Chapter 20 #2
"The expenditure for your upkeep is excessive, Cain," he stated, his voice a low, cold hum that stripped the air of oxygen. "We invest in tutors, in armour, in magical conditioning. Yet the return is consistently flawed."
He finally lifted his eyes—two chips of glacial ice that held no recognition of kinship, only the appraisal of a disappointed investor.
I swallowed, the shame a bitter stone in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, wishing I could disappear. "I scraped it, Father. I was running with Rhana."
The word 'running' was the fuse.
He rose. His presence was instantly colossal, filling the room with a terrifying, suffocating pressure. The backhand blow sent me reeling. The impact was a silent, cracking echo in the grand room. My head snapped back, the taste of copper filling my mouth.
But the physical pain of the strike was irrelevant. It was the prelude.
He seized my arm, his grip like an iron manacle, and dragged me closer. "You do not run. You do not play. You are the Death-Touch Heir! You are meant to be controlled destruction, not a spoiled, clumsy child who soils his attire like a commoner!"
His grip tightened.
Suddenly, my vision exploded in white-hot agony.
It wasn't heat; it was the absence of it.
The freezing cold of his fingers seeped past my skin, past the muscle, and seized the very essence of the life in my arm.
It felt like he was turning the blood in my veins into freezing sludge, crystal by crystal.
"The Death-Touch, boy," his voice was a cold purr of supreme pleasure, his breath hot against my face as I gagged on the pain.
"It is not merely a fatal kiss. It is a dial.
At its peak, instantaneous annihilation.
At its lesser functions, it is the most refined instrument of torture the cosmos has ever devised.
" I realised then that my father didn't want a son; he wanted a musician of misery, and I was the instrument.
The pain escalated. It wasn't just hurting; it was unmaking. I could feel the cells in my forearm withering, the magic stripping away the vitality layer by layer. It was a tearing, liquid fire that made my teeth ache and my vision grey out.
I tried to scream, but only a desperate, choked sound escaped, a whimper that shamed me even as it left my lips.
My father’s lips curled in a cruel, detached smile.
"Channeling half of its power, Cain. Surviving this level of pain makes you strong.
It prepares you for the filth you must absorb.
Look at the beauty of the control! I am killing the cells slowly, exquisitely, making you understand that your pain is merely a function of my will.
You are not a boy. You are a vessel. And vessels do not leak sentiment. "
My world narrowed to the crushing vice on my arm. The terror, the raw, isolating agony, was absolute. I fought the urge to vomit, my body convulsing against the cold, slow rot consuming my limb. I wanted to die. In that moment, I prayed for him to turn the dial up and end it.
He released me suddenly.
I crumpled to the floor, gasping, my arm hanging uselessly at my side. I looked at it through tear-blurred eyes. It was striped with sickly grey and purple energy burns—brands of necrotic magic that would take weeks to fade.
My tears started, not from the sting of the blow, but from the raw, agonising fear building in my chest.
Rhana, then a sleek black cub barely the size of a house cat, emerged from beneath the desk with a terrified, confused whimper. She nudged my leg, her tiny tongue rasping against my skin, trying to offer comfort.
My father towered over us. He looked at the cub with a look of pure disgust.
"And this beast," he spat, gesturing to Rhana. "She is a familiar, bound to your soul. A crutch for the weak." He leaned down, his face a mask of granite. "But should your weakness persist, Cain... should you choose sentimentality over power... I will find a way to use the Death-Touch on her."
I froze. The air left the room.
"I will make you watch your own pathetic lifeline wither and die, piece by piece," he whispered, the promise hanging heavy in the air. "I will unravel her while you scream, until you understand what true loss demands."
The threat was a final, absolute violation. The logical part of my young mind screamed that it was magically impossible to kill another Dyad's familiar without killing the Dyad first, but the terrified boy believed the monster who was his father. Malachi Alistair did not make idle threats.
I stumbled back, scooping the whimpering cub into my good arm.
I ran. Blindly. I ran from the study, the physical pain of the beating forgotten, replaced by a terror so profound it eclipsed everything else.
I ran to my room and curled beneath the thick furs, holding Rhana so tightly she could barely breathe.
I cried that night until the tears froze on my face, not for the bruises, but for the devastating, absolute possibility of her death.
The annihilation of the only pure thing I possessed was the ultimate vulnerability.
The Pain-Eater woke that night, not for the sorrow of the world, but for the terror of its own personal Void.
I snapped back to the present.
The room was silent, save for the crackling of the enchanted fire. My hand, resting on the ledger, was shaking. The phantom ache in my arm was pulsing, a reminder that the scars of the Death-Touch never truly faded.
The metallic taste of Valerius's desperate love was nothing compared to the ash of that childhood trauma. That fear—the fear of losing the one thing that kept me somewhat normal—was the architect of my isolation.
And now, I was letting another "pure thing" into my life. Another vulnerability.
"I am going to accept the mission," I stated, my voice a blade of cold steel, severing the memory.
"Will you be taking your usual escort?" Silas asked, his voice neutral.
I finally turned, my eyes fixed on Silas’s face. "No," I said, the word heavy with implication. "I will be taking Ophelia. She is now my mandatory attachment."
Friedrik’s low, dry laugh echoed from the archway. “A necessary leash, then. The Heir relies on her Empathy already. I warned you about self-awareness. This will be dreadfully insightful for everyone but yourself.”
I felt the flicker of surprise and quiet concern from Silas. "A bold choice, my lord. The journey to the Human Realm can be… unstable for an inexperienced Life-Wielder. The contamination risks are high. If she is exposed to the Blight..."
"Life is dangerous," I said, the corner of my lips turning up in a humourless smile. "She is a Dyadic asset, and this mission requires a Life component to stabilise the breach. She will perform her duty."
I paused, thinking about how she was undoubtedly sleeping, unaware that her cage was about to expand.
"We will be leaving before dawn. Inform her, and have her familiar secured for travel across the Threshold. Pack the heavy cloaks. The Human Realm is unforgiving this time of year."
Silas didn’t ask why. He simply bowed, his face a perfect mask of dispassionate obedience. But I had commanded him long enough to read the fractional tightening of his jaw, the unnatural stiffness in his shoulders as he turned to leave.
I didn't need her Life-Wielding empathy to recognise the quiet, profound worry of a friend. I could see Silas's emotional investment, his unspoken fear that I was dragging an innocent into a war zone. I categorised it as another layer of sentimental filth I had to fight.
I turned back to the window, watching the storm clouds gather over the estate.
I was doing this for the hunt. I was doing this because she was a tool, a stabiliser.
But as I watched the rain lash against the glass, I couldn't ignore the darker truth curling in my gut.
I was taking her because I couldn't stand the thought of leaving her behind.
I was taking her because I wanted to see if she would break in the wild, or if she would burn bright enough to light my way through the dark.
I told myself she was a leash, but as I watched the storm break over the obsidian spires, I feared I was the one being led into the abyss.