Chapter 2
The mere presence of the castle was enough to deter most.
That’s how he liked it.
It was positioned on a hill, the stairs leading up to it steep and daunting.
The castle itself was built upon the highest point in the city and was located so that it could be seen from anywhere in Cinders.
It watched your every move. A not-so-subtle reinforcement of the King’s power over everyone in his kingdom.
Then there was the spire of souls—another reminder—the castle’s tallest tower.
It shone blue and bright, breaking up the dark when night came.
Vigils to those brave or stupid enough to defy the King.
She gazed wistfully up at its fluidity, like oil mixing with water; it danced like a blue flame, impossible to reach, so tall it almost breached Cinder’s very own shadow wall.
An iron gate surrounded the land; its metal gleamed under the fiery sun.
Straight vertical bars rose like spears, cold and unyielding.
Between them were twisted and contorted sections, purposely bent in unnatural shapes to prevent anyone from squeezing through unnoticed.
They resembled vines of sorts, or the gnarled limbs of dying trees.
There were spires atop each straightened bar, and an engraved space beneath them with the initials ‘K.D.’ in blood red, which stood for King of Darkness, and everyone knew it.
He had forced Ellaryn at the beginning of his reign to drain the blood of some of the victims so he could mix it with paint to decorate his wall.
Her eyes never met the cruel design; she couldn’t face the memories it brought.
A shriek jolted her head upright; she gazed toward the castle.
Scornszar, the King’s very own beast of flames, was circling the city.
Dragons were rare in this part of the world, so when the King turned up in Cinala with one practically eating out of his palm, the people had no choice but to stand down, as flames quickly met any resistance.
Her trained eyes flicked back down to the castle; though the hot sun beamed down on it, somehow it still looked dark. The bricks were a black abyss and appeared to absorb sunlight.
There were more Defiers than usual this time, lining the castle’s stairs, and Ellaryn wondered why.
The Defiers were all the same: black, hollowed-out creatures made of shadows and smoke.
They were created from the people who had defied the King long ago; he banished their souls to the spire and inserted their minds into cruel creatures made by his hand.
Their minds were still sentient, but imprisoned in beings who were devoted to him.
The ultimate punishment.
They were bound to him, enslaved just as Ellaryn was, but she had been allowed to keep her body.
Her emerald eyes didn’t look at them as she ascended; their gormless faces had a tendency to remind her just how screwed she was.
An icy shiver shook at her core as she got closer to the top, the air thinning with every step.
The cold chill was all too familiar to her.
She dragged her feet, making the most of the little freedom while she had it.
The air, though thin, was fresher than the suffocating weight of death that hung over the castle.
And though the dwellers in the city hated her, it was easier to be there than here.
But whether she liked it or not, this had become her home.
The door opened at her presence—just as it always did—and she held onto the bag containing the severed digits a little tighter as her boots met the dark marble floor on the way to the throne room.
She glanced at the guards stationed outside the entrance—members of the Dark Knights—who tilted their heads slightly in acknowledgement.
They were the King’s pets as well, but unlike her, they wore the leash willingly.
The soldiers of his army were bound to him, too, each having surrendered a piece of their soul as proof of unwavering devotion. They got to keep their mortality, though; Ellaryn did not. She would be forced to carry out his darkest desires for all of eternity.
Most of the King’s guards had once been prisoners of Cinala, or poor citizens who craved to be seen. Now they would never want for anything—but they would never be without the King, either.
A double-edged blade.
They could not run, and neither could she.
There was no point; her soul was tied to him, as surely as the shadows that caged the city; she could not escape him. And neither could they.
She walked ramrod straight, her eyes only focused on her destination, paying no mind to the slaves scrubbing the floors, with bruised faces and gangly limbs.
They scrubbed and scrubbed, all day, every day, their joints swollen and bulbous with arthritis.
She wondered if they wished they were dead.
Somehow, it seemed the lesser punishment.
Ellaryn kept walking ahead, refusing to gaze at her reflection in the over-polished marble. She did not want to see Gaius’ blood clinging to her cheeks or her mother’s emerald eyes that tormented her every time she glanced at her face.
