Join me in night painted with crimson and black.

They said that when Feirne angered Lorian Ain’Dal, he traveled there himself, with Nymre by his side and a small group of nobles, who wanted to see this peculiar, unusual sight – humans who dared to raise heads. Nymre parted with main group and galloped forth on her horse, to see the heart of the opposition quicker. The walls of Feirne were covered with iron plates, under them – a rowan wood which created a tall palisade. The city looked like a heavy turtle, prepared for any blow, with a flesh made of many desperate and tough people. Nymre demanded to talk with the leader of this place – an older woman appeared on the battlements. She was not tired though or afraid. Nymre asked to open the gates, because it’s rude to keep guests outside. That she demands giving her bread and salt, like human rendition says. The woman replied that she should come and get it herself, if she can.

And Nymre did.

Her light aura spread around the city walls like a thick mist. The iron, which the humans of Feirne were sure is the ultimate weapon against fairies, started to slowly corrode and rust.  Nymre just stood there – the lesser faeries possibly would be long ago wounded by the touch of it. But she was old, powerful and even if the iron aura stung her skin, she was here to show these humans, they can’t kill even one fairy, without the punishment.

The wide lobes of red and copper iron were falling from the walls, like blood. Nymre’s power slipped on the battlements, coiling around the guards’ necks.

“Stop!” the woman said, a real fear in her eyes. “Do not kill them. It’s me who lead them. You can take me, but allow my people to live.”

“This is such a foolish request” Nymre narrowed her brows.

The group of faeries arrived in the same moment, clad in black, green and crimson. Lorian with his cruel shadows, and Sadin with his sand and earth. And Volaria, with wind and storm. Lorian’s silver crown, shaped as spine, shone in the late noon sun. His gloved fingers held the reins nonchalantly. The horse under him stood with its red eyes turned just at the human leader. Empty like wells filled with autumnal colors.

Lorian bent in his saddle, looking at the woman with a stunning smile, which was kind enough to make the humans shiver. It never promised well, when a fairy was in good mood.

“You didn’t greet my lover with bread and salt. Maybe you do not have enough of worthy food. Would you want me to offer the goods, which you could taste for years?”

The woman looked at him with surprised expression. The panic slowly was seeping in, even if she tried to silence it. Feirne now was exposed, at the mercy of the conqueror.

“We do not greet invaders like ones of us.”

Nymre laughed. Volaria scoffed. Sadin looked amused.

Lorian only slid his hand over his sholi horse mane; sholi didn’t move, still with red empty eyes just on the woman. The Fae king’s expression brightened even more. The strings of shadows danced around him, brushing his hear so they moved like underwater.

“Salt” he mused casually.

The guards standing near her, ready to defend her, if the situation needed it, the men who fought with lesser folk for months… the woman saw how they petrify in place with wide open pupils. They limbs sagged, like drained, fast, like pierced by the needle which made them lose the water and air. Their bodies began to tremble uncontrollably, their veins slowly becoming visible, red lines of suffering. The woman didn’t know how to help them, didn’t know what is even happening. Until the cry of pain didn’t reach her ears. It was so loud, and so sudden. A wail torn from the reality with cruel magic.

She could hear Lorian’s voice though, even through the howling of her people.

“Maybe bread too… after all, I am generous today.”

The guards’ mouth started to salivate, foaming with blood and parts of flesh, their throats and stomachs bulged like pushed from within. Something seemed to grow in them, their faces unnaturally wet and bloated.

“I do not like the scent of rotting meat, Lorian” Nymre looked at him with faked reproach.

“Oh, they are not rotting, my cruel raven” laughed Lorian charmingly. “They are prepared for a good feast.”

The walls, now not protected by the iron were nothing for Lorian’s power. A tiny shadow slid from his foot and traveled to the gate, going up and up, and wherever it went, the wood started to molder, fell off. Door touched with decay needed only one push of Volaria’s gust of wind, to fall under the Fae’s feet.

The battlements slowly started to collapse; the guards, now crimson red and swollen, alongside with the leader woman, were trapped by Lorian’s shadows and when Feirne was collapsing under own weight – carried under his feet.

The woman feared him, but didn’t show humility. She raised on her hands and with an utter scorn on her face, she spat before the group of Unseelie.

“You are nothing” she uttered, through throat clenched by anger. “You came here, thinking you are gods. But you are not ones.”

“We aren’t” Lorian cocked his head and leaned over the woman. The gargling sound of guards “being prepared” didn’t suppress his soft chuckle. “Because even gods will bend their backs.”

Volaria looked at Lorian with pure joy.

“You Majesty, this one is very unique. She is not fearing. Maybe we could keep her. Just to enhance the next celebration.”

Lorian’s tone darkened.

“Do not be childish, Volaria. This woman would definitely not like it. And we still want to be guested with bread and salt” he turned to the woman again. “Will you invite us, so we could enjoy your city, fully?”

“Be gone” her teeth gritted. “You will never be welcomed by Feirne soil.”

“Ah, but even the sacred soil has weaknesses and even strongest wind has to cease. Will you offer me Feirne, Talara?”

“NEVER.”

His smile for a moment became predatory, so much that women’s heart skipped a beat.

“Let us in… Foyere.”

It was like a blow of a strongest wind, taking breath away. Like a mountain avalanche, claiming the travelers and burying them under a colony of stones. A hope that she still had, a tiny, small and very insistent, drowned in this one word.

He knew her true name.

“We still would adore being invited by the real hosts of this place” Lorian continued with a sadistic precision. “After all, the soil subdues only to those who have right to step on its flesh.”

The guards next to her looked like sacks of meat, moaning scraps of what they were before.

The people in the city held a breath.

He knew her real name.

“Will you guest us, Foyere?”

She panted, a painful groan escaped her throat. They of course could enter. But if the witch allows someone to her place, the ground welcomes them too. And embraces all they bring, because the soil trusts the witch.

An old rule.

But it will allow him to destroy this place for eons.

She would stab him in that beautiful face.

She would tear his guts out, with her bare teeth.

She would…

“Yes,” she uttered. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to escape.

At least they fought. At least they killed hundreds of lesser fairies through the months they were given to by the goddess. At least… they bought time to other villages.

Lorian went through Feirne, the walls, rusty and decayed, opened before him like lover’s legs. Then the decay followed and wherever his foot touched the ground, the rot was inflicted, deep, endless and merciless. The humans were finding out that ground under them starts to swallow them with a bubbling sound, mud and dirt, decayed like old meat.

It spread, taking in possession not only the houses, farm animals and humans. It instilled deep into the roots of the land of Feirne, poisoning whole area, traveling to nearby cities and villages, and doing the same with them.

