Join me in night painted with crimson and black.

Leira’s eyelids fluttered like a wounded butterfly. And her eyes opened. Without effort, even though the eyelids were heavy, heavy as stones.

Nothing looked natural. Her surroundings were not even blurred… but distorted, as in a sinister dream. The air seemed to pulse with blue and red. The furniture in her room looked as if it had melted, dripping onto the floor; a soup of wood and silver. She didn’t know why, but she could swear she could see warmth and hear the scream of colours around her.

“What…” her throat was dry; her mind was liquid. Unreal. She barely remembered the dreams she had… but she felt they were horrible.

A warm hand touched her lower lip… and then slid up her face, stopping on her cheek.

She looked in the direction where she expected to see its owner.

A shadowy creature looked at her with white, burning eyes. They glowed as if they were stars in the heart of pure night. The shadow was sharp as a blade, with protruding tentacles of mist, almost roots, almost branches… almost blades. And somehow… they seemed to go deeper into the walls, deep, merging with them in some wild, unexplained way. Connected to the room, just as the colourful air was connected to her melting vision.

She would scream… she really would. But she realised through the mist of her mind that she knew the shadow.

“Lorian…” she choked.

He didn’t answer. His fingers ran through her hair, still sweaty and dirty from last night’s efforts. He buried his hand in it and leaned over her. The kiss he planted on her lips was soft and hot, like a feather set on fire.

“Lorian, please… what happens…”

His eyes grew as sharp as his shadows and the white of their flame lit up with an even hotter inner fire. She sensed he was angry. His displeased aura was red and as thick as molasses. At her… no… not at her… because… what happened?

“I will not allow you to stay in this condition.”

He won’t allow… what condition? She felt broken, like a wooden doll without the nails that held its limbs together. Who… how… why? Lorian… please…

Was this torture? She felt her mind shattering, and only he could have caused that.

“I… I don’t know…”

The shadowed hand stroked her head. He never did that. It was alien to him. His always distant composure only loosened when they shared sensual pleasure. And even then… she thought she understood him. Wanted to, wanted to dig deep into his core and pull all the cruel strings…

Is she… dying?

Why does she hear him in her head like a giant iron bell, breaking her into a million bleeding shards?

“I had to rearrange you, Leira… and it was not a pleasant task.”

He had to… what? Rearrange her. Did she displease him? Did she angered him?

Was it all a lie? His attention, his care… his affection and passion?

No.

Maybe she didn’t know him completely. But that was not what she knew of him. He wouldn’t. He could be cold, cruel and merciless… but since she had given herself to him… she knew he would not hurt her. Not against her will, and not unless she craved her own blood.

“Who.”

Yes, who. Who hurt her. Who took away her senses. The sound of his shadows in her head was defeating. Like a strange and very sophisticated torture.

His quiet, beautiful laugh was bitter. And filled with certainty.

“We have enemies, Leira. We always had. And as much as I enjoy throwing them on their knees… I am still not a god. Not yet.”

Not yet.

Leira tried to sit down in her dug-up bed. The sheets were sticky with old sweat, but she didn’t mind. As long as her muscles could make an effort.

She did. The room turned vermilion. The colour sounded like a nightingale’s song and tasted like… grape juice. And felt like cat whiskers.

“We are indeed at war,” he went on, his white eyes combining the taste of the juice with the peculiar scent of bitter moss. “Not just with those who never die. But also with those… who don’t want to. The deeper I go into the heart of things, the more restless they become.”

“One of them… I remember pain… blood… and horror… Lorian… are they… dead?”

“Many are already dead,” Lorian chuckled darkly. “But the one who is truly responsible… I want to taste him down to the last drop. Now, I fight with my own power in your head. It will take many weeks… but I will remove it – remove myself – from your mind.”

Leira’s hand touched the bedstead. It tasted like raw flesh. She pushed her feet to the floor – it attacked her with a green colour and the smell of honey.

She was determined to fight it. Not in the way a human would. In a Fae way, even in a God way.

She was determined to prove to herself that it was only temporary… and if not… to learn to live with it.

Her legs gave out and she fell; right into Lorian’s arms.

” Curse it…” she hissed angrily. His touch was impeccable as always… with a hint of blood and a taste of vanilla.

The world lost its meaning. The world fell upon her, with all that he held in its clawed hands. She understood well what was happening as the first mists of her mind were scraped away and the bells of Lorian’s mind grew more cruel.

