Chapter 43 The Tsar’s Court of Fear
THE TSAR’S COURT OF FEAR
“You think this ceremony binds me to you? It binds only your fate to rot beside mine. You will sit on your golden throne, Varyán, and you will drown in the empire you built with my chains.”
—Eyleen ársa, on her wedding day
Tsar Varyán II
The scent of blue roses fills the grand hall. Golden tapestries bearing my crest—the blue rose, a symbol of power—line the walls. My dark oak and gold throne gleams beneath the light streaming through the high stained-glass windows.
When commoners come to speak to their tsar, they see me as god. Sitting on the shining throne.
Servants flit along the edges of the hall like shadows, silent as they execute the rituals of the day.
Trays of ripe fruit and goblets of dark wine are brought to me on silver platters.
The servants must climb seven steps before they reach my seat.
I take a sip, letting the bold flavor cling to my tongue as I watch my knights patrol outside the towering windows.
Each man’s hand rests on his sword, and their every step echoes through the stone courtyard. To the untrained eye, it might appear to be a dance.
“Magnificent, aren’t they?” Commander Stefan interrupts my thoughts. His armor gleams in the sunlight as he bows.
“They are disciplined,” I say, brushing my beard. “As they should be. Discipline without fear, however, is meaningless. Ensure they understand the consequences of failure, Stefan. Remind them, if necessary.”
Stefan straightens. “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. They know you see everything, even when you are not present.”
“Good. Fear is what keeps them loyal. Gold fades, whores get old, but fear . . . fear stays.”
As Stefan bows once more, my attention shifts to the sound of footsteps echoing in the hall. Commander Larn approaches, flanked by two knights dragging a trembling man between them.
Larn bows deeply. “Your Imperial Majesty, we bring Sir Barric. He disobeyed your orders regarding Noel during the guild’s mission. He allowed Arnold to take her.”
Barric stumbles forward. His knees hit the marble floor with a thud, and his voice cracks as he says, “Your Imperial Majesty, please! I was threatened—Arnold gave me no choice! I swear my loyalty to you, always!”
I raise a single finger, and his pleas cease. The hall falls silent, servants nearby quicken their pace, eyes cast downward as they pretend not to hear the pathetic display of a betrayer.
I stand slowly before descending the steps of the throne. “You swore your loyalty the day you took up that armor. That oath meant nothing to you, it seems.”
“Your Imperial Majesty, I beg you! I never meant for this to happen! Mercy—please—mercy!” Barric grovels, his trembling hands clasped in front of him.
“Mercy?” I’m close enough that my shadow swallows him. “Mercy is for the strong, for the loyal. Tell me, Barric, what strength have you shown? What loyalty?”
His sobs grow louder.
“Take him to the dungeons. I will deal with him myself.”
Larn bows again. “Shall I prepare for his execution?”
“Not yet.” I glance at Barric, who is being dragged away. “Keep him alive. His suffering is far from over.”
As the heavy doors to the dungeons close with a loud echo, I turn and make my way toward my private study. The corridors, lined with relics of my family’s unbroken legacy, reverberate with my footsteps. My robe drags behind me as servants bow low with their faces turned away.
The fire in my study smolders, and its faint warmth does little to dispel the chill of the stone walls. Shadows dance across the shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls, over a map of Vathéria spread across the wall.
But no map, no power, eases the void inside me. Only one presence ever did.
If only she were still alive.
I move to the far corner of the study and push the map aside. Brushing against the cold stone, I descend the narrow spiral staircase. It is always cold and dark in my private part of the dungeons, and now, the scent of decay threatens to overtake the space.
At the base of the stairs, two stoic guards bow at the waist. I step inside, and the heavy door groans as it closes behind me.
The chamber is freezing, so cold it seeps into my bones. But it is what must be done to keep her whole. There, lying on the stone table, is Eyleen.
My beloved.
Her body, preserved in frost and time, is as beautiful as the day she defied me. Her skin, tinged blue, gleams under the torchlight like a sacred relic. I step closer, my breath visible in the chilled air, my heart both heavy and aflame.
I run my fingers along her frozen cheek, marveling at the icy smoothness of her skin. How beautiful can one be? A true blue rose before my eyes.
The touch sends a thrill through me, the same sense of possession I’ve felt since I first brought her here. My hand tightens in her hair, the strands stiff with frost, and I yank her head back, leaning down until my lips hover near her ear.
