Chapter 38 Vengeance #2
Ivar had slunk off the bench and pressed himself into the corner, one hand fumbling at his dirk, the other splayed against the wall, as if he might push off—make a desperate break for it, or at least slow me down.
But I didn't move. I only watched, as the fragile thread of hope in his eyes frayed, then snapped, leaving only raw, animal fear behind.
Let him sit with it. Let him feel it crawl through his bones.
I wasn't even going to bother pursuing this coward.
That would have been too merciful. No—I could make this far worse for Ivar.
I let my mind seep into his, coiling through his fear-soaked thoughts just as I had with the woman moments ago. But there would be no gentle command to leave this time. No—my will gripped him like a vise, forcing his piss-stained legs to drag his wretched body toward me.
“Come to me,” I whispered into the hollow of his mind. “Crawl if you must. Bow before me. Beg for the mercy you never gave.”
A strangled cry tore from his throat as his shaking limbs betrayed him, pulling him closer and closer. I stood still in the center of the room, a statue drenched in blood, the bodies of his men scattered across the floor, broken toys at my feet.
And then the thought came—dark and venomous. A small, gleeful demon whispering that I should push him onto the nearest table, visit every cruelty upon him that he had inflicted on me. A twisted eye for an eye. Would that not balance the scales?
But then Buna’s voice cut through the darkness, stern and steady, and I forced my demon down into the pit where it belonged.
It was enough to see him tremble. To feel his terror roll off him in waves.
I didn't need more blood tonight; my clothes were already soaked in it, and his death would not cleanse me of my pain.
But this—this would be the last thing he saw: me, terrible and unyielding, standing over him like a goddess of ruin.
He half-walked, half-crawled until he was within a foot of me. My will crushed his resistance until he collapsed to his knees, head bowed.
“Tell me your crimes, Ivar,” my voice a silky command against the sound of his frantic, shallow breathing. “So that I may decide your punishment.”
“I did what I was told…nothing more,” he sobbed, the words tumbling out between gasps, snot glistening as it streaked down his face. “I had to…I didn't have a choice, I…I swear.” His words came in a tumble from his thin lips.
Did he think I was stupid, that I believed he had not been complicit?
I let my gaze travel over him slowly, deliberately, until he squirmed under the weight of it.
“Ah, ah,” I scolded at his lie. “What else did you do, Ivar?” I asked, my voice low and silken.
I already knew the answer. But I wanted to hear him say it.
“I'm sorry…I'm sorry,” he whispered, his lips trembling as his voice fell to a rasp. “I couldn't help it.”
I took a single step closer, and he flinched as if I'd struck him.
“What couldn't you help?” I murmured, my voice curling around him like smoke—heat and malice woven into every syllable.
All the while, my mind slipped deeper into his, coiling tight, fingers of thought wrapping around the string knotted to his truth.
And then, with a subtle tug, I began to pull.
His confession tore free in a guttural rush, wet and trembling.
“I wanted it, Magda. I wanted to watch them hurt you. The lowborn granddaughter of the village witch…who thought she was too good for the likes of me and my men, who fancied herself better than she was.” His voice cracked, and for a fleeting second I thought his fear might rein him in.
But no—his last scraps of self-preservation crumbled.
“I wanted to fuck that sweet…cunt,” he spat, the word raw and jagged in the air, “before I finished you.” The shock on his face said it all.
He understood now—he didn't even control the words spilling from his mouth.
Not anymore. Not even the thoughts he buried deep in his mind were safe from me.
“So there it is,” I said quietly. “You wanted to take what was never yours. And where are you now? On your knees before me.” I had only one question left. “Who told you to do it?” I asked.
Tears streamed down his face—not out of fear for the answer, but because he understood what would come after it.
There was no escape now. “Drago Burián,” he choked, his voice barely a whisper.
“He wanted you…eliminated. Said Caius was never the same after he was sent away. Said you were a poison…that would eventually kill him.”
My face may have been imperious, but the truth gutted me.
That Caius's father could hate me so deeply, that he would let fear twist love into a threat—believing the affection his son held for me could somehow weaken his grip on power.
Anger coiled in my chest, slow and venomous.
His arrogance, his prejudice, had set fire to everything: caused the death of his own granddaughter, the slaughter of his son's loyal friend—who had tried so desperately to pick up the shattered pieces the boyar's hatred had left behind.
And me. What I suffered. What I became. Reborn into something that would never again bow to men like Drago Burián. I would decide how to deal with the boyar—but not tonight. Judgement would come for him another day.
I willed Ivar to rise, and he staggered to his feet, legs quivering like saplings in a storm. I took a single step forward until we stood eye to eye. He trembled violently, as though the air itself had turned to ice, though the room was warm and thick with the coppery scent of blood.
I pulled the long dagger from the fire-crazed leather sheath slung across my back in a fluid motion.
My other hand, small but unyielding, slick with the blood of his fallen men, closed around his throat.
I lifted him effortlessly until his boots barely scraped the floor.
He struggled weakly against my grip, but I held his gaze.
With a single thrust I drove my blade up beneath his ribs, the steel slipping through flesh with elegant precision.
Slowly, deliberately, I dragged it downward, carving cleanly through him, past his groin before I pulled it free.
His body jerked and twitched, but I held him aloft until the wet slosh—the contents of his abdomen—struck the floor.
His face drained white, his mouth sagging open in a soundless scream. The muscles needed to summon a cry were useless now, severed and lifeless. A faint, pathetic gurgle bubbled from his lips as I released my grip and let him crumple in a heap at my feet.
I turned from him without a word, unhurried, and reached for a pitcher of strong mead. Pouring it across the table nearest Ivar, I let the liquid seep into the wood. Then I plucked a torch from the wall, the flames flickering hungrily in my reflection, and lowered it to the mead-soaked surface.
Fire bloomed instantly, crackling to life as the table ignited and the flames began to spread.
“Watch, Ivar,” I said softly, almost tenderly, as the fire's glow painted me and the room in shades of gold and crimson. “As the flames cleanse this place of your filth.”
And when the fire reached him at last, I did not look away. I stood still as the flames took hold, watching until the entire structure was engulfed—until the place where Ivar and his men once schemed and brutalized would stand no more.
I picked up my cloak before I walked out into the night.
The townspeople had gathered, drawn by the flames and the rising smoke. They lined the lane, eyes wide, lips parted in shock as I passed. I knew what they saw.
A woman, drenched in blood.
I walked slowly down the center of the narrow road, head high, shoulders steady. Terror incarnate. And justice. I sent my thoughts outward, to each man, woman, and child. The same message I had planted in the mind of the woman I'd spared in the great hall:
“I came to end their reign of terror. To protect our people—all of you—the poor and the rich, the weak and the strong. And I will not stop…until all our people know peace.”