Chapter 1
She walked the barren land as she always did. One hand on the hilt of her sword and the other pressed on the leather belt that kept it in place.
She had gotten used to the side glances and stares from the dwellers of the fallen city as she passed.
The vendors who averted their gaze, careful not to draw attention to themselves, street merchants rearranging their goods so as not to be seen as going against the King’s rules.
She didn’t blame them for hating her. She hated herself, too.
Who she was.
Who she had become.
Most importantly, who she belonged to.
She was just another puppet on his strings, a pawn in his twisted game, and they knew it.
That’s what scared them the most.
She knew—just as well as they did—that there were no limits to how far she would go for him. There was no room for kindness in the City of Cinders. No room for second chances. If he wanted you dead, then you would be.
—And hers would be the hand that did it.
Her fingers tightened around the handle on her hip.
The sword glimmered with a dark red sheen in the early glow of the sun, as if soaked in the phantom blood of its victims.
The sword he made for her—unbreakable, unyeilding, just like his power.
Sharp enough to cut through more than just bone.
She pursed her lips, making her face stern as she knocked on a wooden door; three loud knocks. Her trademark. If they hadn’t known she was coming, they would now. And they could run. Not that it would do them much good. But she gave them that chance, as only to make her conscience lighter.
Some shuffling behind the door alerted her that the house was occupied, and she waited patiently for it to open, dark eyebrow raised.
The click of a latch halted the door, and a glassy blue eye, accompanied by crow’s-feet and heavy bags, peered at her through the open crack.
“Forgive me, Ruin, we were not expecting you for another day.” The elderly man said, using the nickname she’d earned in blood, his wrinkled lips wavering with every word.
She thought about his small frame and how easily it would be to end his life.
In her line of work, thoughts like this were normal, even if they did make her stomach twist.
“The King needs the payments early this month. Is that gonna be a problem?” She asked, her mind gearing up to punish him if he could not deliver.
“No-No. No problem here.” He stuttered. “Give me a moment to grab it.”
Sending the man a nod, he closed the door momentarily.
She drowned out the mutters of the citizens gathered behind her. Though they did not act like it, she knew they were watching. They always did. Close enough to know what was going on, far enough away that they could get away with it.
She waited. And waited. But the frail man didn’t return.
Three more knocks. Nothing.
A weight dropped in her stomach as she contemplated her next move.
Another moment passed.
Then, with a grunt, her leather boot kicked the door with great force, expelling ash that clung to her shoes from the cindered city. The lock broke under the splintered wood, and with a gentle push, the door swung open.
There was little to see within the house as she wandered in. A sparse living area with a set of wooden chairs, neither of them matching, around a metal table and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase along the back wall with more empty cups and chalices than books, a thick layer of dust coating most of them.
“Gaius, come on now. Don’t make me hunt you.” She called out into the open room.
The worn floorboards creaked religiously as she ventured into the next room over.
“I know you’re in here.” Her voice echoed off the kitchen cabinets, interrupted only by a faint whistling which grew louder every second.
Her head snapped to a kettle boiling on the stove, its metallic coat black from overuse.
She carefully removed the lid and placed it on the kitchen side before picking it up and using its contents to extinguish the fire beneath it.
“Just pay up, and I can leave.” She said, desperation controlling her tone, her hand inches away from expelling her weapon.
Still met with no answer, she climbed the stairs adjoining the kitchen, which were steep and narrow, and opened out into a small bedroom.
A double bed claimed most of the room, and a mismatch of worn and shabby blankets adorned the mattress.
She inspected the closet, a set of drawers, then dropped to her knees to search under the bed, her plaited raven hair hugging the floor momentarily.
Her stomach panged as she walked back down the stairs, a familiar pain that she had learned to live with.
Hunger. The feeling followed her, plaguing her even in the dream world.
Food was scarce around the city, even for the King’s executioner.
It was another way to control her. Another way to keep her at his beck and call.
As if owning a piece of her soul wasn’t enough.
There was one more spot she knew she had to search. One more spot that Gaius could be hiding.
She approached the basement door and pushed it lightly. The immovable handle told her all she needed to know. She unsheathed her sword and held it at her side whilst kicking the door down in one swift movement.
“Come out, come out wherever you are…” She taunted, hating the words as they left her heart-shaped lips. But it was easier that way. To play the part. She had learned that long ago.
The stone steps nearly crumbled under the weight of her boots, each footstep reverberating off the cramped stone walls as she proceeded down them.
“Stop!” A small woman appeared from around the bottom step, holding one hand in surrender, the other clutching a small brown dog.
