Chapter 50
Chapter
Fifty
-KADIAN-
I was no longer in Azmeer, but on a hill overlooking the city. Azmeer was a shell of itself, its spires, its grandeur, gone. The city was under construction, this was its onset.
Moss squelched beneath me, leaves rustling in the trees, the breeze carrying the warmth of summer and the smell of pine. The desert surrounding Azmeer had disappeared, replaced by forests.
Cresting the hill on which I stood, two men marched side by side, their faces weary, their expressions tired. I looked down to my polished black and red shoes, my sleek black clothes of the Court of Shadows. My pulse quickened; they will know I don’t belong here… What will they do to me?
I was dressed for palatial life… life that did not yet exist? Straightening my posture and tugging at my shirt, I readied myself. Just introduce myself. Yes, do that. I’m friendly enough. Thinking of what I would say when they questioned me. Stand your ground, hold firm.
There is nothing you could say to make this better.
You may not even speak the same language.
Running a hand in my hair, I looked around.
There must be somewhere to hide, anywhere.
I turned, behind me was a battle camp. Or what I presumed to be one.
The hilltop was littered with tents and raging fires.
The sun was beginning to set over the horizon, and as I turned to gauge where the men were, they walked…
right through me? Two Fae males, tall, warriors.
One with hair that matched my own, and one with black and red that looked similar to the princes, passed through me. Are these the Luchien ancestors?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I looked down at myself. I appeared whole. No cuts, no bruises. I felt no different. Why had I not felt them? Why had they not felt me? The last time this had happened, Lil had been tangible. Real in my arms.
Scattered stones lay amongst the dirt and grass, small and ordinary. I lifted my foot, aimed to kick one, but my foot made no impact. It didn’t shift, didn’t so much as tremble. My foot had passed right through it, as if neither of us truly existed in the same space.
I froze.
I tried again, a little harder this time, but the result was the same. No resistance. No weight. No proof that I was here at all.
What the fuck…
The two men began to fade into the distance as they made their way to the camp.
Where are the two of you headed?
Tent flaps billowed in the wind, mingling with the low rumbles of laughter, cries, and conversation that floated through the camp.
Armor lay strewn about, spears and axes lined the huts.
Had a battle taken place? It was growing too dark to look over the hillside to see what had happened here, but there had to have been something?
Or were they preparing for an attack? But to attack what? There wasn’t even a city.
Set on a dais in the center of the camp stood the largest tent, marked by an insignia, one I didn’t recognize. The two Fae males made their way inside the unguarded tent.
I pushed forward. Whatever had drawn me here, to this time and place, I was certain this was where I was meant to be.
I did not need to push open the flap of the tent, but rather was able to pass right through, like something from a child’s nightmares.
The tent, to my surprise, was not a war tent.
There were no tables with plans, figurines, or statues.
No maps on its walls, no visible strategy of any kind.
The tent housed a four-poster bed, had a fire blazing inside, one that I had to believe was controlled by magic of some sort, and two side tables.
The quilts, the decorations, were gilded, ornate. This was not the tent of an average soldier, which had been clear by the size, but this tent belonged to a leader, a king. A frail-looking man with long, thinning hair and pallid skin. His breaths were shallow and quick.
The two men made their way to each side of the bed, each grabbing for a hand. The man on the left with the sandy brown hair lifted the man’s left hand and held it close. The expressions of the men, the lines in their faces, they were family. And this was… their father?
Both men sat on the bed, attempting to hold the gaze of their father as he struggled to breathe. His wheezing grew louder, his panting quicker. The veins in his neck protruded, and the yellow of his eyes grew more visible. He had minutes at best.
In his final moments, the father looked to the son with the pale brown hair, ignoring the other. A single tear escaped his eyes, and with a final gasp, his chest stopped moving.
The man with the Luchien hair fell to his knees beside the bed, raising his father’s hand to his lips, pressing kisses to the aged skin. Other than Tura, the man in the bed was the oldest Fae I had ever seen. Wrinkles lined his face, he looked more human than Fae.
