Chapter Eleven #2
‘Who?’ asked the Seer, her head tilting like a curious bird.
‘The one who placed her here.’
For a brief moment, the Seer’s golden eyes locked with Mal’s.
‘He may return,’ she said slowly. ‘But you needn’t fear. The others cannot reach her. My curse will hold them at bay. She is safe.’
King Ozul gave a solemn nod.
‘Must I keep bringing her here?’ he asked quietly, as though part of him already knew the answer.
A shadow passed through the Seer’s expression. ‘Yes, for now. My blood binds her gift, keeps the wildness tempered. Without it, she will become… ungovernable.’ She reached for Mal’s hand, her touch rough as bark. ‘Come. We must begin.’
Mal wrenched her arm back, panic rising like a tide. ‘Father?’
His expression remained calm, though his voice wavered. ‘It’s all right, Mal. This is to protect you.’
The Seer clicked her tongue, the sound sharp and cold. ‘She will forget. My blood ensures it. Do not fret, King.’
‘No, please—’ Mal cried, but the Seer’s grip was iron. The world tilted as she was dragged into the dim, suffocating hut. The air reeked of herbs, decay, and something older.
She hit the ground hard, her knees striking the dirt floor. ‘Father!’ she screamed, her voice cracking. But the doorway behind her was empty.
He was gone.
‘Silence, child,’ the Seer commanded, her voice dry as old parchment. She reached for a cup and, without flinching, sliced her arm. Blood as dark as wine trickled into the vessel. ‘Drink.’
Mal recoiled, shaking her head in protest.
With little patience, the Seer pressed the cup into her trembling hands. ‘Drink.’
Reluctantly, Mal obeyed. The taste was thick, metallic, clinging to her tongue like rusted chains. Her stomach lurched, but she forced the potion down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. When she looked back, the Seer was watching her intently, head tilted like a raven assessing its prey.
‘You must go back now,’ the Seer said quietly.
‘Go back?’ Mal echoed, confused.
‘Wake up.’
Mal blinked, her gaze drifting over the room. ‘I don’t understand...’
‘If you don’t wake, you’ll remain here. Trapped. Forever.’
‘Melinoe, wake up!’
The voice was no longer the Seer’s. It struck like thunder, and the world around her shattered, collapsing like glass underfoot. A storm howled within her skull as she was dragged from the vision, pulled under and through.
She opened her eyes with a gasp.
Thanatos was crouched over her, his expression carved from worry. His ink-dark eyes searched her face, urgent and pained.
‘Are you back?’ he asked. She nodded faintly, though she wasn’t certain what ‘back’ truly meant anymore. The souls that had once dragged her into the dirt were gone like ghosts burnt to ash in the light.
Thanatos gathered her into his arms, her body limp against him. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Wasn’t going to,’ she mumbled, resting her cheek against his chest, the beat of his heart faint but grounding.
Her eyes fluttered, the pull of sleep returning like a tide. Thanatos jostled her gently. ‘Don’t drift, Melinoe. If you return there again… I might not be able to bring you back.’
She nodded, lips dry. ‘Almost there?’ she whispered.
‘Almost,’ he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘Talk to me. Keep talking.’
‘My father knew,’ she said. ‘He knew what I was. He said someone… someone put me there. But I don’t understand what he meant.’
‘Don’t worry about that now,’ Thanatos said, though his jaw clenched at the words.
‘You look like Ash.’
‘I know.’
‘I miss him,’ she breathed, her voice cracking. Her fingers reached for the button of his black shirt, something small and grounding to cling to. ‘I just want my love to be real.’
Thanatos stilled. His body tightened beneath her touch.
‘I know, Melinoe,’ he whispered. And for the first time, there was no mockery in his voice. Only sorrow.
At long last, the haze of exhaustion began to ebb from Mal’s limbs, and her vision cleared like fog retreating at dawn.
Before them loomed a throne. Colossal in stature, towering like a forgotten monument from another age.
It was carved from the same orange-tinged stone as the rest of this forsaken land, weathered and cracked with age. And upon it sat a king of ruin.
His beard cascaded down the length of his withered form, pooling like threadbare tapestry across the stone floor.
His eyes were hollow sockets, void and echoing, and what remained of his hair clung in brittle patches to his mottled scalp.
His crown hung askew, barely holding to the crown of his crumbling skull.
He was not flesh nor bone, but something ancient and spent, sculpted from the dust of apathy itself.
‘Belphegor,’ Thanatos said beside her, steadying her with a hand beneath her arm. Makaria stood a few paces ahead, staring up in mute wonder at the desolate monarch.
The demon king shifted with agonising slowness, his immense head tilting down to regard them. His mouth parted, stretching impossibly wide into a voiceless scream that vibrated through the stone beneath their feet.
‘We have passed through your lands,’ Thanatos announced, his voice calm, yet edged with urgency. ‘We seek a soul. A witch named Allegra.’
The king lifted a skeletal hand and pointed one elongated finger downward, towards the unseen depths beneath them.
Thanatos cursed under his breath.
‘What does that mean?’ Mal asked, stepping close, her fingers curling around Makaria’s hand to keep her near. The weariness that had gripped her bones had fled, replaced by sharp instinct.
‘She’s not here,’ Thanatos replied grimly. ‘We have to keep going.’
‘How?’
He gestured towards a door, half-hidden in shadow behind the king’s unmoving feet, carved into the very base of the throne.
‘Quickly,’ he said. ‘Before he changes his mind.’
Without hesitation, Mal tightened her grip on Makaria and followed.
She spared a glance up at the king, awed by the sheer immensity of him.
How small and inconsequential they seemed in his presence.
Then her gaze drifted one final time across the barren wasteland of Belphegor’s domain, a realm where time and ambition had long since turned to dust.
Thanatos shoved the door open with a grunt, revealing a yawning abyss beyond, black as pitch, void of sound or end.
‘No shoving,’ he said with a sardonic twist of his lips. ‘Ladies first.’
‘Afraid of the dark, are we?’ Mal quipped, raising a brow.
‘No, Melinoe,’ he replied, stepping close enough that she instinctively backed into the doorway. His voice dropped into something softer, dangerous. ‘The only thing that frightens me… is you.’
And before she could summon a retort, he gave her a wicked smile and pushed her backward into the dark.
He lingered only long enough to offer a cheeky wave.