Chapter 7 #2
I leaned forward slightly, allowing the shadow of the helm to fall over her exposed face. "The contract I signed involved Ophelia Ashworth and her familiar. The House of Ashworth ceased to be of any concern the moment your pathetic ancestor committed high treason."
I pulled back, a sudden, unfamiliar wave of cold fury, not the consumed kind, but my own, stirring in my core.
"Silas," I commanded, my voice sharp. "Escort Cecilia Ashworth from the premises immediately. However, before she departs, I have a curiosity."
I paused, allowing my gaze, the utter, depthless blackness behind the visor, to bore into the Illusionist's frantic eyes.
"You have spent your ninety seconds performing overwhelming joy and societal concern.
Yet, not once have you inquired how your daughter was treated during the binding.
You have not asked if the ritual was painful, if she was injured, or even if she has survived the touch of the Death-Toucher. "
The shock in Cecilia's eyes was genuine; the illusion of triumph vanished, replaced by a raw, exposed selfishness that was almost beautiful in its toxicity.
"Your entire being reeks of avarice, Cecilia. It’s a rancid smell that even your synthetic lilacs cannot drown out.
And sensing how exquisitely motherly you are," I finished, my voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper, "I will refrain from detailing exactly how your daughter will be treated from now on, because it is painfully clear you do not possess the capacity to care. "
The Illusionist was speechless, stripped bare. Her illusion of composure collapsed entirely, leaving her looking withered and pale.
"I have what I came for," I repeated, ignoring the sudden, strange ache of self-awareness in my core.
No. It wasn't self-awareness; it was an innate, lethal fury, a contamination so profound it twisted into a perverted desire to protect my property.
The utter, vile lack of maternal care was an offence against my possession, and I punished the source of the violation.
I walked toward the exit, Rhana padding silently at my side toward the waiting carriage. I was a king in this world, and I was taking my new queen home. The thought was a cold, bitter taste in my mouth. I was a monster, and I had just claimed a weapon I intended to break.
The journey back to the Alistair estate was a descent from one kind of stillness into another.
The carriage. A sleek, obsidian box slid smoothly onto the central avenues.
I chose this path deliberately. I could have used a Threshold to travel back instantly, but the Consortium required a demonstration.
Ophelia was my newest possession, and every High House and political observer in Aeternia needed to witness her transport.
This parade was a declaration: she was claimed, she was mine, and her light was now irrevocably bound to the Alistair Void.
Through the darkened windows, I saw the crowds lining the streets. They did not cheer. They stood in terrified silence, their emotions a dull, grey wash of fear that battered against the carriage walls. They looked at the crest of Alistair and saw only death passing by.
I felt Ophelia’s quiet presence beside me in the carriage, a faint, unsettling hum of emotions beneath my skin. She was still reeling from the events of the day, a whirlwind of fear, defiance, and a terrifying, razor-sharp curiosity I couldn't quite extinguish.
The bond shuddered. This is a place of emptiness, I thought. It was a raw echo in the back of my mind, not a true thought, but a subtle, unwelcome bleed of her Empathy, a statement of devastating accuracy.
I felt her Empathy reaching out, a delicate tendril of Life-Wielder magic trying to feel the echoes of my dead house.
It was a violation, an intrusion into my inner world I had never allowed before.
Our bond, forged to stabilise my core, was fundamentally flawed.
It acted as a conduit for extreme emotional pressure; when my Pain-Eater ability absorbed too much raw sensation, or when her Empathy flared with intense feeling, the magical pressure caused a severe, involuntary bleed of her consciousness into mine.
I reacted instantly, a sharp, dispassionate mental shove made her retreat, backed by a cold pulse of the crushing, consuming fear I kept bottled in my core.
I felt her flinch, a sharp, momentary pang of fear and pain, but she didn’t run.
She was still there, a ghost in my Void, a defiant, lingering warmth.
She was a survivor, a fighter, and I had just brought her home to a world she would never understand.