“Tell the King we will have the money by tomorrow… You know we’re good for it!
” She explained, but it made no difference to Ellaryn.
She had orders, and to defy them would only ensue graver consequences.
She had defied the King’s orders before, at the start of her enslavement to him.
And because of that, she would never do it again.
The King made sure he tortured her to the point of death—being immortal, she would resurrect only to be killed over and over again.
Ellaryn stopped counting at one hundred deaths, and though she was alive, she swore part of her died that day.
“You know the rules, Mrs Aldwin,” Ellaryn stated as the woman’s eyes welled up for her husband. “Now, step aside.”
“Please, you take one more, and he’ll only have one. How will he be able to work then?” Mrs Aldwin reasoned, but it was no use.
“Sahar.” The woman’s name was all Ellaryn had to say for her to cower and move hesitantly, giving way to a much larger open room.
Candle flames flickered on the surface of a large table, and cobwebs cradled each corner of the dingy room. Gaius sat on a stool at the far end, his eyes fixed on the indents and grooves in the wood, his face aglow with an orange tint.
“So what will it be?” She asked him, waving her sword in his general direction.
“Just make it quick.” The man said, a defeated look in his indigo eyes as he stared up at her. Reluctantly, he placed his left hand on the table as a thick sweat formed on his brow.
She gave him a nod.
Quick.
That she could do.
She stared down at his hand and hid the wince she’d wanted to make. She had seen Gaius too many times. Four in total. His hand was an unsettling sight.
His palm was intact, but his fingers were amputated over the years. One by one. With every payment missed. In their place were uneven stumps that healed irregularly. One finger remained, the index finger. But that was going to be next.
She lifted her blade and, with swift precision, sliced the man’s finger clean off. The sword made a ‘whoosh’ noise as it cut through the air, and then the man’s deafening yell came straight after.
Picking the finger up, she swiftly wiped it of blood and placed it in a handkerchief from her bag before putting it inside. This was a procedure she had grown far too accustomed to.
Sahar sobbed at her husband’s side, and Ellaryn made sure to look away. She loathed seeing the damage she inflicted, but at least this man was alive. There were many who did not survive her wrath.
Naively—no, stupidly—Ellaryn hoped they realised before she hurt them that she was sorry. That she didn’t want her hands red with the blood of the people she once knew.
Once was…
That she only took lives because something had been taken from her.
A piece of her soul, tethered to the Dark King, like a string wrapped tightly around his fingers.
She was his marionette. And though she was his, her heart still broke every time she stole another; her eyes still welled as she watched families weep on their knees, trying to sew the pieces of their loved ones back together.
But whether they realised or not, it didn’t matter; in their eyes, she was death, and where she went, ruin followed.
“Next time it will be your wrist.” The warning hung in the air like static as she made her way up the stairs and out into the watchful eyes of the citizens once again.
The walk back to the castle was always the hardest. The glares were more intense. The muttering was louder.
Gaius stood on his porch outside his house, Sahar sobbing next to him, the remnants of his hand wrapped in an off-white towel, blood spots prominent. His ash-coated dog barked at her with a vengeance; she didn’t blame the scruffy thing.
“What did you do?!” A dweller called to her. Her face was barely visible over her hooded cloak and scarf, but Ellaryn knew who she was. She knew almost everyone in the city. “You’re a monster!” The dweller pointed a spindly finger at Ellaryn, who tried her best not to let her comments affect her.
“Keep it moving, Atenia,” Ellaryn ordered, giving her a sideways glance, careful not to rise to her remarks.
“How can you live with yourself?” Atenia shouted, making Ellaryn stop in her tracks.
A question she had tried to avoid over the years.
The question that plagued her and often made her sick to the stomach.
The fact was, she didn’t live with herself.
She did not live. There was no value to her life in her eyes.
The Ellaryn that once existed was no longer.
She was dead.
Died a long time ago.
And if pain and death were a currency, she was as rich as the Dark King.
She was her nickname…
She was Ruin.
And even if somehow the world returned to normal and the King was defeated, the violence and actions she had inflicted would follow her always—the lives she had ruined.
Ellaryn would be forced to live with her actions just as she was forced to inflict pain now; a never-ending cycle from which there was no escape.
She shook her head slightly as if dispelling her thoughts, and her face became stone again.
“If you’ve got a problem, Atenia, why not take it up with the King?” Ellaryn smirked, turning to face her, her words assertive and dominant. She knew the woman would back down.
They always did.
Atenia’s face paled as she retreated a few steps. The talk of the King nowadays was as good a repellent as violence.
“That’s what I thought.”