He entered her mind. And destroyed it. To keep her from dying.

Ironic…

“The vessel has arrived, Leira,” his deep voice felt like a black sunbeam. “And when I break him, when I shatter his being, he will offer me the godhood. And I will take you with me.”

Leira… hoped.

Hoped in his power, in his promises, in his strength. Also in his ruthlessness.

But something dark dripped into her mind, along with the cacophony of his cruel power.

What if…

What if… they all lose.

And the world drowned in blood.

Which would have the colour of emptiness.

“We always danced on the edge of the blade,” her smile pale. “And I loved every second of it.”

Lorian’s shadows danced around her, in well known manner. Tasting of snow. His always hungry smile – a scent of jasmine.

“We still adore it. Admire most dreadful parts of it. Bathe in its glory.”

Leira knew it was true. They still loved it. And she knew he won’t leave her like that. He won’t surrender.

He never did.

Power grows within you, like a tendril of blood and ash. And you are becoming… this. Your hunger sprouts within you, another rotting tree of your own, reaching into your veins to scatter small seeds. You are always hungry. You crave love, heat… pain. And you bathe in torment, glowing with inverted light. Strength and weakness, all intertwined in a mad jig. You… your gods… Ain’asel… you command your puppets to dance. And they whirl in spiked shoes, in dresses made of stone.

And you whirl with them. Offering them all but mercy.

*

“The pooka brought startling news, Your Majesty.”

The bean sidhe that stood before him was made of sinews and veins. Raw in her beauty, hard as an old tree. She was not a warrior, not anymore. But she was one of Nymre’s finest.

The Bean Sidhe’s name was Shoka. And her specialty was gathering information. And her mind… was already his. No one who captured her would be able to extract what she knew from her. Even tortured, even on the verge of a cruel death. She was destined to be loyal, at the cost of her pain and eventual demise.

He liked it that way. Nymre disagreed at first… but she had to accept that liking someone was not an option in this fortress. Especially if that person was a well-trained spy.

His eyebrows were raised, his expression almost benevolent.

Shoka knew when to speak without further encouragement.

“My lord, Sal Vern’ese began to prepare his departure from Dal’coler. As quietly and privately as possible.”

Lorian’s smile widened.

“Alnam Devlon was seen in his chambers two days ago. They had a disagreement. Sal Vern’ese was heard to say ‘he will not die for a human’. Lord Devlon… looked resigned, but pookas are very good at deciphering emotions. He was moved and pained.

Of course he was. He might be a worthy opponent, a ray of light under his nail, a scornful iron blade. But he was still in a hopeless, harmful and cruel love. Against his own eyes, ears and even mind. His heart bled in his chest, a meat cut with Leira’s hand.

He would not allow her to be harmed, even if she had betrayed him. He can only guess where life has led Leira… and that must be buried even deeper in his almost dying, blood pumping muscle.

A most beautiful, most terrible agony.

“Your Majesty, shall we prevent young Lord Vern’ese from leaving Dal’coler?”

Lorian found himself looking out the window. Outside, the snow raged, carried by a furious wind. Perhaps it felt his own restless spirit. Winter often responded to his fear… or his joy. His element, dancing for him, just like his puppets…

“No.”

Shoka looked at him with a slight surprise, well masked, but he could see in her mind that even if she wasn’t an active warrior anymore, she was ready to sink her blade into Sals chest.

Shoka’s mind showed the desire to kill. It was there, always. Hidden, deep inside, that beautiful hunger for blood and suffering; a trait of every sensible Winter Fairy, but tenfold. Shoka would admire it if he offered her Vern’ese as a toy to break. But it was so well hidden, so… cleverly concealed. Powered by his shadows, it would terrify even his own court… if they knew.

You are a master at changing minds into something unrecognisable.

“No, Shoka. Let him breathe the cold wind of his estate. Let him join his followers. Let him feel more fear, let it consume him. He longs for security, now that he has assaulted my servant. How tense his days must be, don’t you think?”

Bean Sidhe’s mind whirled, counting the possibilities.

“I want him to bathe in fear. In doubt and uncertainty. Then you can bring him to me. On a bleeding plate. And still alive to touch the core of his failure.”

Shoka shivered. Yes, almost invisibly, but it ran through her with the promise of joy.

How well he knew her mind. Better than she did.

After all, he was the master of it.