Through the narrow, shadowed slits of my helmet, I watched her. My vision was sharp and focused, undisturbed by the raw chaos her presence introduced.
Rhana, my familiar, had not left my side since the bond was forged. She lay coiled at my feet, a black shadow in the dimly lit carriage. “She is fragile. She is a distraction. A weakness.” I ignored her, though her words were the blunt edge of the truth.
We passed through the towering gates of the estate, their surfaces inscribed with the ancient, serpentine crest of the Alistairs.
The gardens were not of life, but of death, manicured landscapes of black rock, weeping willow-like trees with dark leaves, and fountains that flowed with a silvery liquid.
There were no flowers, except for the private garden that still grew the rare Vespertine lilies, my mother's favourite; no vibrant life, just a cold, sterile beauty that was meant to inspire awe, but only evoked a crushing sense of loneliness. My loneliness.
The carriage pulled up to the main doors, a grand, cathedral-like entrance that was as imposing as it was beautiful, built nine, maybe ten generations ago.
The doors were made of dark, burnished metal, and they swung open silently as they approached, as if in reverence.
Inside, the halls were vaulted, filled with the shadows of the last millennia.
The air was cold and still, scented with the dust of ages and the faint, coppery scent of magical decay.
I stepped out of the carriage, my movements as silent and precise as a ghost's.
From somewhere above, Friedrik's voice, a dry scrape of ancient stone, disrupted the silence.
“Well, look who finally showed up! The silence was getting quite tiresome. And you brought the little Life-Wielder. She looks utterly traumatised, which, frankly, is a vast improvement over your last paramour. At least this one looks like she has some fight in her. Try not to shatter this one before breakfast, your Terrorising Lordship.”
Rhana emerged, pausing to send a low, visual growl toward the gargoyle. “Silence, noisy rock. Focus on the hunt,” she thought, a rare dismissal that held a flicker of respect for Friedrik's seniority.
I ignored them both. I didn't wait for Ophelia. I didn't have to. I felt her behind me, a small, courageous presence that refused to be silenced.
This cage was a monument to my father.
The memory hit me without warning, a sharp, brutal shard of a past I had long since buried, triggered by the invasive touch of her Life-Wielder curiosity against the walls of my core.
I was again just a boy of eight, standing in the garden that had once held some colour.
The sparrow…
It was emerald green, hovering over a single, defiant bloom. My father had found it, after I rescued it.
I had watched from the shadows of my room... "This,” my father’s voice was a low, cold hum, “is a distraction. A dangerous, unnecessary kindness. This is a weakness.”
That little boy had tried to speak, to beg. The words had died in my throat, choked by the terror of his authority. My father had raised his hand... The Death-Touch.
The small, vibrant creature had withered and died in a single, horrifying moment, dropping from the air like a stone.
I watched, my heart a cold, still Void inside my chest. The tears fell hot on my cheeks, but the Pain-Eater had already done its work.
I felt nothing from them. I just stood there and watched the green turn to grey.
“Love is a weakness”, my father had whispered, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “Love is a vulnerability that will be used against you. Remember my words, boy.”
I pushed the memory away, a door slamming shut on a part of myself I had long since buried. I had not cried since.
I looked at Ophelia, my eyes, studying her from behind the unyielding blackness of the helm, locking with hers.
She looked up at me; her face a mask of weary defiance.
She was a strange, abrasive thing—a delicate flower, perhaps, but one choked with thorns that seemed specifically designed to draw my blood.
To my senses, her life essence wasn't a gift; it was a physical discomfort, a stinging heat that grated against my skin like salt in a fresh wound.
She was a living, breathing echo of the life I had never lived, a life I would never know—and I hated her for it.
In the hollow kingdom of my estate, my rule was absolute, and she was the disruption I had brought home to conquer. I had just claimed a queen to my hollow kingdom, and I intended to study every thorn on the female I now possessed.