Chapter 5
You’ll die here. It was a nagging reminder I kept telling myself. No matter how much I tried leaving the thought in the wood, it came with me as I approached the estate grounds, echoing over and again. Deceit heard it each time—you’ll die here, you’ll die here. Though I thought he might have put his nails in his ears, because he didn’t say anything to comfort me.
The God of Deception was not one to give comfort, undue.
What dying light lived on in these days had peaked over distant knolls, past the laurel wood, and refused to give those beautiful streams of light I so missed. My body ached in the saddle, skin raw and muscles screaming for rest. The night was long. Yesterday was long, and the night before that.
The stable was void of any workers, only filled to the brim with hay and neighs.
I hesitated to plant my feet, knowing this was the point of no return. The moment my soles imprinted the soil, I’d leave my mark, become another face to scheme for the crown, then be forgotten once the house falls.
Once the Raven is dead.
A crimson banner waved in the breeze beside the stable’s post, the sigil of the raven with wings sprawled out and two swords crosswire. I glared at it and lifted my hands to massage my biting cheeks and stiff scowl. And smiled. I’d need to do that here. Smile to the lord, smile to his son, and smile to anyone else deemed notable, no matter how difficult it was. No matter how vile or wicked they were. So many lies sold behind a smile.
Dismounting, I led Skye to one of a handful of empty stalls and unlatched my belongings from her saddle. Glass clinked in the bag—wine of the Goddess of Beauty. Vera handed the bottle to me before I departed, saying you’ll need a stiff one, and I was suddenly thankful for her sly hands. Rewrapping the bottle between gowns, I stowed it away with the rest of my garments, eager to twist off the cork and let my body melt in the drink. But not yet.
The fresh of dawn budded against the lands—curls of grey and tired colors, accented by shadows—and my duties were to begin. Hardly a time for drink.
There were two paths here—one was wide and bowing outward for the carriages, and the other was a thin, straight path that led directly to a stone wall. The estate. I could not yet make out any other details of the house in this dead daylight.
Peering down the narrow aisle, autumn leaves scurrying across cobblestones in the chill breeze, I stepped down the path. The laurel wood remained to my back, stretching around me to both the north and south, and severing me from the rest of Andrael. I could still smell the heart of the wood—mildew in the knots and grooves and soured air with a magic I did not know.
The scent was rustier than Deceit’s magic. Heavier.
I was only thankful the gods escorted me safely through treacherous terrain. Safeguarding their liar, deceiver, and disloyal servant to the crown.
A breeze washed over me, and the rusty air filled my nose.
My skin turned to gooseflesh in a wave of chills. My heart was taut.
I felt it as soon as I arrived—an unspoken stirring in the grounds I walked, and Deceit twisting within validated this. Something unlike anything I’d ever sensed. The sour scent in the air was rancid and teeming with a corruption I had yet to understand, but I could feel it. Feel it in my gut and bones and like a hundred thistles down my throat.
The grounds were quiet—no birds, no chirp, no crickets or florals brushing florals. Nothing but the dead leaves scathing stone and crushing beneath my steps.
A dark magic beats in this home.
Deceit startled me, my next step clumsy, but I kept onward. I remained silent and took in the surroundings to make sense of the unsensible.
Laurel trees lined the path, distorting the ashen, cloudless sky, while lanterns stabbed the bark, their soft halos spreading from the flames and guiding me to the house ahead. The immoral house. The Raven estate.
You’ll die here, you’ll die here, you’ll—
“Ow!” I tensed and stopped to cradle my head. Be nice, I uttered to the god who held a talon in my mind.
He only twisted it until I winced.
Hush your grievances, child, or death may be soon to pass. He retracted his nail.
Something cracked to my side. I snapped my head to the sound, heart skipping a beat, only to see statues of men and women behind the trees. Many stones were splintering, touched by time, and text lay at their feet. My eyes focused past the lantern and laurels, and I thought one of the statues twitched, the arm settling. I was quick to keep walking.
A dark magic beats in this home.
