Chapter 45 #2
His eyes close, as if he’s reliving the memories. “And Calrix. They used weapons imbued with magic,” he says in a voice so calm, it sounds detached. “They were designed to wound in a way my body couldn’t heal from. Every cut stayed. Every burn. Every bit of damage they did to my skin, remained.”
I stare at him in horror. “Korithax…”
“Healers weren’t allowed near me.” His mouth twists faintly, but there’s no humour in it. “A future king of Hell was not supposed to need healing.”
Something inside me cracks. He says it like it’s facts. Like it’s nothing. Like the little boy he once was deserved to be left bleeding because tenderness would have made him weak.
“My father believed softness was a disease. Compassion was disobedience. Kindness was rebellion against him and what he stood for.” His eyes open, but they’re distant, staring up at the ceiling instead of making eye contact with me.
“Every time I showed any of it, he corrected me. He wanted a weapon, a ruthless king. Nothing more.”
I don’t realise I’m crying until a tear falls onto his chest making his gaze snap to mine instantly.
“Daisy—“
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, don’t do that. Don’t comfort me because I’m upset about what happened to you.”
My hand resumes its path over his skin with soft touches. My fingers trace the tattoos across his chest, down his ribs, and over every hidden scar he allows me to touch. Every wound someone tried to turn into shame.
“These aren’t ugly,” I whisper. “They aren’t weakness. They’re not proof that he made you into what he wanted.” I press my palm over his head. “They’re proof you survived him. Survived them.”
His eyes shine in the dim light, deep black and full of things he has never learned how to say.
I lean forwards and press my lips to one mark near his collarbone. Then another. And another. I feel him tremble beneath me, and I know it’s not from desire this time.
“Marta helped me sometimes,” he says so quietly I almost miss it. I lift my head to look at him.
“She wasn’t allowed to. But sometimes, when I was wandering Cinderspine, she would find me and bring me into the back of the bakery.
She would have salves and stitch what she could.
She would pretend not to notice when I struggled to walk.
” His voice roughens. “She risked her life to offer me the warmth I craved. To offer me mercy in a life filled with nothing but cruelty.”
My heart twists painfully at the memory of her. Of course Marta, with her sharp tongue and soft hands and heart too big for Hell, found ways to love him when no one else was allowed to.
I brush a hand over his stubbled cheek. “I’m glad she did.”
He looks into my eyes, the emotion in them so raw I have to steady my breathing. “I used to hate them. The tattoos. I thought covering the scars would make them disappear. But I could still feel them, still knew where every single one of them was and why I earned them.”
I release a soft, shaky exhale. “And now?”
His eyes search mine. “Now I don’t know.”
I cup his face between my hands, swallowing hard. “Then I’ll tell you what they are until you do.”
His brows draw together, his head tilting ever so slightly in confusion. I smile softly at him, softly stroking my thumbs across his cheeks.
“They’re beautiful,” I whisper. “Because they’re yours. Because they mean you lived through things no one should have survived, and somehow, somehow, you still came back capable of love.”
His breath shudders, those impossibly black eyes shining with unshed tears that make me both sad and angry for him.
“You still chose me gently. Even with The Void inside you. Even with everything they did. Even after being raised to believe softness was something that needed to be beaten out of you.”
A tear finally slips from his eye, tracking slowly down his beautiful face.
“If your father wasn’t already dead,” I grit out, my voice turning cold, “I would kill him myself.” Korithax huffs a laugh, but his gaze is filled with darkness. “And Calrix… Calrix is yours.”
Korithax goes deathly still. I feel the pain surging down the bond as if he’s remembering everything that piece of shit did to him. He tried to kill him once. He will not have another chance.
“When the time comes, no one gets to take that from you. Not me. Not the council. Not the gods. He is yours to kill, and yours alone. And you can do it slowly. Painfully. You can make him feel every single second he stole from you. Every scar. Every lesson. Every moment he helped turn you into something you should have never become.”
He pulls one of my hands from his cheek, entwining our fingers together. “You would do that?” he asks.
“I would stand beside you while you did it and enjoy every fucking second.”
His expression shifts so quickly, it guts me. Gratitude mixed with sadness. Hope beneath fear. I see the boy beneath the crown. The child punished for being kind. The prince forced into cruelty without ever learning what mercy felt like.