Lorian’s steps were supple and graceful, he was passing humans, who slowly drowned in rust, his shadows caressed their faces and trashing limbs. His feet were like a sentence and the shadows – executioner.

Until he stood. Breathed in, taking the scent of decay and blood into his lungs.

And turned to Nymre, his nobles, the swelling guards and the woman, who didn’t even cry.

His face became a epitome of beauty, a purity that sends darkness on its feet.

He cocked his head again and spoke, his voice a sensual  caress.

“Now… we can start the feast.”

*

Alnam’s eyes fluttered open, his limbs immediately responded for him waking up with a groan of pain. His whole body was pain, like someone instilled in his flesh millions of glass shards and ordered him to crawl.

The words of tale about the horror of Feirne rang in his head, a long forgotten dream he didn’t even witnessed. The bards were singing it at almost every celebration, laughing from humans who dared to stand against the Unseelie kind. That was the moment when, after their arrived back and Lorian’s most trusted nobles shared what happened, he started to suspect Nymre holds much more danger than he thought at the beginning.

Nymre, when arrived to Dal’coler for the first time, was a fresh breeze, a sunlit silky creature in love. Crisp like winter, but hot like summer. Then, she changed, as whole court, aside of few. The frozen season made them all like winter.

Three times more ruthless than winter fairies of the past.

Lorian instills rot in everything.

Why you think of her? Why her? Where are you?

The chain clang when he tried to stretch his arms. Like through mist he remembered how he tried to save that human. How he shapeshifted. How he was blinded by pain.

How he attacked Lorian frontally.

A laughter, bitter one, broke from him. You are truly a desperate man. Desperation can so easily change into death wish. He thought he still have more coldness in him, macerated in ages of grief. But in the end… he ended as all living beings – closing his fingers on a dagger blade, to not to sink.

He was a prisoner then. He gave him a perfect excuse; not that he needed one. He just allowed him to slip into his soul and place there burning coals, pressing that hard, aching spot that hurt for too long.

He didn’t even hoped he will even be free again. Nor that he dies soon. He lunged with claws and fangs at the king of Ain’asel, stole his prisoners and used other fairies, urged them to break a vow to the crown. Even Marnsul would punish that, mercilessly. Lorian…

He was a traitor now, in the eyes of whole court. Someone who advised their king, supported him, feasted with him… and turned against him. Only fae still loyal to him will know the truth. And no matter to what he would be subjected, he won’t allow Lorian to know their names.

How… joyful.

His long life will end here, in prison cell. Sentenced for treason, which he would commit again. And again.

He wanted Corvel to see his actions. Fae souls do not have afterlife. They grow in trees, replenishing the leaves and making their life hundred times longer. If he was a human, he would believe the earth swallowed his soul and prepared it for another cycle. That way, he would meet Corvel and Narlia again, in next life. Lorian too. Nymre. Leira.

Maybe it would be repetition of his well known mistakes and faults.

But he would not be alone.

Now, the only thing he hoped for was…

… death.

There was a sound, soft, almost too soft to notice, echoing down the corridor. Tiyan held his breath. It was too easy. And far too… simple. This woman – if she was a woman at all – was either a liar leading him straight into a trap, though he couldn’t fathom why, if he was already served on a bleeding plate. Or she was deluded and suicidal. Maybe both. Every second felt like a dreadful moment before something worse to emerge from the dimly lit shadows – a lesser fae, or something even darker.

He now looked like one of them… But he wondered if that was enough to fool them.

Without warning, the Leira-creature shoved him against the wall. Tiyan prepared himself for the touch of stone against his face – but it never came.

The wall moved.

It shifted and closed around them, enveloping them like the jaws of a forest beast devouring its prey. A hidden passage, he realized, heart pounding, limbs trembling with tension and fear.

The last few days have been a nightmare for him. His thoughts followed Noyda and the pain and death he had brought upon her. Her tear-filled eyes haunted him. Her screams resounded in his head every time he tried to sleep. He had destroyed her, murdered her, because he couldn’t face the promise of much worse torment. Because he hadn’t been strong enough to give himself up for the greater good.

Lorian would feast on his pain for years. No one could endure that, no one, ever bravest and fairest one. But… he had agreed so quickly, so easily. That was what terrified him the most, what gnawed at his mind with sharp fangs. It had almost shattered him, and only some cruel miracle had kept him alive.

Fire had burned within him all the time, fire that broke two of his chains. But it never touched the fae who was coming to him, the flames never helped him. They was as dead as this cursed place. And when Lorian visited him, twice, the flames burned high and willing, feeding the fae king’s twisted delight.

Lorian didn’t just desecrate his body. He mocked his power. Toyed with shadows, to prove nothing in Tiyan could ever resist him.

But now… now Tiyan was behind the wall. And there, standing before him…

Mina.

He froze.

It struck him like lightning. Mina, alive. She was standing beside a monstrous fae with black horns and stark white eyes, her wings like a bat’s, painted with crimson veins which formed a delicate pattern.

Then Mina was in his arms, falling against him with raw joy and utter relief. She recognized him, she had to be warned that he would wear someone’s else skin. She held onto him like he was life itself, like water after passage through scorching desert. He found himself sobbing into her hair as her small hands wrapped around him, squeezing hard. She still wore the intricate court dress, her hair was still pinned in an elegant style. But something had changed. She was no longer a doll.

She was alive.

“Tiyan!” she cried, pulling back slightly, a lock of hair slipping loose. “Tiyan, I’m so sorry! I had to…I had to lie. I made a deal with the Fae King… he promised not to kill us.”

“Not killing someone can take many forms,” the woman-creature’s voice was cold. “Some of them are worse than death.”

Tiyan knew that already, all too well, yet he still clung to life. Maybe because some tiny spark of hope still lit in him. Or maybe it was because Mina was here, her mind unbroken, only with a tear-stained face and trembling. Her fingers dug into her pinned hair, pulling until it was wild and tangled, a mane of fierce rebellion.

Her eyes gleamed with the same force – determined and not beaten.

Not yet.

The winged fairy stepping from foot to foot, her movements almost a dance. Her teeth glistened in the darkness, sharp, capable of ripping their throats out in an second. But she wasn’t here to kill them. She was here to help, as twisted and bizarre as it was.

“We have little time,” the woman said, pulling Tiyan from his thoughts, like with a fish hook. “Lorian Ain’Dal could return from the hunt at any moment. We need to reach the gate and deal with the magic protecting Dal’coler’s walls. That will be the most difficult part.”

“No one escapes Dal’coler,” the small fairy said, her voice grave. “Not with their sanity and not in one piece.”