Then, the Raven Estate appeared.
The house nearly gouged out my eyes with its repugnant indulgence. Pale stones rose three stories high, and an abundance of moss entangled the mortar as though to suffocate it. Flues gloated warmth as ashen smoke consumed the air. Through the murky windows, fires roared.
At the center of the main structure, one tower reached high towards the Everlaides. Upon the spire, a crimson flag boasted the house crest. Perhaps my new omen of death.
I was accustomed to grandiose estates, but this…
As I looked at the estate, I could not deny—this lord was significant.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stepped nearer to my latent casket.
Not yet reaching the final entry step, the grand oak door cried at the hinges like a beast awakening. A man in a suit revealed before me, perched at the edge of the doorstep. His nose was that of a crow’s beak, and his eyes bulged. Upon meeting my gaze, the corners of his eyes tightened and wrinkled.
“What do you want?” He squawked.
I reached into my satchel for the papers.
“Good morning, sir. I am the new advisor, sent by the king. I believe I am expected.” I set my hand upon my chest with a curtsy.
“Rhoswen Fallen. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
The birdman made a disgusted noise and snatched the papers as a vulture does dinner. Tearing the wax seal, he grumbled.
“Ah, yes, we’ve been awaiting your arrival.” He secured his monocle and studied the papers. “Hmm.”
“Are the papers sufficient, good sir?” A knot took root in my stomach.
“Hmm,” he mumbled again. His eyelids folded back, hiding beneath the flabs of his skin.
“Indeed, Miss Fallen. I’d recognize the king’s seal anywhere.” The man then gave me a rehearsed grin and a low bow, his chin nearly snagging my dress.
I returned a smile, though I hoped mine was more sincere.
“Please, sir. Call me, Rhoswen.”
He straightened his spine.
“The Raven Estate is pleased to have your presence. We have heard many admirable statements of the wisdom you have bestowed to lords before ours.” He pinched his monocle with eyes roving over me.
“Though, I must admit, I was expecting an advisor to be someone of older age.”
“Wisdom is but a formality to age I was not keen to wait for. I assure you, sir, what you have heard of me is indeed true.” I smirked.
“Unless it is ill words that have crept these walls.”
The man stumped for a moment, looking to the lifeless sky. Immediately, I knew he was trivial.
His hand met his chest.
“Jones Marium, ma’am.”
I curtsied.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Jones.”
Jones stood there, seemed to fight a glare, handed me the papers, then led our path into the estate. I followed, giving a wide berth, so I could take in the interior.
Though the fires growled and snapped, the house remained quiet and still. Gold rings encrusted the black tiles, cold and hard beneath the clink of my heel. Stone archways framed the hearths with meticulous floral carvings. Long swords were displayed atop. Sage velvet covered the furnishings, and a chandelier hung above without purpose. Without light.
We mounted the stairs, Jones two steps ahead. His elder state had him walking slowly, but I did not mind. It gave me a chance to notice the wooden balcony stitched along the edges, housing shelves with tomes and gold ornaments, picturesque paintings, lush tapestries, and stone carvings. Such intricacies bore a likeness to a castle, not a home. Something of me yearned to explore every secret these walls harbored.
In this moment, I knew my deception would harmonize well with the inner workings of this estate.
Jones stood beside a door, three halls, one left, and one right from where we’d begun.
“Should you need anything, do not hesitate to find me.”
“Thank you, Jones.” I reached for the knob and stopped.
“When may I meet the lord?”
Something unspoken made his lips frown and his bird nose twitch.
“My lord is away, tending to other matters outside the estate. We expect him home any hour.” And without further delay, Jones abandoned me.
Opening the door, I was neither underwhelmed nor overwhelmed. This room was modest and pleasant. A single bed built for one, velvet comforting atop, wooden floorboards with a crimson rug, stone walls, a single window, and a large vanity with a mirror, oil lantern, and candles.
I did not disturb the quiet as I settled into my accommodations.