*

He would fall to his knees. As he always did. And as always, Lorian would reach out with his hand, a caress on his cheek. A caress he kept for him after he returned from his dangerous, often perilous missions. How many times had they done this? How many times they danced that beautiful dance, twirling in the chaos, desperately trying to bend it to their will. No matter how strong it was, no matter how much it resisted. Teeth and claws sinking deep into the flesh of the realm.

Qhal was a tool that agreed to be one. To organize the world in the only possible way.

The way of the shadows.

“Beautiful. Such a beautiful gift you have brought me, Qhal,” Lorian’s eyes smiled. But something inside him screamed. Something inside him flinched like a wild animal in a trap. Perhaps in pain. Maybe with anger. Maybe out of…

… fear.

But Lorian would show none of it to anyone. Qhal, however… knew. Qhal never loved Lorian in the way his lovers did. But he felt his king slipping into him in a different way, less obvious, more tender, but also more inextricable.
It was not even love. It was something that couldn’t be named.

“He was a pleasure I rarely got to taste, my lord. His emotions were strong, like the tides of a raging ocean.”

Lorian removed his hand from his cheek.

“Stand up. You are one of those who never have to kneel.”

But Qhal always knelt. Because it was the only way.

The snow still ravaged behind the stained glass windows, only partially letting in the light. The old trees inside the walls were reaching out to him. It was one of Lorian’s private chambers, as far from the throne room as a king’s room could be… a place that saw a lot of sufferring, heard many screams, witnessed countless hours of passion… and in one wall Qhal saw a hand.

A smile broke his lips.

Above the hand… a desperate, frantically rolling eye. Begging. Terrified. His acute hearing could notice rustling of the tiny branches inside the prey’s flesh.

A beautiful sight.

“I keep my promises,” Lorian took a glass of wine and sipped. “My slaves cannot leave Dal’coler. Even if I never let them taste the core apple.”

“Rightful place for the insolent.”

“How was the journey?” Lorian sat in the chair and crossed his legs. He looked imposing, but something was still hurting him. But he didn’t want to show it, not even with a blink of an eye.

Something Qhal would also do.

The only way in this palace. Its owner had to live up to its glory. Qhal respected that.

“Amusing. This human boy really trusted me. I wonder why those most touched by the cruelty of fate are the most eager to believe it again.”

“I suppose he just needed someone to trust. Anyone with a spark of kindness, even a false one. Otherwise…” Lorian’s smile was cruel and unforgivable. “… why live? Wouldn’t it be better to end it all?”

“What does that feel like, Your Majesty? His mind?”

“Ah, that is the best of all. His thoughts are only of himself. Not me, not us, not Ain’asel… not even his sweet little sister. He is so self-centred that he would abandon his mission, if not his own subconscious. He hates himself, Qhal. Hates himself for being weak and selfish. His whole life is a lie. It will give me great pleasure to show him who he really is. To break him… with his own failings.”

Qhal laughed. A soft and pleasant sound, different from Lorian’s, but no less enchanting.

There was silence between them. Qhal felt the tension he had felt at the beginning grow, so far muted by Lorian’s voice. But he couldn’t stop longing. Addicted. To the blue, which tasted and smelled like moss and roots, like the air in the forest, in the cold morning.

His restlessness did not escape Lorian. His smile became almost sweet… if you didn’t know Lorian Ain’dal. His smile was never really soft. There was always something more behind it… something dark.

“Come Qhal…”

Qhal felt those two words electrify him. Addiction. Since the first day of their union. Cruel, but sweet, so sweet. He could not be calm without a taste of it. His mind drifted to places that haunted him with mares and wild nightmares.

He rose from his chair, moving restlessly, agitated. His limbs stiffened and tensed as he dropped to his knees before Lorian.

Again. With hunger carved in his features.

“You are beautiiful… and you shine with so much light” his king looked at him, his black eyes filled with night. Qhal could already taste the azure on his tongue. Need. Cruel mistress. “I would offer you an eternity of pleasure if I could… but you crave another delight.”

Suddenly Lorian’s teeth touched his own wrist. They sank into the flesh, blood swollen, pouring from the small wound. Blue. Qhal’s salvation and doom. The scent of moss filled the air, intoxicating. It was the scent of the blood of a Shadow Lord. Only that could quench his thirst. He didn’t need food, light was enough… but he would dry out if he didn’t get it. Addicted. He loved every moment of this addiction. It made him feel alive, stronger, more powerful. His loins were barren, he could not feel there… but this delicacy was something frighteningly similar, from the days when he remembered what sex felt like.