“Dahorat,” the woman cut her off. “We are here to break the rules, not to obey them.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Dahorat said, grinning wide. Her teeth seemed longer now.

My Lord. So it was a man. A shapeshifter. Something out of the oldest, most cruel tales. But wasn’t this place itself made of nightmares and ancient legends? The kind of stories where humans lose their firstborn – or their souls.

They ran through the hidden passage, Tiyan’s heart pounded in his chest like a moth trapped in a jar. This couldn’t be real. Even if they made it through the gates, Lorian would hunt them down. The fae would never let them go. But the fact that he ran and he was with Mina, made him feel free. He was no longer chained in that chamber, no longer waiting to be defiled again and again. He could at least try to save Mina. And even if they will be followed, he still had free will.

He could still choose.

The shapeshifter’s golden hair shone with dim light ahead of him, and that reminded Tiyan of Noyda. Noyda, who now waited for him in a quiet village, with a dog who missed him and a home they could rebuild together.

As foolish as it sounded – because the fae would never let that dream to be fulfill – he imagined spring. Spring which he long forgotten, but now it knocked to his minds with green branches and soft leaves.

The shapeshifter pushed the wall.

When it opened they heard voices. He shook his head, showing at the entrance to another passage. Tiyan saw a group of Fae, approaching them, courtly talks threaded with soft and delicate laughter.

“We will pass them by,” the shapeshifter said, voice sharp and deliberate.

There was no tremor of fear in him. Only the cold, quiet weight of purpose. A warrior’s determination, he was a fighter who entered the battlefield. Tiyan watched him and couldn’t understand. The Unseelie were craving blood and suffering. Every one he’d met was as ruthless as frostbite on a winter dawn. So why was this one helping them?

Were there Unseelie who… weren’t like the rest? Could that even exist? If so, they must be exiles and outcasts.

“You look like one of us,” the shapeshifter said, glancing at Tiyan. “But I can’t shift the girl.”

“Why?” Mina’s voice rang, sharper than Tiyan had expected.

The shapeshifters mouth pulled into something like a smile, except it wasn’t present in his eyes, which were full of old pain.

“I can’t change human bodies so young. The process would tear her apart. If she survived, she’d never heal. Not fully, at least.”

Mina opened her mouth, but the words died in her throat. Tiyan stepped forward instead.

“Then how do we get past them?”

“We wait.”

“For what?” Tiyan had enough of riddles, even if spoken by a savior. He needed to know what is planned, so he didn’t destroy plans by mere accident. And he didn’t want to be toyed with. Not anymore.

“For the beautiful collapse.”

The fairy next to her again stepped in place. It had to be her natural habit. Or maybe only when she was nervous.

“Collapse?”

And as he said it, a sound rose from the depths of Dal’coler. A song, which very much reminded Tiyan of Bean Sidhe. His skin crawled, his mind curled in a pained ball, when he reminded himself of his parents, falling under the teeth of the eternal songstresses. But this song was sweeter. It didn’t force submission or love. It just filled the ears and heads with peace, peace so final, that it bordered on the calm of death. Tiyan  could swear that his eyes would close by themselves, and he saw Mina sagged against the wall, her eyes fluttered. Tiyan barely caught her, the need for sleep was intense and he knew that he would be unable to beat it, in the end.

Mina… It was like holding a body underwater.

He leaned into her, using what strength he had left to keep both of them upright. But it was harder and harder each second. The pull of sleep was overwhelming, like gravity.

“Go!” The command rang and Dahorat’s hand closed over his arm, dragging both him and Mina forward.

They stumbled, half-carried. Their feet barely found the ground. Tiyan blinked, vision swimming, and saw the Fae they passed – lesser fairies, winged and bird-like – they were as dizzy as them.  They also seemed to not care about them. The gates were closer and Tiyan’s heart beat faster, even if his body was opposing any effort.

They were passing through.

Closer now.

His legs almost buckled under him, his mind almost shutting off. But the gate loomed between heavy walls, which bloomed with dark magnificence of long gone ages. The arches here were taller and the darkness between them even more potent.

“You… could’ve given us something to close our ears…” Tiyan mumbled. His tongue was thick, loose in his mouth.

“No,” the shapeshifter said. The song didn’t touch him. His steps remained firm, eyes clear. “It would be futile.”

Tiyan didn’t ask why. He already knew.

His knees broke under him and he barely caught himself. The stones beneath his palms were warm, alive, pulsing with the hunger of the wall’s curse. The darkness crept toward them, curling from the corners, dragging its fingers across the floor.

It wanted him. To swallow him. Bleed him.

If they made it through the gates, they’d be safe, at least from this place.

But Mina stopped.

She froze like a statue, her body still, her eyes wide, unfocused. Like she petrified, turned to stone.

Like she was gone.

Dahorat turned, panic across her face. She rushed to Mina, but the girl didn’t move.

“Come,” the fairy urged, her voice almost breaking. “Please, come…”

Tiyan turned toward his sister. His legs threatened to collapse, his lungs burned, like eaten from the inside.

“Mina,” he rasped. “Mina, you have to move.”

She didn’t.

Then she shook. Violently.

Foam spilled from her mouth. Her nails buried into her palms, blood flew down her hands, glistening red in the dim light. Her eyes rolled back, and all that remained was a white sclera, painted with crimson veins.

“Curse it, Mina!” Tiyan’s voice cracked. Something inside him moved, wild, primal, terrified. A flame cracked beneath his skin, boiling his blood, a flame that devours and destroys. It was coming loose, embracing him with warm, white fingers.

He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around her, trying to stop the violent shaking. But something took her, a force, invisible but merciless. She was torn from his grasp and was tossed backward.

Her body slammed into the wall with a sickening sound.

“Mina!”

“She can’t go with us.”

The shapeshifter’s voice changed gravity around him. Tiyan turned wildly to him, his eyes flaming. His skin started to smoke. But he didn’t waste time for his vile words. He won’t leave Mina behind.

His legs still shook, but he managed to collapse next to her. She looked like dead, but her chest heaved.

“Mina… please.”

She seemed to not connect, like a doll, she hoped she was not anymore. Her eyes were completely white.

He made them kidnap her. If not his choices, she would still be safe. If he allowed the lesser folk to eat him, nothing of this would happen.

No.

It was not his fault. He did all he could. He entered the poisoned maw of a cruel beast and still does everything he can, to save her. Even if it’s all sentenced to failure, he won’t stop. Mina still breathes. He still breathes.

Mina rolled her white eyes.

Tiyan breathed in the cold, freezing air.

The icy touch of winter. Even through the closed gates.

