14. Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MORTE
S ingle file, we walk. And walk. And walk. Snow crunches beneath our boots, muffled by the eerie stillness that blankets the forest around us. The silver-barked trees stretch like fingers overhead, blotting out most of the sun. Three moons hang their heads in the sky, their diminished size and distance an odd sight—there are usually more in Bedlam.
I feel Azazel’s attention on my back as we trudge through the snow. Ahead of me are miles of soldiers whose names I don’t know, their boots carving deep trenches into the snow, each step erasing any trace of the ones before. My own boots sink into the impressions left behind, their weight marking the path I’m forced to follow.
Obedient little soldiers.
My wrists ache from the manacles, the metal biting into my skin with each step. The cold seeps into my bones, numbing everything but the dull throb of pain. I've lost track of how long we've been walking, but the scant light filtering through the leaves has shifted, suggesting we’ve been at this for hours. My legs burn from the exertion, and I miss my ability to use magic to heal the micro-tears in my muscles from hiking.
Occasional chatter meets my ears, but none of it offers any clues about where we are, where we’re headed, or what they plan to do once we get there. We didn’t stop to eat lunch, and judging by the sour moods creeping in, I’m guessing that was intentional.
The snow deepens as we climb higher, the path growing steeper and more treacherous as the trees grow sparser. Clouds churn above, thickening and roiling, veiling the sky in shades of gray. My breath comes in ragged gasps, visible in the frigid air like giant plumes of smoke. The soldier in front of me stumbles, nearly falling, and I sidestep quickly to avoid crashing into him. I offer him my hand, helping him rise to his feet.
The soldier bows gratefully as he regains his footing, his eyes meeting mine briefly before darting away. There's a hint of something in his stare—not quite sympathy, but a trace of unease. He quickens his pace, putting distance between us once more.
Maybe not all the king’s soldiers are behind him and his horrific regime.
The wind picks up, biting through my clothes and chilling me to the bone. I shiver, pulling my arms tighter around myself as we trudge onward.
“Father!” Az calls out, startling me.
Everyone halts. The sudden silence is haunting, broken only by the whistle of wind through the silver-barked trees. I turn to see Az pointing ahead, his brow furrowed, eyes on the sky.
"There's a storm coming." The words carry over the gale. “We should make camp before it hits.”
King Valtorious pauses, his attention scanning the treacherous terrain ahead. Angry clouds roil on the horizon. He nods curtly. “Very well. We’ll set up camp here for the night.”
Relief tingles at the edge of my consciousness, but it’s snatched away when the king’s eyes slide back to Az. His smile grows—slow, sinister, calculated. “Tell me, Azazel,” he begins, drawing out the syllables like they’re laced with poison. Knowing him, they might be. “Do you intend to share her, or shall I take the first watch myself?”
A knot tightens in my chest, each breath harder to pull as I watch Az. Something about him feels wrong—off in a way that twists my stomach. The man who once shielded me from everything now stands there silent, his body a study in restraint, his jaw locked as though holding back words he dares not speak.
I search his face for any hint of rebellion, any trace of the real Az, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. His fists remain at his sides, his shoulders rigid. The betrayal I should feel is clouded by something more insidious: doubt. This isn’t the Az I know. It can’t be.
For a moment, my mind spirals—what if this isn’t him? What if his father has done something, twisted someone else into his image? My heart pounds as I reach for the connection that ties us, hoping for answers.
It’s still there. Faint but undeniable, a tether that whispers of him, the real Az, buried beneath the frigid exterior. Relief battles with anger, because it means this is him. No spells. No illusions. He’s standing there, and he’s allowing this.
My nails press into my palms, and it takes everything not to demand answers, not to scream at him to snap out of it. Every second of his silence cuts deeper, the ache expanding until it threatens to consume me.
Finally, he speaks, his words as sharp as broken glass. “If that’s what you wish, Father.” His voice carries no warmth, no affection, only the hollow precision of someone forced into compliance. He bows, the motion stiff, mechanical, and the sight sends fresh anger surging through me.
