Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Malus didn't rise, he didn't need to.
"Brother." Malus barely looked up, his tone casual and disinterested. "And what a menagerie you've brought me."
"Though I suppose I should thank you," Malus continued, his gaze finding Briar with those green eyes that were almost Eliam's but wrong, too bright, too amused by cruelty.
"Malachar's halls are miserably cold this time of year.
All that ice and grievance. You've saved me from such a tedious journey. "
The throne beneath him, ancient wood carved before the forest above existed, dark with age and power, the same throne that had accepted Eliam, that had recognized his claim when he'd taken it, Malus wore it like a second skin, every line of his body relaxed into its embrace as if he'd never left.
Where Eliam had commanded it, Malus simply... inhabited it, with the casual ownership of someone returning to their own bed after a long journey.
“Just what is it you think you’re doing, Malus?” Eliam asked, stepping forward to place himself between Briar and the throne.
"The forest recognizes its first king," Malus replied, addressing the assembled court. "As you all do. Don't you?"
The murmur of agreement was soft but undeniable. More than half. Enough to tip the balance through ancient law.
And then Briar felt it—a shifting at her throat, like something alive reshaping itself.
The thorned vines of Eliam's mark began to move, writhing against her skin.
The white buds that had bloomed along them withered and fell away like ash, and in their place, new growth emerged.
Autumn leaves, copper and gold, unfurling along vines that darkened from green to deep bronze.
The thorns remained but changed. They grew longer, crueler, turned outward as if to catch rather than protect.
"No." Eliam's voice was barely controlled fury.
"Oh yes," Malus said, watching the transformation with satisfaction. "The bargain recognizes the rightful Forest King. Look how much prettier it is now. Autumn suits her better than your eternal shadow, don't you think?"
The warmth in Briar's chest contracted violently, recoiling from the change, pulling toward Eliam with such desperate force she gasped from it.
"Come here."
Two words. Soft. Casual.
“Eliam,” she gasped as her legs carried her forward without permission. She tried to stop, to dig her heels in, but the compulsion forced her closer. Each step was a war inside her body, the warmth raging against the draw, pulling back toward Eliam while her muscles obeyed their new master.
"Don't." Eliam stepped forward, but guards moved to block him, not aggressively, just present, making the situation clear.
"Don't?" Malus echoed with amusement. "She's fulfilling her bargain, brother. The one you made with her. Would you have her break fae law?"
When she reached the throne, he patted his thigh with casual expectation. “You look tired. Sit.”
"No." The word escaped before the bargain could strangle it.
His eyebrows rose with genuine delight. "No? How wonderful. Say it again."
"I won't—"
But her body was already moving, the bargain overriding her will with brutal efficiency.
She found herself pulled onto his lap, positioned like a trophy, her back against his chest and facing the court.
The humiliation burned worse than any physical pain—displayed, claimed, owned in front of everyone who had once seen her as their future queen.
Malus's arm settled around her waist, holding her in place with a possessiveness that was entirely for show.
"There we are," Malus said against her ear, loud enough for others to hear. "Much better perspective from here, don't you think?"
The warmth in her chest was going wild, pushing against her skin from the inside. Golden light flickered beneath the surface, creating patterns like veins of sunlight. Where it touched, Malus's hand on her waist actually pulled back slightly, not burned but... curious.
"Your magic wants him," Malus observed, settling his hands more carefully, avoiding the spots where golden light gathered. "How romantic. And how very unfortunate for you both."
"Let her go." Eliam's voice had dropped to something dangerous. "Your quarrel is with me."
"My quarrel was with you. Past tense. I've won." Malus's fingers found Briar's chin, turning her face toward him while keeping her displayed for Eliam to see. "Now I'm simply enjoying the spoils. You understand spoils, don't you, brother? You enjoyed mine for quite some time."
"If you hurt her—"
"Hurt her? Why would I damage something so intriguing?" His fingers traced the bargain marks at her throat. "Though I suppose you've already done that, haven't you? These marks, this binding—all your handiwork."
Eliam took another step forward, and this time Thaine caught his arm, recognizing the trap being laid.
Golden flowers began blooming along the base of the throne—small, desperate things that withered almost immediately in the autumn-touched air. But where they touched the ancient wood, they left tiny scorch marks, as if their brief existence burned too bright for this new order.