Everything covered by frost, which couldn’t come through shut up entrance to Dal’coler.

Something – someone – was coming and Tiyan with dreadful clarity realized who. He felt him. Like through some strange connection the horrid union of their bodies and minds had caused.

Noone who eats my apples, tastes their blood, can leave Dal’coler, a voice inside his head, a cruel, cold, amused one. And Tiyan knew all is lost.

All was lost since the beginning. They had no chance. Even if hope crawled into his heart, when they managed to come so far.

The gate opened. Shadows crawled in, like tentacles, a night so thick that it obscured all light. They filled the whole passage, Mina tossed in place, roots emerged from the wall, embracing her in waist, trapping her arms and legs.

The shapeshifter’s features started to change. His skin softened, his bones changed shape, but without a familiar sound of snapping. Before Tiyan, a Unseelie stood, a high fey of long, brown hair and green eyes like spring overgrowth, his gaze showing both fear and determination. His face was a mask, but emotions bubbled in him, ready to force him to do something inevitable.

“Alnam, ah Alnam” Lorian’s voice reached them through the shadowed mist. Lorian himself emerged from them, perfect like a night sky during crisp winter. His smile – a death of thousand cuts. “How delusional.”

His shadows seemed to be pumped into the gate passage, Tiyan felt them on his skin, trying to find a crevice to push into.

The shapeshifter – Alnam – didn’t wait. Desperation drew him to the point he could have either do something – or die trying. His form changed again, fast, almost a blink, fur taking place of pale skin, and his face making way to a fanged maw.

Lorian laughed.

“So you want to offer me a Shagita to hunt, eventually.”

The beast lunged.

Tiyan saw that like in slow motion, just like when a fey beast attacked him, long ago, in another life. The creature Alnam became in the last throe of desperation, attacked Lorian. The shadows crept in immediately, but Alnam’s power clashed with them, pale and breezy, the sharp fangs managed to reach the fae king’s arm.

Blue blood poured, Alnam breathed fast, his long tongue licking it from his maw, like a source of life and death, altogether. His eyes shone, Tiyan knew he will attack again, his bright power gleamed with light aura, which now looked like something… autumnal. The scent of pine forest became a warmed stone, and the color of vermilion almost overwhelmed Tiyan, sharp and raw like the source of autumn itself.

Alnam was autumn, its heart, and its servant. And it wanted the white throat of winter.

Lorian’s eyes met the beast’s ones.  In the dark void – a spark of something that made Tiyan’s skin crawl.

Dal’coler sighed.

Dal’coler took a breath.

And exhaled.

The tendrils of something ethereal reached to Alnam, straight from the walls. Tiyan could see open mouths, fingers dripping with mist and teeth sculpted from nothingness. It was like the wind took a predatory form and rushed through the passage to feast on flesh, bite it off from bones. They started to push into Alnam’s throat, choking him, filling him with gossamer.

And the time stopped.

Not slow motion anymore.

It was a full stop.

Time died for one second.

Lorian’s lips curled up in a smile. Nymre was trapped in mid-step, in the moment when she was approaching, ready to act, with her eyes set on the wound the beast inflicted in her lover’s flesh. Whole Dal’coler held a breath. The song stopped too, and Tiyan felt as his mind again start to connect, but the more dreadful all of this became.

Lorian couldn’t look more nonchalant, when he passed Alnam, hung in the air, his long tail touching the ground, and his neck bent in a horrifying position. The fae king walked slowly to Tiyan, blood dripping off his wound, caused by Alnam’s teeth.

“There are things that only gods can do” he mused casually. “And one of them is stopping for a while and enjoying the world around us.”

This was not possible. The mist hanged over them, welcoming the shadows with a silent and pained wail.

But here he was, while Tiyan body was locked in eternity, and his mind cried out in utter despair.

“Some say that trapped souls can become a burden for their owner” Lorian continued. He stood just next to Tiyan and his hand reached to his face. Touched it, with a tender gesture. And smeared a petrified tear on his cheek. “But I know how to make them useful.”

Trapped souls. Were they…?

The flames boiled in Tiyan, begging him to let them out. The moment prolonged, the fire became almost unbearably hot inside his tormented veins… he felt the crisp scent of frozen violets, of jasmine touched with cruel frost… until the mist didn’t allow the time to snap in its place.

Alnam landed on the stone floor with a loud crack, Nymre almost tripped, when she regained the ability to move.

“Lorian,” she growled, her voice angry and worried. It ran through Tiyan’s mind, how much she knew about that shade of Lorian’s power.

“Release the fire” Lorian purred into Tiyan’s ear. “Please me.”

And Tiyan started to burn. Flames intertwined with Lorian’s night, whole passage filled with a white heatwave. She saw Nymre and Alnam, surrounded by shadows, which pushed the fire off them.

Lorian bathed in his flames. His smile ever perfect, but something, a hint of of something much deeper and dangerous painted into it, like a gruesome detail placed in an overall beautiful portrait. A midnight prevailing over noon. Darkness claiming the body of light.

And the world became black.

The first visit to the captive boy instilled a tangled mix of hope and dread in Alnam’s tormented heart. The boy was more than human – Alnam sensed it, not just because he could see through Leira’s borrowed skin with  ease. Lorian had chosen the boy not simply to play with him or destroy him for the thrill.

There was a deeper plan behind it. One that Alnam instantly wanted to dismantle.

He visited the boy several times, still wearing Leira’s face – both to remain hidden, and because Tiyan might break under Lorian’s power and turn against him.

Tiyan Markon.

Alnam had only learned the name, but he had already discreetly sent his people into human lands. It was a great risk, but he took every precaution, ensuring they couldn’t be exposed. His estate of Devlonmere was home to many loyal fey, who could easily disguise themselves as thrill-seeking guests in Avras – like so many who had once left Ain’asel to toy with human bodies and minds.

Winter had not yet claimed everything in its cold embrace. Gaps in the snow left room to breathe. Alnam gave his people purpose, and they bloomed like autumn thorns and bonfires, ready to burst into high flame.

The boy came from Inamora, a lonely village in the Venklann Valley. His parents had been killed not long ago – and one of the girls Lorian danced with at that peculiar ball had been his sister.

Possibilities began to flame up in Alnam’s mind, accompanied by a distant, gnawing fear: that Lorian already knew everything about his efforts. That he was allowing him to move freely, only to strike with a final, devastating blow when the time was right.

But Alnam began repeating it to himself like a mantra: If not now, then never. Nothing to lose. Nothing to fear. He might die, but at last, he would try to tear down Lorian’s web of plans.

He ensured everything was falling into place.