These were often my favored moments—that peaceful sound of nothing—where I prepared to recast myself as someone else entirely, though I had yet to know who. I did not have the slightest inkling of their faces or voices. Their mannerisms, their desires, or even the seemingly trifling tells that make a mask come alive. The scrunch of a nose, a batting of the lashes, a bite of the lips. Nothing was inconsequential in the art of deception.
I set my luggage upon the bed, the mattress decompressing beneath the bag’s weight. The bed looked at me, tempted me, called me to drown in feathers and sleep. I stepped towards the summons, near spellbound, but fought the urge and merely hung my gowns and peered out the window.
Two stories high, I saw the withered overgrowth stretched beyond the land’s rolling tide. The hills ended with the line of laurel trees, and beyond, the snow-capped mountains positioned beside Sariem. A simmer of fog caressed the lands, obscuring the foliage.
I sat before the vanity mirror.
Deceit’s gifts allowed me to reflect any face I thought of. But, in these quiet moments, I thought of no one. In consequence, Deceit’s magic simmered beneath my flesh and turned my skin to clay. Moldable. I could stretch my mouth from one side of my face to the other. With the palm of my hand, I could flatten my nose. But today, I concaved my eyelids, smearing them with my fingers, and twisted my temples into horns.
Something of this relaxed me, be it the feeling of clay in my hands or the soft burn of Deceit’s magic in my flesh.
Only mere moments passed before there was commotion beneath the floorboards.
With a snap, my skin constricted my bones, my mask falling, and my face became my own.
I found my eyes there in the reflection, deep browns lost in the shadows beneath my lashes. Sighing to the woman in the mirror, I stood and prepared to observe and learn with ill intent, all so another house might fall to the Guild of the Gods.
My gown grinded against the wood, dirt concealing the hem. Exchanging one gown for another, I wrestled into a sage dress to match the furnishings—perhaps to disguise myself as a cushion while I studied my new company—and affixed a satchel at my waist.
Stepping into the hall, I shut the door behind me and ventured to the front room, down the stairs.
Servants wore ivory linens and set crumpets and fresh berries upon a table beside two young women. Another woman sat upon the sage couch I aimed to claim, but all others appeared to be absent. Hearty laughter echoed in the distance, down a darkened hallway where I saw no end.
A giggle spilled from the couch.
“Cat, what would Father say?”
“Hush up, Maisie!”
The two young women’s eyes met mine—one whose face splayed open like a child tearing the wrapping off a present. She shot from her seat, russet braid flying, and threatened my arm with her handshake.
“You must be Miss Fallen.”
I claimed my arm back before it dislodged.
“Please, call me, Rhoswen.”
“I am Catriona, and this is my younger sister, Maisie.”
Maisie stood at Catriona’s back. She looked beyond me for a moment, a shower of chills rippling her skin as though a monster lurked behind me. She then looked at me, tucked her black hair behind her ears, and offered a handshake far more forgiving than her sister’s.
I smiled at them.
“It is a pleasure to meet you both. How have you come by residency in the estate?”
Catriona did not wait a beat before answering.
“Our father is an advisor for the lord—Neil Vaile. We have stayed here since King Paden ordered council for the lords. Twelve years we’ve been here, since Maisie was the wee age of six. We’ve hardly known a life apart from it.”
“Well, should I have any questions about the estate, I will know who to ask.” I glanced at the elaborate array of halls and doors.
“This estate feels like a labyrinth.”
Maisie’s soft, beige eyes flickered past me once more.
“I sometimes still get lost,” she said sheepishly.
I glanced over my shoulder to see what kept taking Maisie’s attention, but there was only another bookcase.
“I cannot blame you,” I said.
“Most homes are not so endless.”
Past the young women, I set my sights on the other. Her ocean eyes chased the flames, and the couch seemed tempted to consume her as she sank deeper in.
I left the sisters with an excuse me and walked to the couch.
“Hello.” I sat beside her, and she scowled without glancing at me.
“I am Rhoswen.” No response.
“And you are?”