“Your daughter thinks she can escape me, as you have. She will learn, as you did, that there is no escape from my reach. She will walk the path I choose for her.”
The rage boiling inside me softens as I look upon her lifeless eyes. The satisfaction of having Eyleen here soothes the storm that has consumed me for years. She was always the one thing I could never truly control—until now.
I release her hair, and my fingers move down to trace the curve of her jaw. My breathing deepens, the tension in my body growing taut. The sight of her, frozen, belonging to no one but me, fills me with a sense of victory.
The frigid air bites at my skin, but it only heightens the fire within me as my hands drop to my trousers. “You are mine,” I murmur. “Always mine.”
A knock at the door slices through the silence.
Oh, for god’s rose.
“Come in,” I call. Only one man would dare disturb me now.
The door opens, and Bard walks quietly across the chamber. His hood conceals his face, but I know him. My shadow, my ever-loyal instrument of order. As he approaches, he bows deeply. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he begins. “I bring news.”
I wave a hand for him to continue, undoing my trousers with the other. My attention is split, half on Bard, half on my beloved.
I hope you will forgive me. I shall spoil you after so many years.
“Gregor has been positioned in the forest surrounding ávera, as you instructed,” Bard says. “He is ready.”
I smirk as I take my cock into my hand. Gregor. A worm of a man, but useful. His desperation, his love for his sister, binds him like iron chains. He will serve, whether he wishes to or not.
“And Noel?” I ask, my breath quickening as my grip tightens.
“No sign of her yet, Your Imperial Majesty,” Bard replies, his head bowed. “But our scouts believe she’s hiding within the vólkins’ land, in ávera.”
My hand is stilled momentarily by the anger pooling in my chest. Noel. That insolent brat, the daughter of the woman who dared defy me. My Eyleen. My perfect Eyleen, stolen from me by her foolish rebellion. My grip tightens again, rage and desire merging as one.
“Your daughter is fucking a wolf,” I spit.
“Just as you did.” My hand moves faster now, the friction stokes the fire in my veins.
“Were you not satisfied with me, Eyleen?!” My voice echoes off the stone walls.
“No,” I snarl, leaning closer to her frozen body.
“You wanted more. But look where you are now. Still mine.”
I force her cold, lifeless hand to wrap around my length. The chill of her skin on me is thrilling. I stroke myself with her hand, using her as she should have been used when she still lived. My breath hitches.
“Your Imperial Majesty.” Bard’s voice cuts through my frenzy. “The knyzya await your presence in the council chamber.”
I laugh. “Let them wait.”
My hand moves faster and harder. “Weak men,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “Parasites. Feeding on my scraps. But I will remind them who the tsar is. Who the god of this land truly is.”
My release comes with a growl, spilling onto the stone floor at Bard’s feet. I shudder, though the satisfaction is fleeting, replaced by the endless void inside me. I release her hand to drop limply against the table.
“Oy!” I bark.
The guards stationed outside burst into the chamber.
“Clean this,” I order, gesturing to the mess. “My wife prefers her chambers pristine.”
The guards bow and move to obey. Bard waits for my command.
“Tell the knyzya I will join them shortly,” I say as I refasten my trousers and straighten my robes.
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Bard says with one more bow, then disappears into the shadows.
I turn back to Eyleen, brushing a hand over her cold cheek. My voice drops to a whisper. “And you, my love . . . You will see me tonight.”
The heavy double doors groan as they open on the council chamber bathed in golden light from the small glass windows.
The knyzya stand as I enter and bow as I approach.
The scent of polished wood fills my nose, alongside the smoke of burning incense to mask the dampness of the ancient stone walls.
As I make my way to the head of the table, the sound of my boots striking the floor reverberates in the wide room.
Caelan, his face framed by a trimmed beard, inclines his head as I pass. “Your Imperial Majesty, you’ve summoned us with haste. I assume the matter is urgent.”
Letting my eyes sweep the room, I take my seat. “Sit.”
The knyzya obey as they exchange glances with one another, then gazes lock on mine. These men understand my authority, though some are better at hiding their discontent than others. Like my two brothers, sitting across from each other.
“The vólkins are free,” I begin. “The barrier has fallen, and their leader, Noel ársa, gathers strength.”
Gāvril leans forward, his jaw tight. “A leader? A woman? And what do we know of her?”
“She is dangerous,” I say. “And resourceful. A daughter of Eyleen ársa.”