Then the day came – a day Alnam had feared as much as he had awaited.

Lorian took Nymre on a hunt. Not for humans this time, but for the most dangerous beast in the forests of Ain’asel: the Shagita. These creatures were feral and deadly, their backs covered with poisonous spines. They had the power to mislead even the Unseelie fey, conjuring illusions and visions until the hunters were lost and helpless at their mercy.

Only Lorian could be bold – or arrogant – enough to hunt Shagitas for sport.

He did not leave with fanfare. Instead, he departed quietly, astride his sholi horse, an all-knowing smile on his lips. Nymre rode beside him, dressed in thick trousers and a feathered cape. They might have passed for dark twins – Lorian’s clothes were cut in the same style – if not for their eyes: light and dark, day and night. Nymre’s aura was light, her presence scented like an  ocean breeze. Lorian, all shadow, smelled of violets and jasmine.

Alnam watched them for a long time, until they became no more than dark specks on the horizon.

Then he acted.

He sent Noli to make sure Leira would not expose him or interfere with the plan. When he was informed she had been found in the eastern wing of the fortress, Alnam knew his chances had improved.

He shapeshifted again, taking her face as his own.

But a sharp sting pierced his heart. Something held him still for a moment. Something he had seen in Lorian’s eyes – something that didn’t fit.

He couldn’t grasp what it was. And he feared his mind might be deceiving him, tricking him into hesitation, into missing his chance and falling even deeper into the abyss.

But no.

All precautions had been taken. He was no young fae anymore. Leira couldn’t know. Lorian couldn’t know. His plan had no holes. He had lived too long to allow himself a misstep. He had spent too many days on battlefields, lost too much blood, left too many splinters of his soul in distant realms.

The door to Tiyan’s room was guarded by the same twin sentries. Alnam brought water and bread; they let him pass without a glance.

A good sign, though perhaps a very bad one.

He found Tiyan unchained, clean, dressed in a black shirt with a royal symbol sewn on the front.

Alnam stopped, nearly frozen.

The Brusha symbol – on black cloth.

The same one he had seen on the banner they used to cover Corvel. The tormented face, the moment he pulled it from the mangled, bloodied body. The eyes that looked at him, full of pain.

And the voice. Battered, weak, muffled, but the words were burned into Alnam’s mind.

“Father… I tried…”

Alnam blinked hard.

Not now. If you turn back, you are lost.

Tiyan sat at the edge of the bed, staring out the window. His hair was a wet, tangled mess. His eyes were bloodshot. He rocked slightly, back and forth, a silent mirror of Alnam’s own torment.

“You’re here again.”

Tiyan didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to. He knew.

“Yes,” Alnam said softly. “And this time, not in vain.”

The boy scoffed, dark and bitter.

“You’ve come to live up to your word and save me? Before he orders me to fuck every slave here and fill them with blood?”

Alnam – wearing Leira’s face – shook his head. The thick blond hair moved wildly as he stepped closer.

“I’m taking you. Everything is ready. This time, it’s not just a visit. There are fae, who will make it possible.”

Tiyan looked at him like he was insane.

“This is a cruel joke… or you’ve truly lost your mind.”

“I have,” Alnam replied calmly. “And I know exactly what I’m doing. Both.”

Tiyan stared at him, eyes filled with pain and disbelief. He wanted to believe. Desperately. Why would he do it? This place was rotting. Dead. Even if it still pulsed with life and ran red with fresh blood.

“Why?”

One word. But it opened a flood inside Alnam. He wanted to tell him everything – about Lorian, about Leira, about his son. But there was no time. He could only hope his servants had already taken action. If not…

“Because this isn’t the only way the fae can live.”

Tiyan’s deep brown eyes glinted with fire in the Dal’coler darkness.

“I’m not going anywhere without my sister.”

“That will be taken care of too. She ate from the Core Tree, yes. That may bind her to the realm but I will do everything in my power to secure her, and to try to break the spell.”

“No,” Tiyan said, shaking his head. “You must do more than you can. I’m not leaving Ain’asel without her. I’ve lost too much already. I won’t lose her too.”

Alnam saw the desperate glint in Tiyan’s eyes; determined, almost broken, but not yet. There was still fire in his veins. Lorian hadn’t managed to take that from him, not completely.

“I promise,” Alnam said.

It was a lie. Core apples were the ultimate prison. The girl would never leave the realm, not even if Alnam bled himself dry on the altar to free her.

But the boy wouldn’t come without hope.

A lie, yes. But a necessary one.

A weapon in the game against Lorian. Just like Tiyan Markon himself – a weaponized body, carved with suffering.

Tiyan nodded.

“The guards?” he asked.

“They should be sleeping now.”

And they were. Kinary, Alnam’s oldest servant in Dal’coler, was one of the plumpuppets. They could induce sleep filled with nightmares. The twins slept with their eyes wide open, irises rolling aimlessly in their sockets.

“I know a path through the gates that’ll help us avoid most of the fae,” Alnam said, finally exhaling the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He had feared Kinary had been caught, and the guards would still be there. If they had been, he could have lied to them; humans couldn’t lie to a fae, and they would never suspect one in human disguise.

This small success felt like balm on his soul, on his mind.

Alnam took Tiyan’s hand – the same one Qhal had mangled twice – and with a swift motion, he made a cut on one of the remaining fingers. Tiyan didn’t move, watching calmly as Alnam sliced his own finger and pressed the wounds together. Blue and red mingled.

Alnam suspected Tiyan had seen too much, lived through too much, to feel fear at this kind of magic.

Dal’coler chews you up and spits you out. In the end, you’re just flesh, minced meat, no matter if your blood is red or blue.

There weren’t many shapeshifters in Dal’coler. Alnam was one of three. A rare gift, like shadow magic, and just as dangerous when used well.

By mixing blood, he could shapeshift others. Not permanently, but long enough.

His heart filled with a bitter kind of exhilaration. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time. Maybe never.

And he began to weave his magic.

Tiyan’s features began to change.

The transformation never hurt Alnam – but for others, it was painful enough to cause a scream. Bones relocating, skin stretching. Yet in this case, it was the lesser evil.

Tiyan’s face lengthened, his limbs grew more supple, his eyes turned deep green. Alnam couldn’t replicate a fae aura, but he could wrap Tiyan in his own. He had already dimmed it while passing through the sentries’ guards before his door.

He heard a low grunt, and a bone snapped – not in the right place, but where it needed to.

Before him now stood one of the fae twins – at least in form. His eyes were tired, but newly lit with hope.

Hope is dangerous. Deadlier than a dagger in the night. Crueler than the executioner’s hand. But Alnam had it too, a wild, reckless thing that gave him strength.