King Valtorious chuckles, and the sound sends a chill straight through me, seeping into every fracture in my heart. “Ah, my loyal son. So eager to please.” He turns his attention on me, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable. “Maybe I’ll keep her company tonight, after all.”
Azazel's head snaps up, his stare burning with something almost wild, but he tamps it down in an instant, smothering whatever blaze threatened to consume him. He nods once, stiff, like a marionette forced to move against its will. "As you command," he mutters, and those three words twist like a knife in my gut.
His gaze sweeps past me like I’m nothing more than a shadow, a nuisance in his way. Everything inside me recoils, every hope I’d held onto with bloody fingers disintegrates into dust. He’s shutting me out in the coldest way imaginable.
He turns and begins setting up the tent without another word. His movements are precise, almost mechanical, as though he's gone numb to everything around him. And I’m left standing there, hollowed out, torn between the rage that burns in me and the desperate need to believe that none of this is real—that the Az I love isn’t the one doing this.
The king watches my reaction with a smile that reeks of satisfaction, like he’s found the weak link he was looking for. He fixes his focus back on Azazel, lingering like a curse. “Good. Remember, son, loyalty has its rewards. But betrayal—” his eyes flick to me, lingering on my mouth like he’s savoring the idea of my screams, “—well, betrayal has consequences.”
Az doesn’t react. He doesn’t flinch or growl or offer any challenge. He just continues setting up camp, like nothing happened, like I’m not even here.
And that hurts more than anything he could’ve said.
I stand there, frozen, as the truth unravels around me like a slow-motion nightmare. Azazel doesn’t even look my way. He keeps his focus locked on the task at hand, hands moving methodically as he secures the tent’s poles, every action a mockery of the love we once shared. Each movement calculated, each gesture more like a puppet obeying invisible strings.
And I want to scream.
I want to grab him by the shoulders, shake him until this false mask shatters, until he finally cracks and tells me that this—this nightmare—is all part of some twisted plan. That he’s just pretending to be his father’s pawn, that he hasn't truly chosen this road that leads away from us, away from me.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even flinch.
King Valtorious shifts his attention back to me, and the malice there cuts into my skin like knives. “You see, my dear?” His words drip with smug satisfaction. “A good son always follows his father’s orders. And Azazel, well ... he’s a very good son.”
I can’t breathe. My lungs constrict, and the air turns barbed in my throat, tasting like betrayal and ash. It’s worse than any physical wound. Worse than dying a hundred times over. Because when I look at Azazel now, I see nothing but the stranger he’s pretending to be. I see the lie he’s become, standing tall in a deception that he wears as effortlessly as his skin.
He glances up briefly, but at his father, not at me—never at me. “The tent is ready,” he says flatly, as though it’s just another day, as though my entire world hasn’t shattered at his feet.
And that’s when it happens—the thing I never expected. Agony tears through me, forcing a broken sob to escape my throat before I can swallow it down. My knees almost buckle, but I refuse to let them. I refuse to fall apart, not in front of him, not in front of them.
Az’s eyes flicker—just for a heartbeat—and I think I catch a glimpse of something. A crack in the mask, a glimpse of the agony I know he’s burying deep. But then it’s gone, swallowed by the false calm he’s wrapped himself in.
“You’re dismissed.” The king waves his hand as though Az is nothing more than a servant who’s fulfilled his duty.
Azazel inclines his head again, his movements stiff, mechanical as he walks away, his boots crunching over the frosted ground, his silhouette fading into the dusk like a shadow that was never meant to stay.
The camp is a flurry of movement, soldiers bustling around, but they don’t matter. They’re nothing more than smudges in the periphery. All I can see is the space between us widening with every step he takes, every footfall echoing like the final notes of a dirge.
“Az,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of his name. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down.
My heart shatters further, pieces of it slicing through me as I take in his awful, twisted display of betrayal. He is really gone. He’s really leaving me here—alone in this hell with his father.