He has to be thousands of years old. I thought as I strode closer to the bed.
The man I assumed to be king lay still in a robe with gold trim, but beyond that, his clothes were plain.
What was distinguishable about him was a pendant that lay atop his chest. A dull, lifeless gem rested in the middle of a golden circlet that looked like it could have contained a watch or timepiece of sorts.
The sound of wailing broke me from my spell, I had been leaning forward in an attempt to hold it, to look at it. Not that it would have mattered, nothing I touched had been affected by me thus far.
While the one son continued to cry, the one closest to me remained stoic, broken, but in control.
From the way he carried himself when he had walked here, to the way he sat, the man exuded strength.
His arms were defined, and the amber tint in his eyes told me that he was a member of the Eternal Court.
Do the houses exist in Azmeer yet? Does Azmeer exist yet?
The kneeling man rose to his full height; he, too, was strong, but there was something cut differently about it. More lithe, but his expression was terrifying. The man’s eyes glowed with a predatory ferocity, a fire on the brink of an explosion. “You did this,” he said through gritted teeth.
The man on the bed raised his father’s hand to his forehead, and whispered something I was unable to make out before placing the arm against his chest. He faced his… brother? They had to be. Despite the difference in stature, the shape of their eyes, their mouths, they looked similar.
“I had nothing to do with this.” The sandy-haired man said, holding the fiery gaze of the man across from him. “You know as well as I do, this is what he wanted. I merely adhered to his wishes.”
“HIS WISHES,” the man practically spat venom. He moved across the room in seconds, pinning his brother to the makeshift wall, hand around his throat. “You were the one who filled his head with this nonsense. The idea that he needed to be king, an Eldara united. That he needed to be here.”
“It was the demanded price.” The man said as he clawed at his throat, desperate for the air his brother was depriving him of.
“The price,” the man scoffed, releasing his grip. “You know as well as I do that this was all conjecture. A theory at best.”
“It was no theory.” The fairer man said, rubbing at his throat where burns had embedded into his flesh. Within seconds, they faded.
The dark-haired man opened his mouth to speak, but paused when a sound pulled his focus back to the bed.
The king’s skin hardened to that of a rock, cracked and as dry as the desert floor.
The body collapsed in on itself before the granules of sand lifted into the air, swirling around the room before being carried out on a phantom wind.
The man in the tanned hues fell to his knees, his mouth agape. He clutched his hand as he screamed.
“What’s happening?” The other one asked as he turned to face him. When his brother, unable to answer, did not respond, he screamed, “ANSWER ME.” The red in the man’s eyes glowed, and shadows swirled around his feet.
While they may be brothers, they are not of the same court.
The kneeling man’s hand glowed, as if someone were cutting into his hand with a blazing iron from a forge. The skin melted, and a mark appeared.
“It… it can’t be.” The man said as his brother continued screaming from the floor.
On the bed, all that remained was the pendant. A pendant which began to float and glow. Golden tethers of light slowly spun from the pendant like a spider’s web across the room to the man’s hand, connecting them, binding them. The claiming of its new king.
The man’s screaming continued until the mark was complete, a mark which was visible on the pendant. He was marked, he was chosen. Tears lined the man’s face; the pain was excruciating. Whatever facade he had maintained earlier had been stripped away. He was laid bare.
The man clad in black strode across the room before kneeling in front of his brother. Slowly, he raised one hand up to his cheek, cupping it, before gazing down at his brother’s scorched hand.
He held his brother, saying nothing until his brother lifted his head to meet him.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, as if in these few moments of stillness, he had begun to regain his strength.
The man in black returned the smile, pushing the hair from his brother’s face.
But without warning, he reached for his belt, withdrawing a dagger, and slashed him across his throat.
Fuck. I took a step back, forgetting they couldn’t see me in the commotion.
Rising as his brother fell from his arms to the cold, damp ground, he reached for a cloth and cleaned his knife. “I am sorry, brother.” He said to the man who now lay gurgling on the floor, desperately trying to cover the gash in his throat.