Chapter 5 Before You Can Kill The Monster You Have To Say Its Name
Before You Can Kill The Monster
You Have To Say Its Name
Lucian
M
y heart is going to push itself out of my chest. With a gasp, I awaken, sitting up as I dig my fingers into my chest. I nearly draw blood, as if I could reach past my sternum and hold my heart, making it cease.
Then, peculiarly, the beating stops. Perhaps it was a panic attack, a dream.
As the pain recedes, the memory of it goes as well, until there’s nothing left to grasp.
I stand with a sigh, my head dizzy—though I’m unsure why. Touching a finger to my temple, I find it slick with sweat. The cold room doesn’t match the heat of my skin, and I reach for a towel, wiping it away before dressing.
Cynthia summoned me to her office yesterday, and today, I walk in that direction.
Before Azaire’s death, she never summoned me; I suppose I used to go of my own volition.
She’s been my confidant since I was twelve.
Two days after I learned of the fairies’ revenge—that they used the bodies of their deceased to form the Folk, then used the Folk to destroy another kind of monster—I went to Cynthia.
That day, I looked down at my bouncing knees as I said, “I want to do what the fairies did.”
Looking back, I could swear a smile tugged at her mouth.
“You want revenge?”
Revenge was something I’d never conceptualized—not even after seeing my father dead or Leiana stripping every ounce of dignity from me. Yet the moment Cynthia said it, it became not just something I wanted.
But something I required.
For the first time, I met Cynthia’s stark blue eyes. I hadn’t been imagining the smile.
Meekly, I whispered, “Yes.”
“As do I, little prince.” Her gaze darkened as she leaned back. I think that was the moment she saw my potential as someone useful. “It won’t be easy.”
“That’s all right.” My voice was high and timid. I was petrified—it wasn’t all right. She’d seemed enormous back then. But I’d decided. I needed something to believe in. A target. A purpose. A word that put everything that happened into sense.
Revenge.
Not only did I deserve vengeance—but the Arcanes deserved punishment.
“Strong, are you?” Cynthia asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’d like to be.”
“I’ll make you strong,” she promised. “When I’m done, you’ll stand a chance.”
“Okay.” I nodded eagerly. After losing my father and everything that followed, all I wanted was a chance. If I couldn’t defeat Leiana, I could at least defeat the things that put me in her hands. I could stop the Arcanes.
It became my divinity, my dogma, my desire.
Cynthia reached her hand across the table and, with a wink, whispered, “Best to keep quiet about revenge.”
I grasped her hand and shook it. I was twelve; I wasn’t timid. I had been given the title of a prince, after all. I knew how to hold a stare, how to make a vow.
“Best to,” I repeated.
No surrender, I thought at the time. No surrender, I think now, as I enter the Headmistress’s office and Cynthia meets my gaze.
I don’t shy from hers, even as a chill creeps up my neck.
There were many things about Cynthia I disregarded when I believed we were working of the same mind.
Though, I feel something has changed. The couch, usually molded to my seat, feels stiff beneath me.
“How are you, dear?” Cynthia asks with a sweetness I have never known her to show.
I straighten in my seat. “Don’t beat around the bush. Why’d you call?”
Cynthia sighs, intertwining her fingers. “Because you didn’t come.”
“I’ll get the Weapon, Cynthia. Though I make no promises for how I use it.”
She tilts her head, glaring at me. “No promise needed,” she says, leaning back. “I trust you’ll do what’s right.”
“All right.” I stand.
“Did you find anything about our missing person?” Cynthia asks, halting my swift exit.
A week ago, after the fight with the Arcanes, Aralia found a notebook beneath the spare bed in her room, bearing a name neither of us could recall.
Cynthia agreed someone had been forgotten.
Worse, she told me a legend I’d never heard: only a Phoenician, what the Arcanes once were, can be erased from memory when entering The Void.
If someone disappeared from our minds, they weren’t human; they were an Arcane who got what they came for. Perhaps I would know what that was if I could manage to open the journal Aralia found. Yet the fear of what I’ll find there strikes me each time I try.
I sigh, staring down at Cynthia—refusing to take my seat. “No, Cynthia.” My voice is curt. I found nothing, and I don’t dare tell her what Icarthus told me: he possessed my father and created me using the Soul Ruby.
Cynthia hates the Arcanes as much as I do. If she knew I was created for them, I fear her wrath.
“You know, Lucian,” Cynthia says, gesturing to the couch again.
Reluctantly, I sit. She nods, appeased, and continues.
“After my girls died, I didn’t believe I’d be a mother again; there’s no way to repair that kind of loss.
But you, my dear—a parentless child—came to me.
I feel very maternal toward you. To me, you are a son.
” She shakes her head softly. “Not a pawn.”
After ten years, she tells me this? I know Cynthia well enough to see she’s all tactic, no tenderness.
“That’s a kind sentiment,” I say.
“Do you remember when you asked if I knew the legend of the Folk?”
I stiffen—it’s not a memory I want to revisit often. Yet I answer, “Yes.”
“I promised you’d stand a chance when we were done.” She raises an eyebrow. “Do you believe we stand a chance? That we’re done?”
Clenching my jaw, I glance to the side, at the fireplace beside me. Reluctantly, I say, “No.”
We don’t stand a chance yet—in fact, we may be further behind than ever. An Arcane lived among us, right under our noses, and we let it get away. I won’t give it that chance again.
I have to be ready when it comes—ready to aim. To maim.
Swallowing my pride and my anger for the woman across from me—my hurt—I conclude, “We’re not done.”
?