“Freya.” Her lips stretched thin, and her youthful eyes tightened further. I would not place her past my own age, though her mannerisms were those of an old, begrudging woman.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” I offered my hand.
Freya kept her hands neatly stacked on her lap.
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
“Pardon?”
Her eyes severed from the flames with a determined cut.
“You have come to offer wisdom, not pleasantries. Is that correct?”
“I do not see how I am prevented from doing both. What is your station here?”
Freya lifted her chin, showing a slender neck lined with tight veins. Her oceanic eyes held a storm beneath.
“Please, let us not bother one another. Our lord is rather particular of the company he keeps, and I do not expect you to live here long.”
“Well, I doubt—”
“Go trouble someone else.”
“Freya, I—”
“Leave me be,” she grunted.
I stood, stifled my anger, and smiled—smiled, because I had to.
“Should Lord Eadric allow me to stay, I do hope you might learn to appreciate my camaraderie. Good day, Miss Freya.”
Something I said gave her satisfaction—her downturned lips lifted with a knowing chuckle.
“You really are a stupid girl,” she huffed and whipped her yellow hair with a flick of the wrist.
“Stupid—?” I cut myself off with a slow breath.
With no others in this room, I walked out of the estate to explore the grounds and regather my patience. Throwing down my smile, I whispered curses under my breath. I was tired. Over a day without sleep, the dreary light made me all the more desperate to retire.
Leaving Freya’s discourtesy where it was, I imagined the faces of those I saw.
The sisters would be difficult to reflect. They shared many features, and exchanging small details could cause a disfigured mess of the two. Freya, however, offered opportunity—frustration was simple to replicate and often seized an entire face. As long as she retained such a temper, her skin could prove useful.
I found myself in a courtyard and scoffed when another building challenged the size of the primary house. I gravitated towards it, the pathway leading me beside an overgrown garden of primrose, thistle, heathers, and blackthorns.
I could envision how beautiful this garden was before light began to taper.
Even still, in the wake of shadows, the floral collection captured my gaze. When I reached out and let the petals glide across my skin, something sharp snagged my finger. I pulled back my hand, plucked a thorn—such an eerie sensation—and finished my jaunt to a fountain at the front of the additional housing.
A woman of stone looked down at me from the heart of the pool, offering a sweet smile as though she did not stand upon corrupt grounds.
Leaning above the murky waters, I found my reflection and began sculpting Freya’s eyes and nose. The water was filthy, distorting the mirror, so I reached in to scoop out dead plants and bugs.
“What are you doing here?” A voice rumbled at my back.
I caged a yelp, my skin snapped into place, and I twisted around to see a man with scrutinizing eyes, clad in black, the garden his background. A blade sheathed at his waist. He glared at a long-lost bee upon my palm with hardened brows.
I flicked the carcass away and wiped my hand across my dress.
“Rhoswen Fallen, sir.” Extending my hand, it was rejected again—his hands remained clasped at his back.
“I am the new advisor for the Raven house.”
“Sands, is this estate not strewn with enough advisors?” He measured me from hair to heels.
“Aren’t you too young to be an advisor?”
“Wisdom is but a formality to age I was not keen to wait for.”
His undereye twitched.
“And how many times have you used that?”
I studied his mannerisms as he studied me, but his statue stature gave nothing away. I shrugged.
“However many times I am accused of bearing inadequate age for my wisdom.”
He sighed.
“Too many times, I assume.”
“Too many.”
The stranger approached, eyes honed on the statue, his dark hair brushing his brow. Leather gloves creaked as his hands tensed along the fountain’s brim, seeming to test the integrity of it.
“Did you arrive today?” He asked.
“I did.”
“And I take it you did not rest before arriving.” A question assumed, though a statement offered. He answered the silence.
“You look exhausted.”
He beheld the trickling waters, and I copied his influx.
“You do not appear well, yourself, good sir.”
An ire yanked on his brow as he looked down at me.
“Is that so?”
It felt like a challenge I was keen to accept, knowing faces all too well.
“It is,” I said.
