Chapter 3
The woman’s hand trembled as she struggled to fit the key into the lock of the one place Ellaryn seemed to hate even more than the castle.
The hospital.
Every corridor in the towering building was dark and dimly lit.
The same polished black marble covered the floors as in the castle, while the walls were painted a deep charcoal.
The resemblance made Ellaryn’s skin crawl; only the sharp, clinical scent that invaded her nostrils distinguished the two.
But that wasn’t why she hated the place.
No.
She hated it because this was where her victims came to heal from the wounds she had inflicted. She was responsible for most of the injured citizens who passed through these halls.
The patients knew it. The orderlies knew it. Everyone knew it.
Wherever she walked, conversations died, eyes followed her, and people shrank away as though she carried some contagious disease.
If only they had a vial. A cure. Something that could destroy her.
Sometimes, she deliberately put herself in situations where death seemed almost certain. She had even driven her own sword through her body, hoping its steel might finally shatter the curse of immortality that bound her to this world. To his world.
It never did.
No matter how desperately Ellaryn wanted to die, he wanted her to live… And that was all that mattered.
Yet despite how much she loathed the place, Ellaryn found herself returning once a month—the Blood Lists had to be checked. Orders from the dark bastard himself.
“I haven’t got all day, you know.” She drawled, picking at the ash under her nails.
“A-Apologies, Ruin,” the hospital orderly, Arielle, stumbled over her words as she finally pushed the key into the lock and twisted.
“It’s been a busy morning; the matron is held up on other duties, and I am not usually the person for this job.
” She looked away, trying to avoid Ruin’s glare, the door now open.
“Are those duties more important than that of the King’s orders?” She questioned, and Arielle paled instantly, blue eyes trembling. The orderly teetered on the edge of tears but took a shaky breath to stay steady.
“No, of course not.” She quickly coaxed herself into calmness, wiping her palms down her apron. “I’ll fetch her now—”
“No,” Ruin interjected, “I said I haven’t got all day; show me the Lists.” She crossed her arms and purred. “Now.”
Arielle nodded quickly, blonde hair falling over her face before she tucked the loose hairs back into place and entered the room.
In this moment, she was Ruin.
To the people who feared her, to the dwellers. She could not coexist with Ellaryn. Not in a place like this when all eyes were on her—the last thing she needed was for someone to spot her weaknesses and relay them to the king.
Ruin lifted her head higher and buried Ellaryn in the quietest corner of her mind, along with the sounds of coughing that echoed down the hall.
Burner’s blight had been slowly killing the city for years, and all the staff in this hospital were beyond exhausted.
It had been rife in Cinders ever since the fires started.
It was only a matter of time before the ash the people breathed in corrupted their lungs.
The prognosis was almost always bad. People with sense wrapped layers of scarves around their faces, but others would rather death find them early.
When the first cases of the blight rocked the city, it was just six months from the start of the King’s reign. Ellaryn would walk the streets, stepping over decaying bodies; the citizens just barely clinging on, clutching their chests as if trying to claw out their lungs.
The ash had a way of devouring from the inside out, caking lungs until they were too heavy and cracked to expand. Those who coughed—the deep, distinctive rumble—would soon start digging their own graves. It was the biggest killer in the city—well, that and the King, with Ruin close behind.
When the door opened, Arielle rushed over to the oak desk in front of the bookcase, shuffling through the top drawer for a moment before handing Ruin a clipboard.
She stared at the numbers, flipping through the pages whilst Arielle waited patiently, shifting in her stance.
Her fingers skimmed over each name—every child born this month.
If Ellaryn had it her way, there would be no procreation in a place like Cinders. Bringing new life into a world so devoid of it felt cruel, almost unnatural. But the King had rules—rules that had to be followed.
To keep his city “well populated,” as he so fondly put it, procreation was encouraged. Along with adultery and all kinds of promiscuity. Anything that filled another bed, another home, another generation was considered a virtue.
It made Ellaryn sick.
But Cinders had always been this way, and would, most probably, always be.
“No Potentials?” Ellaryn asked, gazing up from the paperwork.
Arielle shook her head. “No, if I remember rightly, we are now eight hundred and forty-two days clean.” She handed Ellaryn another lot of paperwork, containing numbers that fortified her answer. “Not one.”
Clean.
The King’s choice of words—Potentials were a means to an end, vermin to be eradicated; he was, however, the exception. Of course.
Ellaryn barely glanced at the numbers before responding.
“Good.”
She knew how rare it was for a Potential to be born after so many years. She closed the clipboard and tossed it onto the desk. Arielle flinched at the sharp movement, but Ellaryn paid her no mind.
“And the Blight?” Ellaryn swallowed hard. “More than last month?”
Arielle just nodded solemnly.
An exhale left Ellaryn’s lips as she turned on her heel.
The Blight was like the King’s watchful stare, creeping, stalking, waiting for the moment to strike. And the King’s strikes were always fatal and calculated.
The Blight, however, did not discriminate. Anyone could fall. And it was getting difficult for Ellaryn to imagine the city surviving much longer.
“I’ll be here next month. Same time.” She paused at the door. “The matron will be here too, if she knows what’s good for her.”
Arielle inclined her head. “Yes, Miss Ruin.”
Ellaryn left without another glance.
As she walked the dark corridors, she wracked her brain, trying to remember the last Potential she had seen born in Cinders.
There had been a time when Cinala was full of Potentials.
But after the King seized the city, he ordered every one of them put to death.
He would not allow anything to exist that might one day threaten his rule.
Even their parents—those who carried the gene capable of producing more—were executed, along with anyone else still breathing in their bloodline.
The Blood Lists were enforced in every hospital. Every newborn was tested. Every child examined—because their blood was different.
In certain light, it shimmered. Sparkled. As though something alive moved beneath the skin. As though power itself flowed through their veins.
And the King had made it his mission to drain the city of it.
Any child identified as a Potential was to be sent straight to the King, where their fate would be decided.
A fate that was always fatal.