“Go,” he whispered, in Leira’s soft, deep voice.

Tiyan stumbled slightly, muscles strained by the shifting, but he had strength enough to move.

This is madness, a voice whispered in Alnam’s mind. Devlon, what you’re doing is mad. It won’t work. You’re more insane now than when Corvel left you, your hands dripping with his blood, ready to end yourself. When Narlia tried to speak to what little sanity you had left…

It’s madness. And you know it.

He did. And still – he would do it.

They took the least populated corridors; paths that bordered on abandonment. Vast arches loomed above them, and statues watched in silence. Grotesque reminders that Dal’coler despised disobedience – and punished it as a warning.

They chose the darkest passages.

Still, the sculptures watched them.

The columns leaned toward them, tangled in roots and twisted trees.

They walked slowly; but inside, a gale raged. A silent storm in their souls, snowflakes of  sharp fear and icy touch of an uncertain future.

“The Saru, Your Majesty. There may be more. We should remind ourselves to the Seelie; more forcefully this time.”

Lorian leaned back in his throne. His feather-etched robes gleamed in the half-light, star-stones sewn into the fabric catching the glow like captured constellations. Shining leather trousers clung to his lean body. But the throne itself was the true statement of his power – a grotesque contrast to his ethereal beauty. The skulls ornamented the seat, whispering with hushed voices. Within the solid stone, trapped human souls gleamed – a treat Lorian reserved for those he wished to torment for eternity. The throne’s surface shimmered faintly, when the souls were touching its structure.

His palm rested on one particular skull.

Alina.

His most cherished soul. Her true name still pulsed under his fingers. She’d tried to hide it, of course. But names held little resistance to his mind-reading. Her will remained strong and high but she would break, eventually. Slowly. Each crack in her will be beautiful and intense, like a crimson-colored sunset.

The final surrender will be exquisite.

“Reminders…” Lorian mused. “Shall we send the army again? Let them taste the core of their resistance – and swallow them like a long-awaited feast?”

Lord Illon’s brow lifted. He never knew when Lorian agreed with them or mocked them. That was always the way with Lorian – riddles first, decisions after.

Still, Illon knew this game. Lorian tested them – just as they judged him.

“It would be the fastest and most… gratifying response.”

“Fastest does not mean most firm, and definitely not most fulfilling” Lorian shadows moved toward Illon, but never touched him.

“A possibility of attempt at assassination is a good reason to remind them not to lift their heads again.”

“A vile crime, yes… if truly would have place,” Lorian’s fingers stroked the skull. Alina, you shiver under my touch. “But I let him go.” A wild amusement lit his black eyes. “I released him. I’ve never been fond of impatient solutions. I let him carry an unusual and peculiar message.”

A murmur went through the gathered Lords. Lorian felt their indignation – surprise, disappointment, veiled frustration. None dared speak it aloud. Fear, subtle and well hidden, held their tongues. He could see the images in their minds – versions of him distorted by dread – and they amused him.

They cared, above all, for themselves. Risking punishment was not in their nature. They’d spill blood with glee, though never their own. They were bathing in privileges and pleasures, bound to life like leeches to flesh.

And he was no different.

“Your Majesty…” Lord Carnile stepped forward and bowed low. “Forgive the assumption, but – won’t he inform Saru of what he’s seen? Or worse, make a second attempts to reach us… more effective?”

Lorian’s eyes lay on him – just for a a moment – and then the laughter rang. Clear, melodious, it spread through the hall like bluebells in a silent forest. Smile appeared, but his eyes remained serious.

“You know well, Carnile, there are ways to instill loyalty in such creatures. And my power… it reaches deep. Night is unforgiving.”

Illon’s expression showed doubt. Lorian saw it. And he saw the thoughts under it.

They didn’t know the truth of his influence. They believed it comes from charisma, from raw enchantment. They did not know he could reach inside minds and bend thoughts, force obedience absolute, making his prey to surrender to extremes. That knowledge was his greatest weapon – and he would not allow himself to lose it.

His ancestor, King Fail of Summer, had possessed a similar gift. Lorian remembered the chronicles. Fail’s short reign had ended, because his own children had feared him too much. Not because he was cruel but because he was… inconvenient. The woods chose the new king from among his five children after his death, silent, always observing. Allowing the new king to set up his reign, calm after the storm of violence.

No one feels safe when their ruler sees everything.

Lorian did see many things. But that had to remain unknown.

Alnam Devlon looked like a stone figure between the Lords. His mind barriers as always partially closed, tempting Lorian to crack them. But there were things that didn’t need acts – at least not now.

Alnam’s eyes hollow when his voice eventually came, his youthful voice, which deep sadness was masked, almost like he shapeshifted his nature too.

“What to subjugate them more? I was there when they were smashed against the wall. This attempt was weak at least. He had no power to enter Dal’coler, no more than a natural bird could survive in Sacred Woods.”

Lorian listened to him with a smile. It infuriated Alnam, he felt like his nonchalance rubs many old wounds.

“Besides, as Your Majesty said, it’s doubtful it would take place. Avel was on the verge of death not long ago. It all could be born in her head. Additionally, torture makes all living beings lie – even Nymre should know that.”

Sparks danced in Lorian’s eyes.

“It’s such a clever observation, Lord Devlon. A joyful blow of breeze over this court. Avel very easily subjects herself to emotions, don’t you think?”

“Indeed” Alnam said dryly.

“Each act of Seelie spying on my territory is always curious” Lorian continued. “Nymre knows very well, how torture works on tongues. They want to silently raise their heads, eat through our core with calm opposition. This would be as clever as your observations, Lord Devlon, if we didn’t have eyes too.”

Alnam pressed his teeth but said nothing.

“What is your decision, Your Majesty?” Lord Kove asked, voice calm, his posture composed and aloof.

“To send the army? Lorian’s smile raw and pure. “A pleasing suggestion. Efficient. But so simple. I prefer something… more elegant. Something that stains the soul.”

He stepped down from his throne, shadows going behind him.

“I want them fear their reflections. I want Saru sleep lightly, hearts pounding at every shadow, every movement in the dark. That is the punishment I find delicious. Lasting. Stunning in its silent strength.”

The courtiers exchanged gazes. They understood, of course. Their minds opened, slowly warming up. He felt their thoughts pressing against him – tingling satisfaction, the hunger for cruelty.

They loved finesse. The promise of fast victory made them impatient, though. They wanted to burn Saru. And that was never an option. Saru were still useful – for their work, their beauty, their suffering. Living reminders of submission.