It was, however, hard to ignore her image through the series of mirrors plastered on the spiral stair walls.
Ellaryn loathed her hardened frame, a far cry from the soft woman she should have been.
Her pale skin, which lacked the healthy hue it once had from the sunless days spent in her chambers.
Her green eyes that had seen far too many close.
Her full lips, cracked like the dry streets of Cinders.
She climbed three stories to get to him, her knees buckling only when she reached the top.
As she stood outside the King’s throne room, a deep breath escaped her lips.
Oh, how she longed to be that breath, fleeing in the wind—invisible and forgotten; her ill-fated name nothing more than a long-lost memory.
Her wrist stiffened at the sound of his voice, inches away from making contact with the door.
“Oh, little Ruin.”
It was him.
Somehow, he always knew when she was there.
His voice taunted her and made every cell in her body convulse.
“Don’t just stand there, come and tell me what merciless doings you got up to in my city.” He purred as the door swung open.
Defiers stood waiting as she entered, their hollow forms unmoving, their presence heavier than stone. Mounted torches burned with black flames that writhed and fluttered in the wake of her arrival, recoiling as the door slammed shut behind her.
The walls were lined with spears and cruel instruments of war, each one displayed like a trophy, like a warning—silent promises of the suffering they had been made to inflict.
And there he was.
The ruler of all things dark.
He stood by the large floor-to-ceiling window, which wrapped around the room. He didn’t look at her; instead, his grey eyes stayed fixed on Cinders below. His long, dark cape, black as night, contrasted with his silver hair, so there was no mistaking him.
Ellaryn’s feet moved even though every bone in her body willed her to stop, to not cross the threshold.
She moved with the same practised precision—rigid, firm—even as her pulse spiked and palms dampened at the thought of sharing the same oxygen as him.
Fear thrummed around the room like static. She could feel it, like it was a living, breathing thing. The castle thrived off of it. Walls aching for cries of agony to bounce off of them, tiles trembling for blood to be spilt. It was a place built on the very emotion.
Brick by sadistic brick.
“You’re just in time,” the King commented as he turned towards his entertainment for the day.
Ellaryn suppressed a grimace as her gaze followed his.
A man—no more than thirty—was strapped upright to a wooden board, gagged and bound so tightly he could barely move.
The board was mounted on a rotating frame, leaving him completely at the mercy of whoever stood behind it.
Tears streaked his flushed face, his expression hollow with exhaustion and defeat.
Sweat glistened along his brow, dark brown hair plastered to his forehead, while blood seeped through the rags covering his battered body.
“Spin!” The King commanded.
The slave boy obeyed immediately, gripping the edge of the board with both hands and throwing his weight into it. The wheel lurched into motion, sending the captive whirling faster and faster until his body became a blur.
Ellaryn felt dizzy just watching him.
The King rolled a dagger between his fingers, his expression almost playful. Then, with effortless precision, he drew back his arm and threw. Three thuds echoed off the marble walls with each dagger he flung.
Then—
“Stop!” he demanded, and the slave boy scrambled to halt the spinning board, his fingers scraping against the rough wood as he fought to slow its momentum.
When it finally stopped, the man was visibly shaking. A broken sound escaped behind his gag—half sob, half plea as his eyes struggled to focus, dazed by the relentless motion.
One dagger had pierced straight through his palm, the hilt trembling with each frantic movement of his hand. Another had grazed his cheekbone, buried dangerously close to his eye. The third had missed altogether, embedding itself in the wood beside his shoulder.
The King’s eyes brightened as he surveyed the damage.
“Again.” He ordered. The slave boy hesitated for only a heartbeat before setting the wheel spinning once more.
The captive cried out behind his gag as the King’s grey eyes found Ellaryn’s—cold, calculating, amused.
“An inch to the left and his eye would have been completely gone,” he mused, almost thoughtfully, before taking several steps towards her. He held out a dagger, the blade glinting between them.
“Care to try your luck?”
Ellaryn accepted it with steady fingers. She knew exactly what he expected of her.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” she said, her voice firm.
The King’s mouth curved into a smile. That was how he liked her—certain, unflinching, utterly sure of herself.