Anticipation #2
I stared at the moonlit floor, mesmerized by the polished black stone.
Thin fissures caught the moonlight, causing a deep wine color to reflect.
I’d never seen anything like it. Lowering onto the ground, I curled my legs close to my chest, placed my chin on my knees, and stared out into the spanning window.
The moonlight took up much of the sky, and stars sprinkled around the waning moon.
Such a beautiful sight. I best absorb it.
The Sycarious sky was beautiful, and it was even better closer to my homeland, Southern Sycarious. A clear image flashed in my memory. As always, with any thought of the countryside, a vision of my family torn apart flitted to the forefront.
Hopelessness snaked through my veins, poisoning every artery.
I closed my eyes and tried to calm my rampant pulse. Distracting myself was imperative. I let out a slow breath, clenching my hands. Harder and harder until the pinch dragged me out of my panic.
Nocturn arrived in four moon rotations. An eve where dawnlight never rose and it was pure moonlight twice the time as usual.
Many times I had heard the prophecy. Whispered about at dinner parties, balls, and powder rooms. With the whispers came their hope of being the one chosen by the Sigil. A possibility of serving the Warlord King was much too tempting for ladies from Elite families.
When word spread across the realm that the one to have the Sigil was a redblood? Nothing good could come from it.
A hissed sound ripped me out of my half doze, and I pushed onto my elbows, blinking the blur from my eyes.
Figures approached me at an alarming speed.
I dragged in a gust of air to scream, but a hand clamped over my mouth, cutting me off.
Danger. Run. Hide. My heartbeats thundered those three words through my veins.
I lunged to get away, but an arm snaked around my stomach.
Unlike the Warlord’s oversized body, the one against me was small and struggled to contain my frantic writhing. The scent of earthy straw and damp grass filled my nose.
“Stop moving,” the low-pitched threat only spurred me on.
Another hand grabbed my wrist, and the original assailant grappled with my other hand. Together, they shoved me onto the floor, pinning my arms.
“We can make this pleasant if you stop writhing,” the damp-smelling one hissed. Terror escalated my struggles.
My eyes finally focused. A wiry man with strained features pinned my shoulders down. A dull pulse worked to my fingertips. His hips forced my thighs to spread, causing the bottom of my sleeping gown to pool at my midsection.
A hand shoved between his body and mine. Hard fingers pressed against my bare private flesh. An invasive, harsh sensation. Disgust gnawed through my veins. A pit yawned open in my gut, urging me to bury myself into my mind.
No!
No, no, no, no!
I sucked in a breath and let out a piercing scream.
The wiry man pinning me slapped his hand over my mouth.
Panic made my movements disjointed. I curled my leg and thrust my knee between the bearded man’s legs with enough force that he was propelled back.
His invasive fingers slid out of my flesh.
I kicked again, and he toppled back, widened eyes meeting mine.
He had fallen on the spike behind him, the one I’d been chained to.
They must have unlocked me from it while I’d been dozing.
Shadows caused his blue blood to look black; the spread of liquid bloomed wider across his chest. My stomach lurched.
I rolled to vomit, ending up splattering the wiry man in an officer’s uniform with foul, milky liquid.
He shouted, and his grip on my arm loosened, freeing me. I shoved to my hands and knees, crawling away. A pair of boots stepped into my path. In the time it took me to flinch back and sit, the third officer slapped me across the face.
I yelped, falling onto my side, the flash of gold embroidered on his uniform telling me of his higher rank in the Guard. A copper taste filled my mouth. He crouched and hit me again. Blood sprayed across the ground, and my vision blurred.
“Would you look at that,” he marveled. “A disgusting redblood. I will be doing His Highness a favor by breaking the little wench.” His face was shadowed, but it did nothing to hide the avarice in the curve of his mouth. “Boris, take him to the infirmary.” He had already unfastened his pantaloons.
He was in front of me. The wiry man, Boris, continued to glare at me, not moving to the other officer speared on the spike.
“He’s already dead.”
