The Aftermath
Luka’s wings sliced through the air, propelling him towards his castle. Overwhelming sorrow struck him like a lightning rod, nearly sending him spiraling out of the sky. His heart squeezed tightly, forcing his breath out in short pants; he feared the worst.
He faltered slightly when he smelled blood as he neared his castle. The crimson liquid he viciously craved to the point of desperation and insanity suddenly revolted him as he picked up his beloved’s unique scent.
Please, gods, let me not be too late, he prayed, as he neared his destination.
Without hesitation, he crashed through the stained-glass window of the Great Hall. He landed with as much grace as a fawn taking its first steps. His boots slipped across the slick floor, bringing him to his hands and knees. His gaze blurred and unfocused as blood seeped between his fingers.
He felt himself dissociate, pulling away from the inevitable pain. His mind returned him to Garden Ridge and the night they had truly become one. Anything was better than imagining his queen and child perishing.
An ear-piercing wail echoed through the hall, forcing his vision to refocus. His gaze climbed up, and what he saw would likely haunt him for eternity.
Matilda was sobbing as she attempted to place Belzara’s severed head onto her body in a depraved last-ditch effort to bring her friend back to the land of the living.
“You will come back to me, Belzara!” she cried over the unmoving body.
Luka rushed to her side and knelt. “My Queen,” he whispered, reaching out to touch her—to offer some semblance of comfort for her loss and the horrors that befell her.
“Do not touch me!” she shrieked, shying away from his touch. Her denial struck him with formidable grief. Did she blame him for failing to keep them safe?
“Are you injured, Tilda?”
His eyes glanced over her, stopping to note the visible stab wound to her hand that pulsed blood in a steady trickle.
“My heart… it is in distress,” she murmured, not taking her eyes off her fallen friend.
“I know she meant much to you. For that, I am sorry.”
She snorted. “You are not sorry. You hated her,” she said accusingly.
“I did.”
Matilda finally looked at him when he made no attempt to soften the truth.
“But I love you. And I am sorry that you are hurting. I greatly mistrusted your friendship, but your pain is my pain. We shall lay her to rest in the royal mausoleum if you so wish.”
Matilda’s breath hitched in her chest. She stared at her betrothed through bleary eyes and wondered if she’d heard him correctly.
“Are… are you certain?”
“Aye.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Your gift is generous, and I shall never forget it.”
Luka cupped her face and said, “I’d give you my heart on a platter if you’d so wish.”
Matilda laughed through her tears. “What would I do with that crusty black thing? Hm? What good would it do me?”
The corner of his lips tilted into a minuscule smile. “I fear not much.” His hand slipped down to her belly, and relief flooded him when he felt a gentle nudge.
Matilda lifted her wounded hand and examined how the fibrous muscles and tissues worked efficiently to heal.
“Had I been a second too late,” she said, trailing off as she lost herself in the thought of losing her child.
“You fought valiantly, huntress.”
She sighed wistfully and knelt beside Belzara again. “I’m growing weary of fighting. Garden Ridge calls me more and more.”
“I shall not hear of it.”
“My King,” Ezra mumbled, closing in on them with a blood-soaked hand pressed against his abdomen. “You’ve returned.”
“Excuse us, my Queen. I shall only be a moment,” Luka said to his grieving mate, motioning for Ezra to follow him out of the Great Hall, where they were met with more bloodied corpses of the guards he left behind to protect the castle.
“Have they all been neutralized?” he questioned. His voice sounded thick and murky like the morning fog that covered the swamps.
“Aye. It was—”
“Vivian,” Luka finished. “She was General Casimir’s beloved. We must purge, Ezra.”
“How do you mean? Tell me what you desire, and I’ll avenge you.”
“I desire for the nobles to cease to exist,” Luka answered.
“All of the nobles?” Ezra asked, unsure if his king’s desire for retribution outweighed his common sense.
“All of them,” Luka hissed.
“I refuse.”
Luka blinked several times before concentrating on the man he considered a dear friend.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I refuse to decimate the nobles. Have you forgotten in your rage and sorrow and desperation for revenge my surname?”
Luka closed his eyes and sighed. “House Gustafson.”
“That is correct. Will I tear down the walls of House Bryne for you and my queen? Without hesitation; nevertheless, I refuse to slaughter the innocent. You have forgotten that there are noble houses that are staunch loyalists: House Gustafson, House Mirren, and House Brennan, to name a few.”
“And where are these houses?” Luka bellowed. “Where is your house? I will tell you where your house is—they are cowards sequestered away behind their gilded gates, unwilling to dirty their hands as a means to remain nonpartisan!”
Ezra’s body tensed from Luka’s insult.
“You’d do well to hold your tongue when speaking of House Gustafson. Heed my warning, King; you’d prefer House Gustafson to remain nonpartisan. Do not tip the scales.”
The two men glared at one another—unyielding and unapologetic until Ezra spoke first, breaking the silence.
“I am no longer in the mood to hold in my entrails. Hopefully, Dr. Blackwood is still alive. Today was a day of tragedy—tomorrow will be a day of reckoning,” he said before dismissing himself.
Luka swallowed the lump that’d formed in his throat. In his rage, he’d disrespected the only man he considered a friend and feared the scales were already tipped.