Blue blood of the Shadow Lord.

Something that brought him back from the brink of death… when Lorian saved him. A scrap of dying flesh… but brought back to the land of the living. Now he couldn’t live without it.

Drops fell from Lorian’s wrist into Qhal’s mouth. The tiny hairs on his arms stood straight, a shiver ran down his spine.

Yes.

YES.

Life.

This was the life he had been given long ago, and now… not even light was enough to kill his longing for it. Qhal bit greedily into the wound and he felt Lorian’s mind enter his head, adding to the rapture.

This was life. Lorian knew he would do anything for him… not only because of that. But…

… this was truly the best prize.

A moan escaped his lips.

It was his own way to reach the climax.

Roga’eus couldn’t look more helpless, but his soul didn’t seem to die with its ability to move.

Half-merged with the outer wall, his eyes darted frantically from one captor to the other, as if trying to guess which one would be more amiable and willing to bargain. In those eyes, however – aside from fear – a will to resist. To agree to nothing, mixed with resignation in a way that must have frightened even it.

As Lorian came closer, one of the branches moved slightly over Roga’s thigh, threatening to move higher. In places that would surely make it scream if it touched it with its cruel caress.

Nymre looked impatient. His restless raven, always aiming for the heart of things. But his mind was already in Roga’eus’, penetrating it without it even knowing it, pouring truth into his marrow. He knew, ah, he knew who had sent it, and it was as obvious as the morning after a night.

“You are such a unique creature,” he mused, his hand reaching for the branch that slipped between his fingers to sprout higher, on his prisoner’s skin. “Before your coal children took over the Shadowlands, you all owned the mountains. But you have been reduced – to small clans, hiding in the chasms and hollow caves. How many of you still breathe the cold air of the highest peaks?”

Roga’eus choked at the words. The shadows still hugged its throat, but did not press in. Waiting.

“They are… still… our children…”

“Ah, of course,” Lorian smiled, his black eyes shining with a dull, darkened light. “The love of the clan. The beauty of family ties. That’s why you followed the wounded heart of Lord Vern’ese. His lover for mine, wouldn’t it be fair to destroy what he thinks I cherish? Blood for blood and feather for feather.”

A sudden laugh pierced the clear air. Lorian’s laugh was like a rippling stream and the sound of spring and winter intertwined. Roga’eus threw itself into the cage of roots and branches, realising it was exposed – perhaps betrayed. Its ragged and harsh voice, more like the growl of a wild animal, joined Lorian’s laughter.

Which soon cut like with a sharp blade. The branches began to move, crushing the sprite, the wall opening to swallow him.

“No!”

Nymre scoffed. Lorian knew her patience was wearing thin, and she wanted to tear the creature’s heart out, to find out why her powers weren’t enough to raise Leira from her deathbed.

“No?”

He raised one eyebrow. That had eluded him, why Leira can’t be healed by the most powerful healer in the realm. Something coded so deep in Roga’s mind that he would have to be killed to get it out.

And that was what he planned to do.

“Your biggest mistake was not listening to Kolerial Vern’rese. It was not even an attack on my spy, even if that was already a fool’s errand.”

Roga’s hand suddenly gained a life of its own. The sprite left a terrified moan, when his own hand travelled to the branch that suffocated him. Took it between its fingers. And burried deep under his skin.

The sprite tossed again, its hand trembling while it pushing the sprouting vegetation in, its eyes widening. Lorian bathed in its emotions, frantic and panicked, surrendering to the horror of reality.

Roga’eus began to peel away its skin with soft, slow movements. It was then that the assassin began to break – fear replaced by pain and desperation, far more powerful. Lorian… knew everything. He wouldn’t let him go, but he would make him pay.

With blood.

Spilled by his own hand.

Pieces of flesh and fur fell off, swallowed by the thick bark as the sprite flayed itself. Every tug accompanied by a desperate scream. Its body gave up its most hidden secrets, Its flesh exposed to the howling wind. Roga worked, methodically, like a cruel device, knowing no remorse or pity for his own suffering. He were kept alive for one purpose – to open himself up before the eyes of the fairy king. His wounds smoked with the heat of shadows, boiling inside them.

“Your mistake wasn’t underestimating me, too,” Lorian’s voice was joyful, youthful; a child who likes to play with his living toys.