At that phrase, I whipped my head toward the injured man. He lay still, eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling.
I-I killed him.
I could not move, not even to escape. Death wasn’t new to me, but I had never killed someone. What had I done?
My vision swam and pinpricks spread up my arms.
Thundering, floor-shaking steps approached. The Warlord entered, his head slightly cocked, taking in the officers, me, and settling on the dead body.
“Speak,” he ordered, his voice silky.
“My lord, she murdered one of the Guard,” the wiry man blurted, keeping his head lowered.
“And why are you here with the Vessel?”
His mouth opened and closed.
Instead of pushing the wiry man, the Warlord strode to the dead body. He stood over it and cocked his head.
“The dead do not keep secrets from me.”
The deceased body undulated, and his veins bulged, neck straining. I watched in awe. I’d heard of his gift: necromancy.
Black lines traveled through the visible parts of the corpse’s body, running through his veins. He suddenly sputtered, his chest arching on the spike impaling him. Coughing sent fits of blood spraying from his mouth.
“Why are you with the Vessel?”
“She harmed one of our women. Tried to choke her. We were simply teaching her a lesson—”
It all spilled out of him, but he did not have the chance to finish.
The Warlord slammed his thick boot down on his head. Brains burst under his foot. I cupped my mouth to stop my scream.
The Warlord looked at the officer standing over me, the look so fixed it sent terror churning inside me. He slowly approached, keeping his focus steady. The smell of urine stung my nose, followed by liquid dribbling onto the front of the officer’s boots.
“Her body must not be irreparably harmed,” he whispered, voice terrifyingly low. His large, meaty hand lashed out. The high-ranking officer went flying against the wall, hitting with a wet thud, then slid to the ground, no sign of avarice on his slack face.
In the aftermath of silence, my harsh breathing infiltrated the chamber. The moon was in the process of completing its turn. Soon the birds’ chorus would begin.
Boris dropped to his knees, head bowed.
“My lord,” he wheedled.
The Warlord was already before him with a few large strides, then cupped the sides of his head and twisted.
Bones popped and skin stretched. As gruesome as the sight was, I could not turn away.
The Warlord yanked, and flesh snapped, blood spattering with the detached head.
Gory insides flew and splattered against my cheek.
The headless, kneeling body twitched and toppled back.
He tossed the head beside it, the wet smack rousing a gag.
By the grace of the Saints, I did not vomit again.
As soon as his body stopped seizing, the silence was eerie. He turned toward me, sending my heart to my throat. I could not think or move under his unnerving gaze, with red and gold pulsing, yet never mingling.
“Stand up.” Another thrum of my heart. “Now,” he bit out, in a silky, dangerous voice. I jolted as if the order struck me like a spear through my gut.
I tried with everything in me to stand, settling my hand on the floor. A throb took hold of my tailbone, and I groaned, my focus following the bloodshed.
Mother’s body ripped in half, Father’s torso—just his torso right next to her, while Arik lay, his throat ripped out. All of it flooded my head, slamming against my nerves and locking me in place.
The Warlord stared down at me, his expressionless features melting into anger.
“I cannot move. I-I am sorry,” I croaked.
He hissed a breath out between his teeth, flashing two long fangs sharpened at the tips. Then he hoisted me up into his arms so quickly I could only brace myself on his chest. My hand collided with blood absorbed by his linen tunic, the slick sensation coming away on my fingertips.
It was wrong to take comfort from him. So very wrong. Even worse was that the shaking of my hands lessened. Something in me went quiet in his arms.
Muscle under my palm moved. Hard and unyielding. His breathing had not changed with me in his arms. He hoisted me higher, sliding his arm lower on my thighs, avoiding my aching bottom. I peeked up at him. A few strands of tawny hair rested against his pale forehead.
He saved me from being raped.
It was only for his gain, but I did not care. He saved me from being raped. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and it was difficult to hold my head up. I let it fall onto his arm, and clenched the soft linen under-tunic.
I clutched onto him like he was my only lifeline and not the cause of my ultimate demise.