Chapter 2 #2
He laughed as he took a step back, folding his arms across his chest. His gaze remained fixed on her, eager to see what she would do.
Ellaryn moved beside him, narrowing her eyes on the spinning target. She tracked the blur of the man’s body, waiting for the precise moment. Then she drew her arm back and released the dagger.
It flew through the air with such speed that the captive barely had time to see it coming.
A grunt, followed by a thud, sounded as the knife connected with the board.
The King’s smile stretched slowly, and her bile threatened to make an appearance.
He ordered the board to be halted again, grey eyes sparkling in anticipation.
The slave boy threw himself against the wheel, desperately trying to bring it to a pause.
When it finally stopped, the King’s smile faded into something that almost resembled pride; his gaze settling on the dagger which had pierced straight through the man’s heart.
An intentional outcome. Ellaryn had wanted to end his suffering in the only way she knew how.
The King glanced at her.
“It seems our entertainment has been cut short.”
“Don’t give me a dagger and a victim and expect me not to end them,” she replied dryly.
The King laughed.
“Don’t say I never let you have any fun.” He waved a finger in her direction before his attention returned to the now lifeless body, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.
Ellaryn found a strange comfort in the victim’s glazed eyes—something almost peaceful about the moment life left a vessel, as if it took the pain and fear with it.
“Take him away.” He ordered, flicking his wrist, and a Defier immediately stepped forward, moving to unbind the corpse. “Feed him to Scornszar,” He continued, then, almost to himself, he added, “Pity. I know how he likes to play with his food.”
Ellaryn said nothing as the King turned back towards her.
“That’s enough fun for one day.” He paused. “How was collection?”
Silver chimed together as she presented a bag of coins.
“As you expected, the dwellers were not anticipating my visit.” She bowed and held out the bag.
The King didn’t even need to move. A Defier rippled into existence beside her, its form shifting like black ink dispersing through water. It snatched the velvet pouch from her palm and, in the space of a heartbeat, delivered it straight into the King’s waiting hand.
He eyed the silver and gold discs, holding them to the light and inspecting them between his fingers.
“So it’s short.” He deduced, clicking his fingers as the bag was carried away.
“Yes,” she inclined her head. “There were three who failed to make payment.”
“I presume you handled it correctly?” His eyes seemed to darken momentarily.
Ellaryn nodded.
“A finger from each as instructed.”
The King laughed—a tortured sound. Not because it was in any way painful to him, but because every sound that escaped his lips tended to make those within its vicinity shudder; even a whisper from him bore enough weight to shatter the air like glass.
“Do you have them?” He questioned, holding his pale hand out.
She nodded again, fumbling in her bag for the cloth that held them. This time the King took them from her himself, closing the distance between them with uncontained excitement.
“You see, this… this is why payday is my favourite.” He mused, his sharp cheekbones rising with an unnatural smile. “I always get more fingers to add to my collection.”
Ellaryn stifled the cringe her body made every time he opened his mouth.
Every time he smiled, his thin lips peeled back just enough to reveal the rot beneath—blackened teeth and dark, decaying gums.
Most sorcerers carried some visible mark of what they were. Some small wrongness that set them apart from ordinary men and women. The King’s was impossible to ignore: those ruined teeth and hair of gleaming silver so bright it caught the sunlight like spun silk, beautiful and grotesque all at once.
After the Great War over two thousand years ago, the mutations began.
At first, they were rare. A child born with eyes too bright.
A woman whose veins shimmered faintly beneath her skin.
But as the years progressed, the mutations started to become more common, not only affecting those at birth but also spawning in moments of trauma or extreme rage.
As if anguish itself split them open and triggered something ancient to spill out.
The mutations marked them as something new. Something dangerous.
They became sorcerers.
Potentials, as they came to be called.
And the King—he was the worst of them.
Ellaryn watched him toy with the digits, discard the bloodied cloth, and examine them with fascination. He stared at them as if they were his most prized possessions. Her stomach turned at his cruelty, and she wondered how a person—if that was even what he was—could have become so cruel.
“I’ll have Gris make me something nice with them.” He said, passing them to a Defier on his right. She resisted the urge to scoff at his choice of words—‘nice’. As if a severed finger could ever be anything but abhorrent.
His ‘collection’, as he called it, was comprised of objects carved from flesh and bone. This whole castle glorified death. Glorified his victims.
Forced them to watch him reign with stale eyes and broken bones.
Though his throne was the thing that really made her stomach turn—ivory bones fused by sorcery made up the great chair’s structure, and sunken heads frozen in a permanent state of fear littered upon the frame.
Each one was a sickening trophy from the person it came from.
“Is one of these fingers from Gaius?” He asked, as if he knew by its bone structure.
“Yes.” Ellaryn kept her replies short. This way, she was less likely to say the wrong thing.
“He has paid late on five occasions now. Does he think I am a joke?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing. “Is the punishment not harsh enough?” He leaned in to her, placing his cold fingers on her chin and tilting her head to face him.
She wanted to tell him that the punishment was harsh enough, too harsh, for that matter, that the reason they couldn’t pay was due to the little money on the streets since he shut out the tourists. The people could barely afford to eat, let alone contribute to businesses.
“Are you, little Ruin, being cruel enough?” He asked her, moving his hand to stroke her face.
“Yes, Your Darkness,” Ellaryn responded, ignoring the way her mouth dried at the closeness of him.
“Do the people fear you?” He mused, knowing how much she hated his touch. “Or should I take a little more of that soul of yours?”
“No.” She quickly spat out, shaking her head.
The thought of another piece of her in his hands made her want to scream.
Who would she be without another fragment of her soul?
She already felt like an imposter in her own body. Like a wall of film lay between herself and her emotions, stretching with her fingers and never breaking.