Soon Roga’eus was nothing but screaming flesh, roots biting into his skin to extract more of his pain. Nymre’s restlessness painted her beautiful face, sculpted with extreme emotions, visible even when her raven mask covered half of it.

The roots slowly crawled up, reaching between its legs. Roga’eus’ panic was almost palpable, a delicious fear that filled Lorian’s senses. His dark eyes shone with cruel need as Roga’s hands clasped over the roots and pushed them into himself, slowly, deep, deeper. Roga’eus screamed in agony. Blood poured out, meekly at first, until the roots began to rearrange it. Lorian’s mind attacked him at the same time, breaking down any barriers that still held the sprite captive, drawing out any secrets.

Roga choked on painful groans and slowly wsa deflating in the wall. Dal’coler knew such cries well, a palace both beautiful and terrible, breathing in the darkness of the winter fairies. Nymre’s eyebrows knitted, her flaming eyes fixed on the sprite, and Lorian didn’t need to get inside her head to know that she was torn between her personal dislike of Leira – and the threat the assassin posed.

“Your biggest mistake was assuming that I would not read you,” Lorian purred. “But you couldn’t know. So you are forgiven, your faults absolved…”

The roots began to worm their way into Roga’s nose, it tried desperately to push them away with what was left of its hands, screaming defaeningly… but they entered its nostrils and crawled relentlessly, making wounds as they went.

Impaling him on the thick tendril. Shadows pumping into Roga’eus instead of blood, which slowly poured, staining Lorian’s boots and Nymre’s naked feet with ruby mixed with white of the snow.

Which started to fall again.

“… and your soul will join mine, in these walls,” he drew a path across Roga’s torn skin – almost a sensual stroke – took a drop of blood and licked it off.

This alarmed Nymre. Though she couldn’t put her finger on why.

Something in those words left her hanging in the void. Without a thread to follow.

Covering her thoughts with an undecipherable threat.

*

The night slowly turned to winter morn.

The magical barrier pulsed with invisible spells, letting a cold wind into the room; moving the curtains in an unrestrained jig of fabric and wind.

Leira lay in her bed. Her hair scattered across the pillow like pale wheat.

Lorian stood over her, a shadowy apparition, breaking the spells that were attacking her… and maybe finally breaking also her. Removing one threat from her mind, but perhaps… just perhaps… adding another, far more subtle.

For the first time in his long life, he didn’t trust his power.

And he didn’t like it.

Not at all.

Nymre’s gentle spells enveloped Leira again, trying to soften the destructive force that was her lover’s mind. Even against herself, she knew that she gave in again. She was weak beside him, clinging to their love like the hand of a drowning man clings to the fingers of a rescuer.

Even if those fingers belonged to a river demon. Who would save her only to wrap her in a thick web of enchantment.

Do you hate yourself, cruel raven?

Perhaps.

But I still want it.

It destroys me and makes me reborn again. A fire that burns my wings, to replace them with flaming ones.

Some things… are worth suffering for.

*

“Kolerial Vern’ese.”

The name rang in the silence, almost a curse.

“How did it know I wouldn’t be able to heal her?”

“Alnam Devlon has an estate on the border of the Shadowlands.”

“Roga’eus served him after Dal’coler invaded the Shadow Fairies.”

“He found Elder Roga’s hiding place.”

“Promised them revenge.”

“One day.”

“And Sal Vern’ese used it, to avenge his blood.”

The air grew thicker.

The chill more pronounced.

“It was one of them. A healer’s spell cannot break the power of their magic. They are too old.”

Nymre felt anger. That someone could be immune to her power. That someone had dared to challenge her and she lost.

Lorian had promised her the stars.

But how could she fight for them when her strength failed her?

But she was not one of the weak hearted. And she vowed to watch both Sal Vern’ese and Alnam Devlon decay and wither.

*

She became one with him. Somehow, she had carved herself into him, like a poisoned splinter into a skin.

If he lost her, he would lose a part of himself. Ripped from him, as Alnam had wanted to long ago, but had been unable to  cause a damage. Bitter amusement overcame him.

He respected a good enemy. A challenge better than any other, the more painful, the more cruel – the more fulfilling. And they… they just proved that they were worthy of his most intense attention…

Death… was a weak, despicable thing that never dared to touch him.

It won’t touch her too, as long as he can instill fear in it’s rotten heart.