“You have purple bags beneath your eyes, your lips are thin, cracking, and slacked open. You’re exhausted. Your jaw is clenched, your shoulders are slumping, and your grip on the fountain is heavy, as though you are allowing it to bear the weight you carry. Not to mention the vein that keeps pulsing on your temple, most likely indicating you have a sharp headache.”
Releasing his hands from the fountain, he took off his gloves, stood upright, and stared down at me from the bridge of his nose. His glare was sharp.
“And how do I look now?”
I grinned sincerely. Amused.
“As though you wish for my death.”
His eyes narrowed, then he traded my grin for his own—teeth brilliant, one cheek showing a subtle dimple.
“Perhaps you will make a suitable advisor,” this stranger said, relaxing his posture, eyes shifting, studying my face.
I studied him. His eyes stole my attention for a moment—both his irises and pupils were sheer black. No reflection, but no hollowness. There was a depth, like dark waters or a night sky. Perhaps I should have feared eyes such as his, but I was only intrigued.
He exchanged my long look and continued, leaning closer to whisper.
“If you will be staying in the Raven Estate, one should warn you—sorrow and schemes seem to keep this place intact. Whispers of death. Cold touches. Sinister dealings.” To the subtle horror I showed, he gave a different sort of grin—one edge of his lips twitched like the disturbance of a raindrop on a still pool. Faded and subtle. Gone instantly.
“Are you mocking my being here?” I asked.
His expression was carved.
“Not in the slightest.” Feet twisting in the dirt, he shifted his balance, looked at the estate, and leaned against the fountain’s lip.
“Do you have your papers, Miss Fallen?”
“I’d much prefer you call me Rhoswen. And yes, I do.” I reached for my satchel, fingers touching parchment, then stopped. I stowed my hand away, which caused his brows to harden.
“Though I’m not sure I should trust you with these. If you’re so adamant this house has too many advisors, how am I to know you won’t run off with them?”
Not a smile. Not a glare.
“Do I look like a thief to you?”
I glanced at his clothes, painted with the colors of night, and how they hung from his broad shoulders and tightened at the chest and arms. His sword was neatly tucked in its leather sheath—also dressed in black.
“No, you’re no thief. More of a brute highwayman type, I’d say.”
His onyx eyes gave nothing away.
“Not bad, advisor.” He kicked up his jaw, emphasizing the sharp cut of it.
“I guard the family name, whatever must be done.” The space between us was then occupied by his hand, reaching out to me. “If you say you are an advisor, it is my job to ensure you are.” When I didn’t move, a wicked grin took his lips. “I have a dagger as well, if you’d care to see.”
“Preferably, no.” I reached back into my satchel, snatched the papers, and caught a glimpse of the replicated king’s seal—that damn, burgundy tree. When I set the parchment in his hand, my own hand flitted against his, so steady. Warm. Rough.
He studied the seal, pressing the two broken pieces together until they were flesh.
“Jones had torn the seal upon my arrival,” I added.
“That old crow,” he hushed.
I knew I hadn’t a reason to be nervous of his scrutinizing eyes over the papers, they’d gotten past Jones, but a rock formed in my stomach as his face scrunched ever so gently.
“Interesting,” he said, as though giving me a moment to worry.
“What is it?”
Another pause.
“You are officially the youngest advisor I have ever met.” He looked back at me, holding a steady gaze, as though waiting for me to reveal something. Anything.
Uneasiness lurched in me as our eyes met, so I looked at the estate instead and stirred for information.
“Can you tell me about the lord?”
“What have you heard?”
“Rumors say Lord Eadric is old and cruel. Someone to be careful around. An expired soul.”
“And what have you heard of the lord’s son?”
I chewed my lip for a short moment, feeling his eyes on me. What about him made me… comfortable, perhaps, I could not say.
“A story of the likeness to his father. I heard that he has killed, unjustifiably, if he’s even given a cross look.”
Silence.
I continued.
“From what I understand, the lord and his son have a difficult relationship. The lord is not keen on passing down his title to Alistair. Believes he is unfit.”
