83. Lazarus #2
The screaming starts again. One of the women collapses to her knees, her white dress pooling around her like spilled milk.
Another lunges toward the edge of the stage, arms outstretched, only to be caught by the guards and thrown back.
The sound of their terror fills the hall; high, desperate, and utterly, completely satisfying.
Now they’ll wear white, now they’ll serve. Now they’ll learn what it means to be on the losing side of a holy war.
“Take them away,” I order, and my ruined voice makes the command sound like a curse.
The guards drag the women off the stage.
Their screaming fades as they’re pulled through the side doors, down corridors that will lead them to the chapel Leandra has prepared.
We planned this together in the long nights while we healed.
She told me what she wanted; the chapel, the gowns, the perpetual service, and I gave it to her. I gave her everything she asked for.
The crowd murmurs, restless, unsure of what comes next. Leandra steps forward, her burned face tilted toward them with an expression that is both serene and predatory.
“My lords,” she begins, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall, “we have one other gift for you. A treat, a present for those who wish to partake.”
Her words ripple through the room like a shockwave. The Chapter Lords exchange glances, their curiosity piqued, no doubt by the smile on her face.
Leandra turns her head slightly, her white eye gleaming as she looks toward the side entrance.
The doors swing open once more, and two guards drag a woman onto the stage.
She is dressed in a simple sheer shift. Her eyes dart around the room, wide with terror, and she struggles against the guards’ grip, but they hold her firm.
It is Astrid. Leandra’s sister.
She has been kept hidden for months, force-fed and meticulously cared for before being bathed and prepared for this very moment.
Her body is fuller now, her cheeks flushed with fear rather than starvation.
She looks like a shadow of the woman she once was, but there is still a flicker of defiance in her eyes.
Leandra steps closer to her sister, her gaze steady, her expression unreadable. She reaches out, her fingers brushing Astrid’s cheek in a gesture that might have been tender if not for the coldness in her eyes.
“My Lords,” Leandra says, her voice soft but carrying, “as a gift to you, for your loyalty, I offer you my own flesh and blood. My sister. She is yours to enjoy as you wish.”
Astrid’s eyes widen in horror, and she begins to scream, a raw, guttural sound that fills the hall. She thrashes against the guards but they hold her fast, their hands like iron. Leandra steps back, her smile widening while her white eye gleams.
Some of the men hesitate for a moment, but then, one by one, they begin to move forward.
The first to reach her is a burly man with a thick beard and a cruel smile.
He grabs Astrid by the hair, yanking her head back and she screams again, her voice breaking.
He tears at her shift, the fabric ripping easily, exposing her body to the room.
Another man steps forward, his hands rough as he grabs her, his fingers digging into her flesh.
Astrid struggles, her screams turning to sobs but there are too many hands, too many bodies pressing in around her.
They push her to the floor, her back hitting the marble with a sickening thud and then they are on her, their hands and mouths everywhere.
Leandra watches it all, her expression calm, almost serene. She stands at the edge of the stage, her crimson gown pooling around her feet, her burned face tilted slightly toward the light. Her white eye gleams like a star, cold and distant as she watches her sister being used.
The hall fills with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh. Of grunts, moans, and Astrid’s screams that go on and on and on. The Lords take turns, using every part of her, their hands rough and demanding.
Astrid fights, but her struggles grow weaker as she is passed from one man to the next, her screams turning to whimpers, her body limp and unresisting.
Leandra steps forward, her gaze fixed on her sister. She kneels beside her, her fingers brushing Astrid’s sweat-soaked hair from her face. Astrid’s eyes are glazed, her lips parted in a silent scream, her body trembling with exhaustion and pain.
“My Lords,” Leandra says, her voice soft but carrying, “She can handle far more than that. Please have your fill.”
The men continue to use her, their movements rough and relentless, their faces twisted with pleasure. Astrid’s body is a canvas of bruises and bite marks, her skin slick with her sweat and blood. She lies still now, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
Leandra stands, her gaze sweeping the room. Her expression is one of satisfaction, of triumph. She looks down at her sister, her burned face beautiful in the golden light, her white eye gleaming with a terrible light.
“This,” she says, her voice clear and cold, “is the price of betrayal.”
Leandra turns to me, her smile widening, her fingers finding mine. She squeezes gently, her touch cool and steady, her triumph radiating off her like heat from a fire.
This is not cruelty for its own sake. This is justice, this is balance. Equilibrium.
And we are its architects.
The body of Ezekiel still hangs between Antonio and Gabriel, his dead eyes staring at nothing.
“Let this be a reminder,” I tell the crowd. “To anyone who thinks the Esau’s dream still lives. To anyone who thinks they can challenge what we are building here, to anyone who thinks my mercy is weakness.”
I reach up and touch the scar at my throat. The gesture is deliberate, theatrical, Leandra taught me that. She understands the power of imagery, of symbolism, of showing rather than telling.
She’s been teaching me since the day she woke up in that hospital bed, her face half-wrapped in bandages, her one good eye searching my face for answers I didn’t yet have.
“We survived,” I say. “We healed. We are still here, and we are not going anywhere.”
The applause that follows is thunderous.
It rolls through the hall like a wave, building and building until the windows shake and the chandeliers tremble overhead.
The Chapter Lords are on their feet. The Senate are standing in their elevated seats.
Everyone is caught up in the victory, in the sheer undeniable force of what we’ve accomplished.
I turn to Leandra. My wife. My partner. My priestess of vengeance in crimson silk.
She’s looking up at me, her burned face beautiful in the golden light, her white eye staring straight into whatever remains of my soul.
I raise her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. The gesture looks romantic to the crowd, but it’s more than that. It’s gratitude, it’s worship. It’s the closest thing to prayer I’ve ever been capable of.