Lorian turned to entrance, which meant the end of the audience. But Lord Illon seemed to have more to say, approaching with visible agitation. Lorian found it curious, because his mind brushed on his surface, finding… anxiety. Well masked, but intense, dulled but real.

Caution, yes. But beneath it, something else.

Fear. Not before him.

Rare in a Lord of his court.

“My Lord…” Illon’s voice was composed, but Lorian already ran through his thoughts. Curious, delicate. “There are news, Your Majesty. From the Shadowlands. They say the portal between them and the Lesser Realm… pulses with an unusual energy. Some claim to hear the voices of… beings. Some say that these belong to… gods.”

“Are they not dead?” Lorian’s brow raised.

“They are, Your Majesty. But something is feeding from the air. From the snow. From the Fae. The energy feels… wrong. It might be nothing, but…”

“When did this begin?”

“Raven arrived today. From my wife. She’s left in the Lesser Realm, she felt it herself and it moved her deeply.”

Lorian’s heart started to beat faster in his chest – not from fear, but from a twisted anticipation that bordered on pleasure. The goal he had clawed toward for so long was within reach now – a true climax to all those years, he spent hiding his pain, suffering and submitting himself to worst. Years spent lying to his lover. Sometimes, even to himself.

Something inside him moved. Warm. Wet. Pulsing.

Alive.

Tiyan Markon would break soon. Human minds could be reshaped – but not this time. It would be too easy – and against all he found out about the laws the gods set up.

To never be stopped.

To make it more difficult to anyone who would dare to step before them and try to ascend to their level.

The rite had to be performed on a soul that willed it. No rewriting minds, no manipulation. Absolute, untainted will to die. That was the last and cruelest law, the one the gods created, because they knew it was the hardest to fulfill.

Before the fae, before humans – before time even – the gods were nothing but drifting spirits, flames wandering an empty, newborn world; world of heat and raw, birthing magic. That magic forged them, gave them shape and hunger and power. It made them gods, offered them immortality, and unquenched hunger.

He had seen it in their minds and memories, which they guarded well – but Lorian was so deeply in them, they couldn’t oppose.

They never entirely silenced the simple creature underneath the divine. And they built a cage of laws, to secure their domination.

Lorian caught himself grinning.

Lord Illon watched him, eyes showing agitation. Lorian met his gaze with a radiant smile, one that only deepened the unease.

“These are thick times, Illon. Thicker than before,” he said, a low chuckle. “A time of wonders… and dread. What you’ve told me falls into my plans almost too perfectly.”

“Plans, Your Majesty?” Illon asked, his voice cautious. “Does it concern the Saru?”

“They don’t yet understand their worth,” Lorian’s tone amused, but something in it bordering on night. His eyes glittered. “But the energy your wife felt can only be removed by an unbreakable will.”

A pause. A shadow sliding through his face.

“And what will is stronger, than Ain’asel itself?”

*

Sanis was dragged into Lorian’s chambers just after his meeting with the court. She didn’t know, if for more or the horror… or something worse than humiliation and pain. Lorian showed her that pleasure can be dreadful and sensual delight – a murder on mind.

After the first, most brutal assault, it turned into a sadistic game. He played on her, on her being, on her feelings. Her body was betraying her time after time, surrendering to his shadows and his pleasure – and him. She was giving to him, with hate, with fear. Moaning under him and pulsing around him.

A never ending horror of raging senses and guilt. Each night like a small death.

She fell on her knees.

Lorian didn’t seem to be in the mood, she felt that immediately. Something in his aura choked her and suffocated. He was not playful, not sadistically aroused.

“Sanis” his smile was cold, cruel… empty. “How the lower fairies treat you?”

“My Lord” she swallowed. “They… they are not too cruel to me. Since you have chose me.”

“They are not?” his eyes showed a sign of amusement, but only for a second. “It’s good to know that my subjects actually listen to my orders, instead following their urges.”

“I am grateful, my Lord.”

“I always wondered how precisely you fulfill all my orders and all my wishes, too.”

Sanis couldn’t but look at him. Without permission; she just had to see him. His eyes, his face, how he said that. Fear crept in.

“Yes, my Lord. Always. Every one of them.”

His expression undecipherable, almost dead.

“I know, Sanis, which makes it even more intriguing, that my child grows in your womb.”

Her heart stopped. Her mind stopped. She stopped, her whole being.

No.

Please no.

“The herbs of course have their limits. They are not perfect solution. But here is a problem, Sanis. I do not wish you bearing a child” his voice suddenly sharp, merciless. Shadow crawled in her direction, hot, heavy. She bowed her head even lower.

“My lord… please, I always drank the potions, never stopped.”

“Oh, that is certain” his face a frozen mask. His steps rang in the room, like a sentence. He walked closer, his shadowy presence even more suffocating. “Yet you put me before a very difficult choice, Sanis. The one that requiers drastic solutions. Which I do not like.”

A small smile bloomed in his lips. His hand touched her cheek and slid to her collarbone, rubbing the skin with the tip of his finger.

“It’s always a peculiar, masochistic pleasure… in sadness; to see things are falling apart.”

His shadows crawled around her neck and slid, down, down, lower. So low, that she gasped. Coiled around her stomach, caressing her skin with soft strokes. Sanis already knew their touch, but it was nothing sexual in it, this time. It was delicate, but raw, pleasant, but horrific.

And they entered her.

Deep.

Straight into her womb.

They took all from her, life and death, and all she could see when the world turned black, was Lorian’s eyes, void, which she was sucked in.

And she fell apart.

The night was full of stars, and Alnam’s soul was full of doubt and elation. He had tried something similar with Leira – without enough knowledge, and blind to her cruelty. But this boy, this poor toy, was weaker. More vulnerable. And Lorian had taken him past the point of no return.

Perhaps he was risking everything again. The human might still betray him, just as Leira had. But Alnam’s life was already over, he breathed vengeance now, not air. The thick aura of Dal’coler no longer filled his lungs; he had rejected it, as he had rejected Lorian’s rule.

Noli had said Leira disappeared into her chamber an hour ago. He hoped she was asleep. If not, and she was waiting for her lord, all the better, Lorian would be occupied.

Elation. And doubt. Mixed together, they tasted like rot.

He shapeshifted. Leira’s skin felt alien – not like Lorian’s, which repulsed him – but alien in another way. It reminded him of his despair. Of how empty he had been. How empty he still was. 

He touched a round ear. Light hair fell on his shoulder, soft and betraying; still familiar after all these years. One night had made her part of him.

He was a fool. A broken fool, too bound to his doom, to his undoing, to turn away.