This stranger was quiet for another moment, causing me to flicker my eyes back up to his. I nearly ran at what I saw.
Wrath in his scowl, brows knit, seething in his tight jaw.
His voice was low, steady, and paced.
“Whatever rumors may be true, your source of information was sorely outdated.” He paused and cracked his neck.
“My father died two days ago.”
My heart clogged my throat.
He curled his spine so I might grovel in his shadow. His tone was biting.
“I have no need for further advisors, Fallen. Leave this estate, should you appreciate coming to an age where wisdom is assumed rather than questioned.”
Stupid girl. Deceit recited Freya with loathing, and I did not—could not—argue with the god. You’d best secure your place in this estate, or the Divine might release you from their favor.
Young Lord Alistair did not leave me with further words, only sprawled out his tense hand—papers falling to the ground—and stalked towards the primary estate after a long, death-bound glare.
I-I didn’t know it was him. I thought—
What? The new lord would have red eyes and horns like a demon from the churches’ age? The god peeled back the layers of my humility, no remorse. Pitiful, child.
Stupid and pitiful.
Deceit groaned. And, evidently, self-loathing.
Grasping the papers from pebbles and dirt, I followed Lord Alistair’s shadow, time offering distance between us. The cold echo of his footfall burned my soles, and trepidations followed me like a shadow of my own.
Approaching the entrance, stone creaked at my back. I spun around and peered past the laurel trees to the field of statues.
To my horror, a statue’s arm settled in place with a final knock, reaching to me like a summons. I startled at the sight and nearly lost my footing. I turned away quickly in fear of this anomaly—these rocks that moved.
Dark magic. This place was of dark magic.
I walked into the estate with a knot tensing my heart.
Voices echoed many welcomes to Lord Alistair and offered condolences of the late lord’s death. Should I have been wise some moments ago, I would have done the same.
“Keep him close, child,” an older man whispered to Freya.
Freya’s hairs were a river of gold, swaying as she left the elder and crept to Lord Alistair. A smile stretched her face as she gazed up at him. It looked unnatural. Forced. She whispered into Alistair’s collar, though he only constructed distance from her.
Stupid girl, she had said after I mentioned Eadric, knowing full well he had died.
Alistair lifted his gloved hand, ordering our attention.
“Everyone, join me in the cellar for wine.” His stiff timbre cut against the stone.
“We have reason to celebrate this day. The servants are to accompany as well.”
Celebrate? Should he not be mourning the death of his father?
Deceit’s tail twisted around my spine as he peered through my eyes. How many lords of the Dark Era mourn?
The estate’s residents trailed behind Lord Alistair, who led our journey to a stone corridor and down a spiraling staircase. I followed the river of heads bobbing with each step. The ground flattened. At the end of a thin passageway, we came into a large cellar. Barrels of wine stretched down the cellar’s edges until the dark overtook the woodgrains. Servants lit torches, flames dancing upon each of our faces and warming the air.
Two guards set themselves at the end of the hall.
Lord Alistair took his place upon a dais with the barrels at his back, us standing beneath him as an audience. He roared a laugh, the sound creeping down the basement cellar where it died in the vast unknown.
My stomach tightened at the tune.
“Gods, I have missed being home.” He filled his chalice with wine and took a swig as we waited. Motionless.
“Do not make a man drink alone,” he said with a sharp tone.
Chalices were distributed by servants amongst the crowd. Over thirty stood, scattered in the firelight. I surveyed the throng and caught a flicker of pale eyes—Hendry Baird, server to the God of Sight. We saw each other for a moment, though we made no acknowledgment. We were not to know each other. Utter strangers from different lands, only threaded together by whatever fate the estate held.
A servant came to me, offered a glass, and I accepted, though I did not drink.
Lord Alistair finished his cup and thrashed it against the ground, the clank harsh in my ears. Unexplained rage, then composure resumed. Deceit twitched with talons curled around my eyes.
Giving a stringing sigh, Alistair’s hand glided through his dark, messy hair.
“Do you wonder where I have been these last three days?” He asked.
