His jaw clenched, hard. His teeth pressed together as he watched the cruel spectacle Lorian was putting on for his new toy. He was no stranger to ruthless behaviour, he had been ruthless many times, it was the way of his kind and the rules of the game in Dal’coler – in all of Ain’asel. But he never took pleasure in it, while Lorian… he bathed in pain. Lorian’s face glowed with a sick light, blooming with satisfaction and joy.
His heart beat only a tone faster, his eyes burned with emerald flame.
Lorian’s court was made of frozen hearts. They followed him, they feasted with him, they listened to his commands and they rejoiced with him. While Alnam’s misplaced soul was caught between them, like a fish trapped in nets at the bottom of the sea. He could try to break free, but he would only draw the nets tighter around him. And the fisherman was waiting to pull him out and feast on him while his lungs begged for air.
He could only watch.
Watch as Leira assisted Lorian with a sparkle in her eyes. With that expression on her round face that didn’t suit her features. She was as out of place as he was, yet she chose to join the ravens. Black raven feathers and pitiless emptiness. He could almost see wings sprouting from her back, an illusion that was much more real. She wanted so much to be like the Fae… and her eyes became almost as empty as those of the lesser folk. Not empty… but devoid of compassion and mercy.
Leira… who should be dead… but somehow wasn’t. Vern’ese’s family was now on their estate, far from Dal’coler. He didn’t help them. They were not only endangering themselves. Leira was still the woman he had admired in the past. He knew she had drifted away from who she was – and his heart should do the same – but he still felt her beneath him, still heard her moaning. After thirty years.
He didn’t know how Vern’ese’s plans had failed. But here his connection to them ended. If Lorian knew… he still wondered what was between Leira and him. If he is capable of showing her affection in any way other than physical pleasure. If he could love. But… if he did, the Vern’ese line would come to an end.
And he won’t be dragged down with them.
He had too much to do in Dal’coler.
He was present at all the celebrations, like any member of the court, whenever he returned to Dal’coler. He was aware that his status kept him safe – without him, the court would turn into cliques, fighting each other for his property and power. That his position is almost untouchable and that he still influences the realm – that, and only that, made him come back here and look into Lorian’s pitch-black eyes. But also – that Lorian deliberately exposes him to his most sadistic whims. He would respect him for that, if it wasn’t turned against him.
The human tore the slave woman’s womb apart, staining her face with his tears. What was Lorian trying to achieve? If he repeats such games, this boy’s soul will be torn as well. He will be useless, even as a toy. Perhaps Lorian was already so deranged – and so bored – that he craved this man’s broken mind and despair on another, madder level. For nothing could satisfy his hunger.
But… … no. Alnam – for all the hatred that burned dully in his chest – would never call Lorian insane. His mind was still sharp. Perhaps it had turned in the wrong direction, perhaps it craved things Alnam had long ago rejected, and subjected them to his cruel schemes. But he was no fool.
When the boy had finished his horrible fucking, the guards pulled him forcefully from the bloody mess that was the dead Noyda. He clung to her as if she would come back to life if he wanted her to. If he could channel his own life force into her and somehow bring her back. His body shook and his spiked member dripped with fresh blood.
And then, as he struggled in the strong grip of the lower faeries, Alnam saw it.
Brusha.
Brusha, carved just below the boy’s heart, in his skin. Not a fresh wound. An old one, slightly spread and not quite clear. But it was Lorian’s mark. He would recognise it even on his deathbed. A mark that burned itself into his mind, just as it had burned itself into the boy’s skin – when they took his son to his chambers, with a royal banner draped over him. Burned into his pupils as he uncovered Corvel, to see him – still alive, so mutilated that Alnam could see the pulsing veins and the white bones. And the black smoke billowing from his limbs. Blind eyes. His gargling moans…
Alnam felt his world grow whiter. Clearer. He couldn’t put his finger on what that meant – why and how that brusha had been placed on this man’s skin… it was small, almost invisible… but a shapeshifter’s eyes were always as sharp as a polished blade.
Would Lorian be so careless as to open himself up to gossip?
Then why didn’t he hide this mark? Was it irrelevant?
He couldn’t act quickly without knowing what it meant. And how he could use that fact in his own game.
*
Waiting.
Something he was used to. Patience grew in him like a parasite, dulling the rush so typical of the Fae. Lorian had always been patient, and Alnam, involuntarily, adapted it and made it his own. They both learned from their victories and mistakes, and took what was best.
Patience was a natural state of mind when dealing with Lorian Ain’dal. Quick action would lead to a fall.
He watched the human boy through the eyes of his servant, Noli. She wasn’t spying; he couldn’t force himself to risk her life like that. She was just always in the right place at the right time. And always close to him, and he was aware that she somehow sensed his pain and tried to ease it, for whatever reason. Her silent attention didn’t bother him, nor did he feel offended by it. But no one could heal his heart. It was closed to sensations, to love – but unfortunately not to emotions. They brewed inside him, and her every act of care, no matter how small, reminded him of what he had lost and what he would never have.
He could take her to bed. He could let her try. Try to clear the storm cloud that hung over his head every day and every night. But it would be futile, a lie, a cruel game – more like what Lorian would do – use a human and then turn to another.
After Leira, he stopped seeing humans as a nuisance, as simpler beings. She proved to him that they reacted in the same way as Fae… and could become very much like them, under the right pressure… or under careful influence. He couldn’t look at them as other courtiers did, not anymore. Which stripped him even more of the usual confidence he had woven around himself.
But he couldn’t love. And he couldn’t pretend to love. That would be against his morals. Against his being.
She stood beside him, a light scent of lilac in her hair. Her robes were white, like those of all his servants. Her eyes were narrow and filled with an inner flame. How easy it would be to simply allow. Allow her to unburden his soul, at least for one night. Allow himself to forget. Push the pain down and replace it with joy. If only for a moment.
He couldn’t though bear any more lies in this palace of false promises and cruel longing. Winter shackled his limbs… but not his heart. Even if it became cold as snow.
She revealed that Leira was often seen entering the room where Lorian kept his new plaything. To bring him water and food. Alnam wondered why her. Lorian could use any lesser fairy. He learned long ago that Leira was not used to such trivial tasks.
The answer was one.
This man was important to Lorian. And the Brusha under his heart… was not a sign to be taken lightly.
An idea began to form in his mind. Risky, but like everything he had done so far.
And wonderfully just.