3. Chapter Three #2
Concealed by the exuberant shops and steeples, lived the truth few admitted to.
Down by the warehouses spitting smog, presided another city called the outer banks, the true forgotten of Alogan.
They slept in tents and sucked on bones.
They filled the workhouses and survived off scraps, many of whom saved Alogan from a second destruction.
Over the years, he pondered if the city deserved the first end and should have stayed that way.
Fearworn could have wiped Alogan off the map, ending the Ellis family line, who sat on their thrones spewing tales of victory while those who brought that victory died.
Not just on the battlefront, but cowering on the city streets they were forced to protect.
The Vandervult estate didn’t sit far from the streets of Alogan.
A stretch of trees led them to the brightened roadways where stores closed shop for the night.
The buildings hugged one another, rarely separated by alleys and artifacts, as if the city sought warmth from the neighbors.
Stone structures, once believed to be columns, erupted from the soil.
Lamplight cast the world in a low orange glow, illuminating the silhouettes of inhabitants meandering the streets.
The carriage passed his favorite book store where old tomes cluttered the windows and the sign swung in the evening breeze.
At the next turn, Charmaine’s favorite pastry shop, where she grabbed breakfast, stood out with its pink painted exterior.
The further into the city they went, the more the landscape changed from shops and run down residences to upscale homes with their gated yards and high steeples.
The castle painted the horizon in harsh white stone, looming from the heart of the city.
Ladies in puffy dresses and men in top hats gathered in their carriages to join the celebration.
“We won’t stay long,” Robert explained. “After the royals and fae lords are announced, there may be a speech or two. We’ll greet His Majesty, then take our leave.”
“Don’t forget, we will speak to the king concerning William’s missing patients, too,” Richard said.
He tapped the satchel containing all he and Charmaine had collected.
He didn’t have the manpower to offer more.
He could hardly leave the clinic for long, considering he was the only on-call doctor.
Others donated their time occasionally, but they had businesses to run so they weren’t too reliable.
He couldn’t ask them to tend to his clinic while he searched the streets for a kidnapper, either.
Robert sighed, as if reminding himself his sons weren’t teenagers he could chastise. “You’re a force to be reckoned with, Richard, but we both know how the king will feel about this.”
“He cannot ignore us in a room full of guests,” William countered, although a sweat had taken him since the moment they departed.
“But he can insist on seeking an audience in private another day, and that day will never come,” Robert countered.
“You say that, and yet, you fight against him. You’ve convinced him to fund our clinics.”
Robert clenched the head of his cane. William didn’t mean to remind his father of how he was sent to war in the first place. He worried bringing up the war or anything he went through would hurt Robert all the more, so he chose not to say anything, but the damage had been done.
Robert heaved a long breath through his nostrils. “His Majesty does what he believes will make him look best. When you inform him that the homeless are going missing, he will be pleased. Most people don’t care about the less fortunate. In fact, they are often glad to be rid of them.”
Robert brushed the curtains aside. They passed through the iron gates warded by roaring lions carved from granite.
Rumors claimed the lions would rise and protect their king should unwelcome visitors pass, gifted to the Ellis family by fae upon the signing of the Collision Treaty.
Rumors also said they would slay the royals one day so fae could take their place, but William had been around enough fae to know they didn’t care about mortal royalty.
“This isn’t a few people. We’ve counted seven in the last two months. There is darkness in this city. We must get to the bottom of it,” William countered as the carriage slowed behind the procession.
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t, but I am saying His Majesty isn’t the route to take,” Robert said.
Richard settled a hand on their father’s shoulder. “There is no need to worry. We have a plan.”
That would hopefully work. William itched his left arm. His right, the silver monstrosity, never itched, but it felt pain. Of course, fae would ensure that.
“I suppose there is nothing wrong with trying, but please don’t take offense if his answer isn’t what you hoped for,” Robert said.
William didn’t hope for much. If the king acknowledged their request, that may be enough. The authorities could get involved. Even if they weren’t dedicated to the cause, extra eyes and ears on the streets would work wonders.
The carriage came to a halt, and the door opened.
Robert stepped into the golden light followed by Richard, who earned the crowd’s attention.
Guests called out to him requesting his ear this evening.
Richard laughed, saying his hellos and greetings while William and Charmaine shuffled along at his back.
Lanterns hung from strings tied around towering columns lining the stairwell. Visitors whispering to one another over the grandeur passed the double doors into the palace. William cursed every step, wishing the mortar would crack beneath his feet.
Inside, a floral scent overwhelmed his senses. He wished to gag and spit across the immaculate marble floor shined so well it reflected the guest’s silhouettes. Butlers dressed in finely tailored black suits, faces disguised by indistinguishable white masks, guided the guests.
Guests filtered into the adjoining room, a long ballroom decorated in yellow draped silks.
Chandeliers hung low, glittering in silver and gold.
Fae and mortals alike filled the ballroom, though none could deny the separation.
Fae flocked together along the opposite end of the room by the double staircase leading to the balcony on the second floor.
The kings and fae lords would descend from there.