Perhaps both of them – Lorian and Leira – ran through his veins now, darkening his blood with nightfall.
But it didn’t matter. He still had strength, enough to ruin Lorian’s plans – whatever they were.

This human boy would be the first step.

And… there would be others.

His heart beat faster as he passed through the royal wing of the fortress. Every step felt way too loud. He half-expected Lorian to emerge from the shadows, eyes like deepest void, voice like soft silk.

Sometimes Alnam felt Lorian truly saw everything – not merely through his web of spies, but through something deeper, darker. A gift and a curse. A way of peeling the soul’s skin without touching it. If Alnam still had anything to lose, this power would terrified him.

Two lower fae guarded the human’s door. They looked at him with lazy amusement, their large green eyes glimmering like moonlit ponds.

“Is it time to feed him?” one purred.

“We don’t see the bowl, girl,” said the other, smiling with too many teeth.

“Or do you want to play with him too?”

If they knew…

“The king wanted me to look after him,” Alnam said, imitating Leira’s voice. The words tasted false in his mouth – because they were. Still, he smiled, with Leira’s lips.

“Indeed,” one of the fae said. “He was about to collapse.”

“Wipe away his tears, girl,” the other added. “Feed him with compassion.”

Their laughter sounded in perfect unison – so sickeningly melodious.

Alnam had caused pain before. To humans Lorian invaded. To Seelie who refused to bend their backs. He had never regretted it. That was the nature of war. War was not noble, it was starvation, sacrifice, pain. It devoured everything, it’s hunger not quenched; an unstoppable force.

And it had shown Alnam his own heart.

Under Marnsul’s peaceful reign, he could pretend, leaned back on silken cushions, talking to a crowned friend. But Lorian had stripped away all illusion. He hadn’t just driven Alnam into despair – he had put light on him. Pulled it from his chest like a precious, rare jewel. And for that, Alnam hated him most of all.

And it was the one thing he had no right to hate him for.

But he had never been sadistic. His dark deeds had always been a matter of need, not pleasure. He took no joy from screams. Now…

… he was simply hollow.

The guards let him pass. His boots – soft leather ones, high and lean, made from Karaman skin – sounded silently against the stone floor. Noli had ordered them from an unsuspecting sprite cobbler, along with servant’s clothing close enough to Leira’s to fool a broken man.

He wouldn’t take risks. Not here. Not now. The boy might be too far destroyed to notice, but Alnam didn’t believe in relying on his weakness.

The room wasn’t a dungeon, but it served the same purpose. No chains, no torture devices.  Just thick walls, holding misery inside.

The boy lay curled on the bed, muscles twitching under pale skin. He didn’t move as Alnam approached. He was crying.

Leira’s form moved closer. Alnam reached out a hand.

The boy shivered, before he touched him. His wide, reddened eyes opened, full of things Alnam hated to see.

Despair. Pain. Fear.

But not surrender.

The boy’s hand shifted down instinctively, shielding himself. A cruel echo of Dal’coler’s customs.

“What do you want?” he rasped. His voice was rough, but defiant. “Is this what your monster lord wants now? Another beautiful round?”

“He is not my lord,” Alnam said. The lie was heavy. The beginning of many.

The boy laughed. His body still trembled.

“He is. Isn’t he lord of all here? And you’re human. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re his toy, just like me. But maybe you like it. Maybe you like being useful.”

The words struck a thread in Alnam and awaken a memory, one he would prefer to stay untouched. To the time before his vengeance. When he had nearly ended his own life, hoping to follow Narlia into death as disease ravaged the Shadowlands. When his pain had been too empty to hold onto.

And later, when revenge became his breath. When Lorian became the only food left. Food for his open veins, to fill them with false fulfillment.

“I must be,” he murmured. “What other chance would I have here? But he is not my lord. And never will be.”

The boy’s eyes studied him – exhausted, and red. He wanted to believe him. But belief needed something he no longer had.

“Here,” Alnam eventually said, “humans are only as alive as they are useful. Toys die. Tools live.”

“Then go be useful,” the boy sneered. “You can’t help me. Even if you wanted to. And you don’t.”

“I can and I will. If you don’t let him break you, I’ll find a way. I did before.”

Empty words. Hollow as everything else. Leira would never speak them. And yet they passed through her lips.

The boy’s eyes dimmed even more. Suspicion dulled the spark in them. Trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Alnam sat beside him. The boy recoiled instinctively. Of course he did. Leira was Lorian’s creature. No kindness could erase that.

The Brusha on his bare chest watched him, its stretched, human-like face, twisted in joy. It seemed to mock him.

Try all you want, it seemed to say. You will fail. You will swallow yourself.

“You’re stronger than I thought,” Alnam said, voice soft.

“You thought I’d break?” the boy asked with dark amusement. “Is that what you want? Is this your role now? Comfort after cruelty?”

“You don’t know what my role is.”

“I don’t care,” the boy said, though his voice changed, a tone higher. “You’re just another cruel joke.”

Alnam felt the words touch something inside him. He had once thought revenge would matter. That it would hurt Lorian, burn a mark in him, like he had burned it in himself.

Now it was more a spark of justice in this deranged world.

The boy stared at him; intensely and quietly. Crimson eyes dug into Leira’s mask.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice raw.

Alnam froze.

A chill ran down his spine – not from fear, but from something close to awe.

He knew.

Somehow – without magic – the boy knew.

And Alnam could no longer be sure it was only a human he was dealing with.

“You are not her,” the boy said, a coarse, muffled laugh coming from his throat. “She felt different. You… you are full of frozen forests.” His eyes narrowed, gleaming with suspicion. “You are another punishment. Or a mirage sent to torment me.”

Leira’s full lips curled into a half-smile.

“I am not your enemy,” Alnam said. His voice was calm, but his pulse betrayed him, racing faster with each word.

He sensed it. He sensed his mask – but still not his good will. Maybe because it was not existent; he still wanted to use this boy in his own plans.

There was something about this man, something not completely mortal. Perhaps this was why Lorian had him. Why he had been locked away.

“If you wait,” Alnam added, “I will prove it.”

The boy spat, and the warm saliva landed on his simple clothes. Alnam looked down at it, and almost laughed. Of course. In Dal’coler, there were no allies. No kindness without price, no mercy without motive.

To the boy, this was just another cruelty. Another twist in the game. A touch of hope meant only to be crushed later, and harder.

But Alnam would not stop.

He was persistent.

Just like Lorian.

But unlike Lorian, he still had something within him. Something sharp and mad.

A goal.

A desperate, hopeless goal. It was the marrow of his bones now.

And beneath it, even deeper – a dream of death. Not as an end.

But as a release.