For the first time since I renounced my throne, I step into class. Lilac promised she’s fine—that she can handle it; Kai hasn’t spoken to me. Calista wants to kill me, and as every one of my classmates turns in their seats, I believe they might feel the same.
A chair leg scrapes against the floor as someone places their satchel on the seat beside them.
I sit at my regular spot beside Fleur. One hand twists in her white hair while the other taps a pen against the table. She glances over her shoulder, her big green eyes meeting mine, then shrugs in the other direction.
The whole class follows, the other seat beside me remaining empty.
“Fleur?” I whisper.
Her head twists, and her irises flare bright green, reading my emotions. “Why are you confused?” Fleur whispers, her irises returning to normal. “You blatantly insulted Folkara—the world that employs half of this student body.”
Her words catch me off guard, and I wait for the retraction that never arrives.
“I’m still the prince of Ilyria,” I reply, indignant.
“Before, you were a prince with a crown. It’s different now. We’ll need jobs soon.” Fleur turns in her seat, away from me, watching Hogan as he continues his lesson. Surely he won’t reject me; he has his job. Yet when Hogan glances away from me, it strikes me like a door slamming shut.
The rest of my day follows suit. Eyes pull away, classmates turn their backs, and conversations cut off when I walk by. I suppose this is the freedom from the crown I longed for, though it feels more like exile than release.
Hanging high in the hallway is a long blue silk banner, silver thread spelling out:
Long Live the future King and Queen.
Lilac Aibek.
Kai Contarini.
I want to summon shadows and tear it down. By renouncing the throne, I’ve cut my chains and locked them around Lilac’s wrists. My freedom has become her prison.
I go to the combat room, hacking my sword at the post—metal cutting into the soft, porous wood.
With each blow, I give all my strength, filling every crevice in the wood with my woes.
It splinters beneath me, yet it doesn’t feel like enough.
I keep swinging until I can no longer; I’ve snapped the wood in half.
The post falls to the padded floor with a thump, and I fall with it, running a hand through my hair. My arms tremble from the force of my swings, the echo of them still ringing in my ears. I rest my palms on my knees, anchoring myself, though my breath refuses to comply.
Azaire is gone, my source of reason, my wit in human form. The absence is significant. Him, my mind… something I can’t name. I reach into my pocket, searching for the wolf. Is that gone too? It reminds me of— My chest aches as I draw a shaky breath, the air barely passing through my lungs.
As a shadow passes by the door, I glance up, and Leiholan stumbles into the training room, struggling to walk with his prosthetic leg.
He nods at me in passing, then unlocks his closet stocked with vesi.
He grabs a bottle and drinks as he sinks to the floor, the prosthetic leg dropping awkwardly with him.
It doesn’t look comfortable—or like he has much control over it—as he rips the prosthetic off and tosses it beside him.
With the bottle to his lips, he meets my gaze. I take the invitation, walking across the room to sit beside him. Leiholan hands me the bottle, and I take a slow sip. My… the wolf is gone. I reach into my pocket, thinking I’ve made a mistake. It isn’t there.
Haven’t I done this before?
“You’re making quite a mess of the crown,” Leiholan mutters.
I sigh, running the back of my hand across my mouth. “News spreads quickly.”
“You did something no one’s ever done.”
I nod, and neither of us speaks again. It’s always silent in Leiholan’s presence.
He never talks much, certainly never sits with me one-on-one.
I suppose it’s because of his severed leg, or my declaration for the Nepenthes—the one that pissed off half the universe and made a mess.
Yet I think I’d do it again if given the opportunity.
It was the only time I felt worthy of the respect Azaire had for me.
And it was after he died. After I lost… everything.
What a coward I am.
My only mistake was renouncing my crown. I should have predicted what Leiana would do.
I tip the bottle back to my lips, savoring the taste until I’m too drunk to feel it.
There’s a name on the tip of my tongue, like a fire, and each time I douse it with alcohol, it grows.
Taking a deep breath, I try to reach it.
The deeper I go into my mind, the farther I am from myself, until I’m muttering, “Do you… ever feel like there’s something missing? ”
It clings to the back of my throat—stubborn, like mucus—as I say the words. The feeling sits there. It feels as if there’s someone just outside this room waiting for me, yet when I look up, nothing’s there.
Leiholan glances to his leg, his words slurring. “Yes.”
There are a million things the soldier hides behind his gaze. Oddly, out of every backstory I know here, his gives me the most hope.
“Emotionally,” I clarify. “When does the loss begin to feel real? And once it’s real, when does it begin to feel normal?”
Leiholan chuckles dryly, his laugh forceful. “Cynthia told you?”
“A while ago, yeah.”
Leiholan lost his entire family in the Neptharian War, the same battle that took Azaire’s parents. This means he holds the key to grief.
I’ve never felt lost before. Amidst the abuse and every threat of death, I still felt I held my head. Now, it feels as if I’m missing half my organs.
My heart.
“It never feels real.” Leiholan stares into the distance, as if he can see what he’s saying.
“There are days I wake up and think I’m back home, that Anise is bathing and my parents are at their house…
But the days I write them, knowing they’ll never read what I say, feel normal. ” He shakes his head, lips twisting.
I could write. What would I say? As I swallow, that same stubborn feeling in my throat returns, like mucus—a reminder of all I’ve lost, of something I can’t quite place.
“May I?” I look at the bottle like it’s my savior.
“Be my guest.”
The vesi glides down my throat. Together, we drink ourselves into a drunken stupor. It’s a brief moment of bliss, but I savor it until the room spins like a globe, slowly slipping away from me.