Chapter Forty-Six #2
“Wow. So brave. Maybe mother will offer to let you feed the hounds next,” Marin retorts, her mouth pulling taut in a fake smile.
She pushes past the men, kicking the door open with her boot. She waits for the door to slam closed. Waits for the steel latch to click into place before stepping forward.
The sound echoes too long. Like the room is bigger than it should be. Or emptier. And then she lets herself feel everything, because when she takes him in, the contents of her stomach lurch into her throat.
Emotion floods her. Dread. Terror. Recognition of the hold the Decay has on him.
Holy fucking Stars.
This is the King of Zerynthia. Or what remains of him.
Chains of lillath are clamped at his wrists, wearing a track of blood and raw skin all the way around. The metal has bitten so deep it looks fused to him. As if it belongs there. His arms are stretched wide, the chains bolted to the walls—allowing him no peace.
Barbed wires twist around his skin, tearing at his flesh, forcing him to still all movement. Black blood seeps out of hundreds of cuts, crusting on his skin in dried patches.
The same black blood floods through every vein, spidering across his flesh like a web. It pulses. Not with his heartbeat—but with something slower. Hungrier.
Marin swallows thickly at the sight. At the sight of a warrior brought to heel. A king brought to his knees. And still somehow more dangerous than any man in this fortress.
Marin knows exactly what it looks like when powerful people are broken down into weapons. She sees it every time she looks in a mirror.
Kael’s head hangs, his chin almost resting on his chest.
Marin’s heart thumps in her chest. She steps closer, muscles taut so she can reach for her sword in a heartbeat.
Then—Kael lifts his head. Slowly. Deliberately, so he does not disturb the barbed wires that snag his skin.
His eyes find Marin’s, and all that stares back at her is the endless, depthless dark of Decay. No recognition. No hesitation. Just awareness.
A shiver snakes down her spine, unsettling her. She does not recoil, but every instinct wants to.
A low, guttural growl rumbles through his chest. A warning. Not human. Not entirely.
Marin drops to one knee, rests an elbow there, though she makes sure she’s out of striking distance.
“I should kill you,” she taunts, voice a cruel snarl, testing him.
Kael’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile. A laugh. Something cruel. “You should try,” he rasps, voice hoarse from disuse.
“I think you’ll kill everyone in your path, Kael. This thing inside you has you by the balls. I don’t think you can stop for all the coin in the realms,” she admits, voice lilting with false confidence.
Kael snarls, baring his teeth.
Marin ignores him.
She unsheathes her sword from the scabbard strapped across her back.
Her weapon is curved. Traditional Caelorian weaponry that the Royal Guard no longer work with—too difficult to learn with, they say. Not for Marin. She stretches it out, letting it come to rest beneath the King of Zerynthia’s chin. Close enough to end him. Close enough to test if he’d stop her.
“My mother would like you to kill for us, Kael. Is that something you can do?” Marin asks, testing him again.
He does not flinch. Only presses forward, letting the tip of the blade pierce the skin of his neck. Like pain is the only thing he still understands.
“I was born to kill,” he croaks weakly, though she can still hear the promise in his voice.
She nods her understanding.
He strains against the chains, the barbed wire, and black blood drips from his skin and spatters across the stone floors of the vault. He is not in control. But something is.
But she has to hope that somewhere, deep under the hold the Decay has on him, that he is still there. Buried, she hopes, but not lost. Because if he isn’t, they haven’t captured a king—they’ve unleashed something worse.
“I need you to do something else, Kael,” she says, voice stronger now.
Kael lunges forward, dragging the barbed wire through flesh. He gnashes his teeth at her attempt to control him, and a vicious growl rips from his throat.
Marin reaches into the pocket of her leather pants, and pulls out a small square of fabric.
“Elyssara,” Marin says quietly.
Kael’s eyes flicker ocean-blue for less than a heartbeat, silver threaded through them as undeniable as Azhareth’s sun. Like a memory fighting its way to the surface.
Something in him recognizes the name.
“This is from her tunic. You remember her, yes?” Marin ventures, inching closer still.
Kael doesn’t gnash or fight or surge. He stills, breaths still rushing in and out between his teeth.
“You must hold on for her, Kael. And when you see her on the battlefield of Virellin… your love for her must be stronger than the Decay’s hold on you,” Marin commands, desperation creeping into her tone. It’s the first time her voice has faltered.
He does not fight. But black ichor still snakes through his veins like hunting serpents, and his eyes are still pools of depthless obsidian.
Marin inches closer. She holds out the strip of fabric, drenched in the scent of his Starbound.
He closes his eyes, recognition registering somewhere beneath conscious awareness. He sucks in her scent, and the set of his jaw softens slightly. Almost imperceptible. But real.
“She will meet you there,” Marin adds. “And you must remember who you are, Kael. Starbound to Elyssara Dawnmere. King of Zerynthia. Leader of the uprising. You must remember, Kael.”
Behind his glassy eyes, something flickers, but he says nothing. Offers no confirmation. Just keeps breathing against the pain that tears at his body.
And Marin prays to every god that ever lived, because every instinct in her screams to kill him now.
Before he destroys them all.