation grows stronger, more insistent.
I watch with fascination as Craven's lips slow their movement mid-sentence about introducing us to all the royals.
His eyes glaze slightly. The fear and panic coursing through his thoughts begins to settle, like a turbulent sea calmed by an unnatural wind.
The thrum builds until I feel it resonating in my own chest, making my teeth ache. Craven falls completely silent. His shoulders drop. His breathing slows. The manic energy that had him bouncing between topics evaporates. He looks up at us with a vacant, expectant expression.
Tahr catches my eye and nods. His meaning is clear. It's my turn to reshape Craven's malleable mind, just like we practiced beneath the mountain.
I swallow hard, thinking of Fern's innocent face when I first tried this technique.
The way she danced and did cartwheels across the cavern floor, her small body moving like a puppet's while I pulled the strings inside her mind.
That sweet child, always asking to visit the surface even after the Screechclaws razed Hearthdale to smoldering ash, an attack I don't fully understand up to this day, but which I suspect had something to do with Heratrix’s presence there.
I stare at the King's vacant expression and something cold slithers down my spine.
What am I becoming? I've never controlled anyone beyond mere games.
Fern was a willing subject, giggling as I made her dance and pirouette.
This is different. This is violation. Craven is a sovereign—however pathetic—a man who believes himself protected by his draught and trusts that no one can reach inside his skull and rearrange his thoughts like furniture.
Yet here I stand, poised to do exactly that.
A nauseating feeling assaults me. My mother would be horrified.
Vaylen would look at me with even more disgust if he could see me now.
But the alternative? Let the war rage on?
Let more villages burn like Hearthdale? Let more children grow up orphaned like Vaylen or scarred like me? More mothers bury their children?
No. Some lines must be crossed for the greater good. Some sins are necessary.
He deserves this manipulation, I tell myself, staring at Craven's slack expression. This spineless king has spent his life worried about balls and not Embernia's safety while all along he sent others to die.
I steel myself and reach out with my power.
Craven’s mind is a labyrinth of darkness, a twisted maze of thoughts and memories that churn with sickening intensity. I navigate it methodically, picking through each passage with careful detachment, but the revelations seep into my very soul like poison.
Images flash before me.
A serving girl, no older than sixteen, stumbles with his evening meal. Wine splashes onto the pristine tablecloth.
"Guards," his voice rings coldly. "Take her to the dungeons."
The memory shifts. Some time later, someone asks what to do about the girl, and he tells them not to bother him with things like that again, to let her rot.
A courtesan weeps, clutching her bruised cheek.
"Please, Your Majesty, I meant no disrespect.
" His hand rises again, crashing down with cruelty.
He enjoys her fear, the power it gives him.
This isn't an isolated incident. Dozens of women's faces blur together in a montage of abuse, all bearing the same terrified expressions.
The most horrifying memories are of the children. Girls, barely old enough for their first blood, brought to his bedchamber like presents. My mind recoils from what follows, but I can't escape the darkness of his thoughts.
Worse still are the babes. His own blood.
Illegitimate children born to servants and courtesans, quietly disposed of like refuse.
"Make certain there's no trace," he instructs a hooded figure.
Gold changes hands while innocent lives are snuffed out.
"When I take a queen, there can be no complications to the line of succession. "
Each revelation buries itself like shrapnel in my soul. This man isn't merely weak or selfish, he's monstrous. A creature who wears the crown while Embernia bleeds. I want to vomit. I want to hit him. I want to drive a Wind Dagger through his black heart.
Whatever qualms I had vanish like mist before fire. This man, this creature doesn't deserve the crown he wears or the breath he draws. The fate of becoming our puppet is far gentler than what his victims received.
I plunge deeper into his mind, finding the malleable center where thoughts form before actions. Under Tahr's humming vibration that keeps Craven docile, I begin reshaping his consciousness with care.
His thoughts ripple in acceptance, absorbing my words the way parched earth drinks rain. With each command, I feel him bending, reshaping to my will. No resistance. No fight. Just surrender.
—And you will never harm another woman or child, I add in the end, unable to contain my disgust. Never again. If you do, you will jump from a high tower to your death.
As I withdraw from his mind, leaving him blinking in confusion, I feel no remorse, only cold certainty that some monsters deserve to be caged, even within their own skulls.