“Do you wonder why I could not reside beside my dying father as he breathed his last breath?” The room was hushed, and his laughter roared. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” His face set to hard stone. “There is a traitor in our midst.”
My heart buckled in my throat. Murmurs bounced against the stone walls.
Then, I saw it.
A black vein flooded Lord Alistair’s wrist, crawling up his sleeve and twisting past his collar. The tell of the darkest curse of this age. The curse the gods did not understand—
Shadows.
Lord Alistair—a servant to the dark that threatened this realm.
The sinister veins crept around the cords of his neck, blood curdling in darkness with skin fading pale. As a lord in this age, he was destined to die. As a servant to the dark, his fate was sealed. I had never served a lord seduced by this evil magic.
All tensed in hastened mutters, speculations of the traitor surging from lips.
“Silence!” The lord’s anger shook the wine cellar. A webbing of black veins sprawled from his temple and dripped ink into his eyes. He paced slowly, like a wolf to capture sheep. His sharp features flickered left and right as he marked his subjects.
“You call me friend. You stay in my home, eat my food, sleep in my beds, and yet you scheme and connive under my very nose?”
I looked at Hendry again, though his eyes were set beyond anything in the room.
What is he doing? I begged Deceit for clarity.
Attempting to see his future.
Lord Alistair drew his blade. “Guards.”
For a moment, the sword pointed at me.
Alistair’s eyes locked with my own.
“Hand me Hendry Baird.”
My breath quivered. I fell into my mind, desperate for composure. I took a long breath, though it unraveled as grunts and yells wailed against the stones.
Hendry cried at the guards with arms fighting for dear life.
It was a display of despair and crimson as the guards’ capes whisked in the hollow air, as though the fabrics were foreboding the martyr’s blood to river. The two guards apprehended the steward of the gods and threw Hendry before the lord. His skull cracked against the stone ground. My stomach turned. A deep cry strung from Hendry’s soul, and blood melded into the tears trailing his ashen cheeks.
Lord Alistair licked his lips in sick thirsting. Blood, blackened.
“Do you serve the gods, Hendry?”
Hendry did not speak.
The lord spun his blade and pelted the pommel against Hendry’s forehead. Further blood cascaded down, making Hendry near unrecognizable.
Lowering himself to where Hendry knelt, the lord asked again.
“Do you serve the gods?”
Hendry coughed up blood, red splattering Lord Alistair’s face. Slowly, the lord wiped his own cheek, smearing the stain with a vile smile.
“Then you are sentenced to die.” Alistair’s eyes, whites and all, were glossed in ebony.
Hendry held Alistair in his gaze, his lips moving and his words quiet—I could only imagine it was his final prayer. Hendry lowered his eyes, lowered his head, and submitted to the blade.
Alistair’s sword rose to the Everlaides and caught the muted torchlight. And, just like my father’s guillotine, the blade was sent down. I yelped. Hendry’s head fell to the ground, and his body followed suit. Freya lost her breakfast in the corner, her face green, and the sisters held each other from nightmares.
I held onto myself, Vera’s absence leaving me hollow.
Hendry Baird was killed.
Alistair Raven, a killer.
Death. It was inevitable in the houses I stayed. I knew this, but it did not lessen my sorrow. Though it did make it easier to watch the lords fall to their graves. It had already been mapped upon a tome in the Everlaides.
His fate was sealed. The gods had spoken.
Lord Alistair Raven was to die.
The Shadows
The gods, they came, and crafted mankind.
But in our darkened hearts, such darkness divine,
The Shadows were birthed to reign in an age,
Of corruption and darkness, our sins be the cage.
We could not escape, never to outrun.
The merciless, the darkest, our lives were undone.
The bringer of Shadows fell from the thrones,
And suffocated our realm, shackled our bones.
The light never came, never shone in the mist.
We cursed ourselves without knowing,
we were on the damned’s list.
But let them rise up to become our new splendor,
The Shadows come forth, for from the light, we sequester.
Praise to the Shadows.