"Oh, now that's interesting," Malus murmured, shifting her on his lap to see better. "They're fighting my influence. Dying, but fighting. What are you, little human?"
"Let them go," Briar managed, though speaking felt like pushing words through broken glass. "You have what you wanted. The throne. The court. Me."
"I have the throne," Malus agreed. "The court is mine by right. But you?" He looked over her head at Eliam, and his smile sharpened. "You're more puzzle than prize at the moment. Though we'll solve that together."
He addressed the guards without looking away from his brother. "Escort the former lord to his chambers. The ones I so recently vacated. They should be... familiar."
The dungeon. Where Eliam had kept him for over a century.
"As for his companions," Malus continued, "the Drak is a guest. Find him quarters. Unpleasant ones—I don't want him getting comfortable. The huntsman can choose his own fate. Serve me or share his master's accommodations."
"I'll take the cell," Thaine said flatly.
"Loyalty. How tedious." Malus waved dismissively. "Take them both then."
As the guards moved toward them, thorns erupted from the floor with all the violence of someone who knew this might be his last chance.
Thick vines burst through cracks in the stone, wrapping around guards' ankles, yanking them down.
One screamed as a large thorn pierced through his boot and into his calf.
"Oh good," Malus said to Briar, his tone conversational as if they were watching a performance. "He's going to fight. I was worried he'd gone soft."
Eliam moved through the guards, thorns growing from his palms like claws. He caught one guard across the chest, leaving deep gouges. Another found himself wrapped in vines that constricted until his sword arm snapped. Thaine moved with him, their coordination speaking of years fighting together.
"See how the vines are already browning at the edges?" Malus observed, his hand casual on Briar's waist. "The forest doesn't recognize him anymore, so he's forcing growth through will alone. Exhausting."
Three guards converged on Eliam at once. He spun, a wall of thorns erupting between them, but the effort cost him—she could see it in the way he staggered slightly, sweat already beading on his forehead.
"At this rate, maybe five more minutes before he collapses?" Malus continued his commentary. "Forest magic without the forest's cooperation is like trying to grow roses in salted earth."
More guards poured in. Eliam caught one with thorns that erupted from his palm, but another's blade found his thigh. Blood immediately soaked through his trousers.
"First blood to my guards," Malus noted. "Though your lover is doing better than expected."
The vines Eliam summoned were thinner now, the thorns smaller. A guard with a mace caught him across the ribs. She heard something crack. He went down to one knee, hand pressed to the floor, trying to call more growth from stone that wouldn't answer.
"Oh, broken ribs. Those are miserable." Malus sounded delighted. "Makes every breath agony."
Eliam forced himself up, thorns sprouting weakly from his knuckles like a wounded animal's last defense. He dropped another guard, but two more took his place. Thaine was pressed against a pillar, bleeding from multiple cuts, barely keeping three guards at bay.
"Your huntsman won't last much longer either," Malus observed. "Look, he's already favoring that leg. Hamstring, perhaps?"
A blade caught Eliam's shoulder—the same one Malachar had injured. He couldn't suppress the sound of pain, and his left arm dropped, useless. The thorns on that hand withered instantly, falling like dead leaves.
"Stop," Briar whispered.
"What was that?" Malus asked, though she knew he'd heard.
Another guard struck Eliam across the face with a pommel. Blood poured from his nose, and he stumbled. He pressed his palm to the floor, trying to summon vines, but only managed a few weak shoots that a guard crushed underfoot.
"The Drak has the right idea," Malus noted, and Briar saw Karse standing apart, watching but not intervening. "No point fighting a lost battle."
Eliam tried to grow thorns and managed only regular vines, thin as grass. Tried to stand straight and swayed. A guard's boot caught him in the stomach, and he doubled over, coughing blood.
"Please," Briar said louder.
"Please what?" Malus asked mildly.
Thaine went down, a guard's blade at his throat. Eliam saw it, tried to help, and took a mace to the back. He hit the floor hard, his magic failing entirely—no thorns, no vines, just blood on stone.
"Please stop!" The words tore from her throat.
"Why should I?" Malus asked as a guard raised his sword over Eliam's exposed neck. "He attacked my guards. The punishment for that is death."