“Let’s keep back here,” he whispered.
Charmaine didn’t need to hear him say it; he wanted to avoid Nicholas. The simple thought of Nicholas strangled a breath from his throat. He snatched a glass of wine from a passing butler and downed the beverage in one gulp.
Robert hummed in warning. He didn’t understand. None other than the surviving soldiers understood the evening’s tension.
William’s mind raced with possibilities, how it’d be easy for an enemy to strike.
The bright ballroom and loud music put a target on their backs.
Every wall had an exit, three further into the interior of the castle and one to the gardens.
With the amount of guests, an attack would incite panic.
There would be a stampede, so he kept himself close to the door.
One hand lingered at his back by the blade tucked beneath his uniform.
Soldiers crowded the room. Many shared similar expressions; dead-eyed and tired.
They wished to be free, to escape this torment.
In his case, he hoped to escape without seeing Nicholas.
That damned fae haunted him for too long.
He took root in William’s heart. He was a ghost appearing in the dim morning light, pretending to be capable of love.
Not long after their arrival, horns blared, and the crowd surged.
The pressure between them had William gulping for air.
He saw the battlefield, the last fight. Fearworn’s monsters raining from the sky.
Rifles in his peripheral. Soldiers crying, begging, snarling, doing whatever they could to survive.
He couldn’t breathe, thinking of all the blood upon his fingers, bodies broken beneath his cracked fingernails, and Fearworn’s final attack ripping through his body, taking pieces of him.
A fierce hand gripped his arm. “Take a breath,” Charmaine whispered, sounding as panicked as he.
He heaved through his nostrils. Shutting his eyes, he told himself where he was. The king’s ballroom. Fearworn was dead. The war ended. They were far from war, safe.
When his eyes opened, he and Charmaine gazed upon the second floor landing where a man wearing a peculiar feathered hat announced the arrival of their royals.
First came King Ellis, adorned in enough gold to sink a ship.
His crimson cloak billowed at his back as he descended, hands raised as if to stop the applause.
Next came King Shepherd of the Krenia Kingdom, where Fearworn took his last breath.
King Shepherd was equally bejeweled, albeit older in years.
He walked crookedly, back bent and most of his weight held by a thick cane.
Then the fae followed. Their silhouettes swam in his blotchy vision.
His heart rang in his ears, louder when Laurent appeared.
Even in plain navy robes, Laurent had more presence than any in the room.
It was his eyes, the way he held himself, like he believed beyond any doubt how better he was.
White gems hung from his antlers, appearing like fallen snow.
He was ethereal in every sense of the word, deceiving in his beauty.
And at his side was Nicholas, beautiful, breathtaking Nicholas, with his raven hair caught in a low ponytail.
Unlike his father, Nicholas wore a suit in blinding gold with dark stitching.
He summoned the attention of all in the room.
The cursed bastard who stole William’s heart then left it to rot, eyes brilliantly violet, terrifying in their hue.
He nearly whimpered because for a long moment, it was not Nicholas he saw, but Fearworn.
His silver hair, crooked smile, and eyes such a fierce purple they were painful to gaze upon.
William’s reality shuddered. Sweat dotted his brow. His hands flexed. A woman nearby passed a curious stare, whispering to her husband. They stepped away, like they knew what he hid beneath his gloves. They may as well have.
Upon his return, King Ellis insisted the Vandervults throw a ball in their son’s honor.
Of course he became adored, in the only manner high society could adore anyone, because it gave mortals a person to call a hero, to parade as a fine specimen of mortal loyalty and love for country.
While they all spoke ill behind his back, the half-man cursed by wild fae magic, the man with cursed limbs, a man destined to die by a fae’s hand, one way or the other.
He hated every moment of the event, how the king grabbed his arm to show off like a trophy.
“I need air,” he muttered.
Charmaine called after him, but he skirted around the crowded room to the hall. His vision swayed. Sweat soaked through his uniform. He found an empty lounge and fell upon the carpet, convulsing.
He wheezed, clawing at his chest that refused to expand. Dark spots exploded in his vision. The walls closed in, suffocating. His head pounded, brutally painful. He laid there whimpering, waiting, hoping the fear would pass.
The panic eased little by little, from him counting backwards from a hundred because that’s all he could think of doing. Then his shaking hand fell on a nearby end stand and he forced himself onto his feet.
Blood filled his mouth. He pressed a finger to his lips, then along his tender tongue. Red stained his fingertips. He bit the inside of his cheek, probably the moment he saw Nicholas with those eyes…
Nicholas fell. Losing himself as Fearworn had was his greatest fear.
William pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, silencing the sorrow he cursed himself for feeling. Nicholas abandoned him. He disappeared when William needed him. He didn’t write and never showed up to ask how he fared. Nicholas played the trickery of fae well, and William had lost.
“You can’t care,” he whispered, leaning against the end stand. His body ached. He undid the buttons of his uniform, trying to fan himself. In his thoughts, he didn’t notice the shadow within the threshold until it was too late.
“My wicked,” Nicholas whispered, and his heart stopped.