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.