“You are not a weapon to me, Korithax. You are not a monster, you are not his perfect, ruthless king. You are my husband. My heart. My home. And I am so sorry no one protected you when you deserved to be protected.”
A broken sound tears from his throat. Then his arms are around me, crushing me against him, his face buried in my neck as his body shakes. I hold him just as tightly, one hand in his hair, the other spread over the tattoos covering his back.
I can feel them now. The slight ridges beneath the ink.
Impossible to notice unless you knew they were there.
I feel the history of every wound he buried.
Every brutal punishment disguised as discipline.
Every act of softness someone tried to carve out of him.
And I hold him through it. I hold him whilst the ruthless Prince of Hell trembles in my arms. I hold him while he lets himself be something other than controlled.
Something other than feared. Something other than a weapon.
“I love you,” I whisper against his hair. “Every part of you. Every scar. Every shadow. Every piece they tried to ruin.”
His arms tighten. “I don’t know how to be this,” he rasps.
“This?”
“Worthy of being loved.”
I kiss the side of his head, inhaling his smoky scent. “I will continue to teach you. Every day. For as long as you’ll let me.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes wet and burning, his expression so raw it steals every bit of air from my lungs.
“For eternity, then?”
A sob catches in my throat, but I smile through it. “For eternity.”
The training grounds are absolute chaos.
We had to expand the space to more than triple its original size just to accommodate the influx of soldiers.
Thankfully, everybody arrived safely—the gates still mostly undisturbed thanks to the wards.
Lucifer, of course, tried to play hero and see if he could travel through the gate to check whether the curse was still in place for Hell’s civilians.
He clearly hadn’t learnt from when he last tried—back when the curse was first placed—because his wings were severely burnt. Again.
Vor’Khar destroyed the outer walls of the original outdoor training ring to give us the space we needed.
Hell’s serving staff immediately set to work, moving stone, sand, and weapon racks with immaculate efficiency.
Only half of each realm’s army was here to train; the other half remained behind to defend their own territories in case trouble came knocking.
That meant we had five thousand from Fjellheim Heights, two thousand from Aurora’s Veil, five thousand from Solara, two thousand from Stormravan, and five thousand from Luminaria.
There were no soldiers from Noxthrallia.
An army of Maelkar’s creatures simply wasn’t safe for anyone nearby.
He did, however, have several of them spread across Earth and near the gates—watching, listening, and waiting.
“Ready to show me what the Shadowtongue taught you, little flower?” Korithax murmurs into my ear as he comes up behind me, placing his hands on my hips.
I smile, leaning into his touch. “I’m gonna kick your ass, King of Hell.”
He huffs a laugh. “Just your king. Not theirs.”
Korithax steps in front of me, taking his place on the opposite side of the chalk-lined ring. He cracks his neck from side to side, rolls his shoulders, and swings his sword lazily in his hand.
Gods… he looks fucking delicious.
He’s dressed in tight fighting leathers, his shirt sleeveless, exposing tattooed, muscled arms glistening with sweat. It’s only early June, but the heat is brutal, and the sun catches on his tanned skin every time he moves.
I unsheathe my own sword from the scabbard at my back, the ruby glinting wickedly in the light.
“She’s going to hand you your ass, Child of Ruin.” Maelkar laughs. “You’ve slacked off for far too long.”
He flips Maelkar off without looking away from me. “Don’t hold back, princess.”
I smirk. “Never.”
We move at the same time. Our swords collide with a ringing clash that vibrates straight down my arm. I grit my teeth and pivot quickly, duking low and sweeping my foot out beneath him. His balance breaks instantly.
He hits the sand hard, dust exploding around him. I spring forwards, placing the tip of my sword directly against his chest.
“One point to me,” I say, grinning.
He arches a brow, lips twitching. In the blink of an eye, he twists, hooks my ankle, and suddenly I’m on the ground instead—my sword skidding away as his forearm pins lightly at my throat.
“Not quite, my love,” he says with a wink, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of my nose before helping me back to my feet.
“That was dirty!” I snap with a frown.
“You expect the Six to play fair?” he asks, head tilting mockingly.
I scowl and flick my wrist, launching a small ball of flame at him. It vanishes the second it reaches his chest.
I gasp. “Did The Void just—”
“Swallow your fire?” he cuts in grimly. “Yes.”