Chapter 34 Red
Red
Astreak of red tears through the dark and the nearest Thren barely has time to turn before something crashes into him with bone-breaking force. Teeth sink in. Claws tear through flesh. Blood sprays across bark and leaf.
King Sevrin. I have never seen a formed feeder before, and he is a sight to behold. His eyes burn red and fangs gleam wet at his mouth. His hands are shaped for killing now, fingers tipped with curved claws that flash as he moves.
The Threns recoil, startled for the first time.
One of them laughs, low and ugly. “If it isn’t fucking Sevrin. The King Who Shouldn’t Be, that’s what they call you at the border these days. Fighting for a woman? She must have value.”
The green-haired Thren laughs. “Don't tell me this is one of the Baron's daughters, is it?" he says, eyes sliding toward me. “He has two, you should let us keep this one."
“Besides,” one says, baring his canines, “she should know better than to come out here. A forest with plentiful game so close to the docks, we simply could not resist.”
Another circles wide, voice thick with mockery. “Teorin sends his regards. He wondered how long you would keep hiding behind silk.”
He launches forward before the words finish.
The King turns slowly, pieces of flesh falling from his mouth.
My stomach lurches at the sight.
“This is the wrong one for you to touch,” he says, voice calm and absolute, “because now I have to kill all of you for trying.”
He tears through them with ruthless precision, bodies falling in pieces, screams cut short. Two are hurled into a tree hard enough to crack wood. Another collapses before Sevrin’s blade can even strike.
I want to fight, to help, but whenever one gets close to me, he is torn in half by Sevrin.
The forest fills with the sound of it.
The green-haired Thren breaks away and rushes him from behind, fast and desperate, blade raised.
I lift my hands and something in me surges outward. The Thren locks in place mid-step, body seized as though caught by something unseen. His mouth opens and words spill out in a language that scrapes against my bones.
The remaining Threns stop at once as the forest falls silent. “We meant no harm,” the frozen one says, voice strained.
Then they are gone. They scatter into the trees with unnatural speed, swallowed by the dark as though they were never there at all.
The King exhales slowly. The tension drains from his posture as he straightens, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“A useful observation,” he says lightly, “they do not care for whatever magic flows from your hands."
I let out a short laugh, still shaken. Only then do I feel it. Blood trails down my face, warm and unignorable, from my eyes and nose.
He steps closer and draws a handkerchief from his pocket. He presses it to my skin with care, unhurried, precise.
“Neither do you,” he adds quietly. “Apparently.”
“You’re a feeder, correct?” I ask. My voice sounds small against the dark.
The King studies me for a moment, head angled slightly, as though weighing how much truth I can bear without breaking. The red has faded from his eyes, but the night still seems to lean toward him, attentive.
“Correct,” he says at last. “Most people prefer not to think about what that truly means. So we allow them their comfort.”
He reaches into his coat and produces a small flask, worn smooth by use. He holds it out to me.
“Bourbon,” he says. “I always carry one when I must attend miserable social events.”
My hands are still trembling when I take it. The burn is harsh and grounding as it goes down, anchoring me back in my body.
He continues. "When emotion and desire aren't enough," he hesitates, "flesh and blood become...necessary. What happened tonight was convenient for my appetite."
"I'm glad you were sated," I say dryly.
He says nothing.
“Those were Threns, right?"
“Yes," he answers.
“I thought they were only at the border.”
“That is certainly how I’d prefer it,” he replies. He does not look alarmed. That is what unsettles me. His calm carries the weight of someone already rearranging contingencies in his mind.
The forest presses in around us. Branches knit tighter overhead and the air smells of damp earth and sap.
“Does the Prince know?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says.
I feel relieved that this is not a new problem. “So then the court knows, I suppose.”
“No,” he corrects.
He turns fully toward me now, and the faint humor drains from his expression. What remains is focus and something old and dangerous that has outlived fear. “The Prince knows,” he says. “I know. And now you know.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell smoke and iron beneath the bourbon, something animal and restrained. The forest seems to draw a line around us, as though marking a boundary.
“How can people protect themselves if they do not know?” I ask. “If the Threns are already here—”
“They are not already here,” he interrupts.
“Not in force.” He turns slightly, scanning the trees, the ground, the darkness between trunks.
The red is gone from his eyes now, but the night still seems to pay attention to him.
“We have seen them once before,” he continues.
“A single incident. Isolated. We believed it an anomaly. This is the only other time.”
“That is not comforting.”
“No,” he agrees. “It is not meant to be.”
I fold my arms around myself. “Then why keep it quiet?”
“Because people already know we are at war,” he says. “They already fear the border. If word spreads that the Threns are moving freely within our territory, that they are close enough to take a Princess in the woods, panic will do more damage than the enemy ever could.”
I exhale slowly.
“They will stop listening,” he goes on. “They will hoard. They will run. They will accuse one another. Armies collapse faster from fear than from blades.”
I think of the ballroom. The wine. The laughter. The brittle politeness stretched over dread.
“I smelled something wrong when I arrived,” he says, more quietly. “Something foul beneath the air. When I saw you leave the hall alone, I followed.”
My stomach tightens. Not at the admission, but at the ease of it. As though watching me is already habit.
“You will not speak of this,” he says.
His voice is quiet, but there is no softness in it.
I draw a slow breath. The night feels thinner now, stretched taut.
“And if I do?” I ask.
His eyes lift to mine. They are not red anymore, just dark and intent.
“Then I will know,” he says.
The answer is not a threat.
He is still close enough that I can feel the residual heat of him.
“You followed me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“You do that often?”
A corner of his mouth moves. Not quite a smile.
“Only when necessary.”
“And tonight was necessary?”
“You walked into a forest crawling with soul-eating Threns,” he replies evenly. “That qualifies.”
I study him. Blood stains the cuff of his sleeve. A dark streak marks his jaw where he missed a spot. His obsidian hair has fallen slightly loose at the temple, no longer arranged with courtly precision. He looks less like a king and more like something that belongs to the dark behind him.
“You could have let them take me,” I say.
His expression does not change. “I could have,” he agrees.
The air tightens.
“But I did not.” There is something in the way he says it.
I swallow. “You are not obligated to me,” I say carefully.
“No,” he replies. Another pause. “But I am interested in keeping you alive.”
I angle my chin slightly. “For the realm?”
“For many reasons.” He does not elaborate.
The silence between us isn’t empty.
He reaches again for my face, brushing his thumb beneath my eye where the red has begun to dry. “You push too hard,” he murmurs. “You force it.”
“I did not have time to be delicate.”
His thumb stills against my skin. “I am not speaking of the fight.”
“I do not need you to analyze me,” I say.
“No,” he agrees softly. “You do not need me at all.”
The words are neutral and measured, yet there is something listless beneath them. I step back first, because I recognize that if I do not, I may lean in. And that would be a mistake.