“The gates are open once again.”
“To let the moon in.”
“To swallow the sunlight and replace it with frozen darkness.”
The voices of the forest priests resounded in the vast chamber, filled with fey nobility. Their susurring tones – repressed and dull, more whisper than speech – were loud enough to fill the hall; loud even in silence. The thick veils on their faces seemed to swallow all light around them. As if they were made of night – and there could be truth in that. Tales claimed they were woven from nocturnal silk, crafted by creatures that had never seen the sun. Lorian knew the truth, though it was far less pleasant – and far more interesting.
During New Lunar Year, his own fate was counted. If the woods decided he needed an heir, he would have to oblige. Produce the child and allow the future to decide whether his offspring would take his throne… and his life. But he knew that wouldn’t happen. The ancient forest loved him.
And he knew such love could bring only one thing.
Eternity.
He felt the mind of Nymre. Her light aura gleamed around her. He suddenly felt a strong urge to grasp her. Pull her away, even by force. Bury her in truth. But he knew he couldn’t. Perhaps the life his lies would give her would be enough for her to forgive him. He wanted her eternity as much as his own.
What have you become, tormenting those you love?
But Nymre wouldn’t be herself if she let her worries be an open book – even to him. She hid her face beneath her raven mask, which seemed to swallow her inner turmoil as well. She feared weakness as much as he despised the very idea of it.
They were good at wearing masks. Hidden places no one could reach. When they should truly… scream.
And when she let him inside – into her mind – he felt everything she stored, even though she believed he saw only the surface.
She would never understand that he had to suffer to live. That he had to pay the price – for himself and for her – to feed the hunger that never ceased to burn his entrails. The hunger she once admired when he loved her, but which also scorched him from within.
The hunger that made him – eventually – fight creatures as old as time.
He wondered if he was ever ready to free himself from the overpowering pleasure of gods’ blood. Even if he killed them. Even if he devoured them whole, bone by bone, string by string.
“We give our blood to the sacred forest.”
“We offer our flesh to the branches.”
“We sacrifice our hearts in the name of the woods.”
The priests pretended to be above it all. They drank fear from his court, intoxicated by the admiration and dread they inspired. But Lorian knew they were bending beneath the spores the gods released – under a power they couldn’t bear. Guardians of a prison, faint-hearted, afraid, ready to feed on his night just to find peace. Just to avoid collapsing under the pressure of the gods’ awakening rage.
And only he knew the truth. Which, unknown to others, remained no less tasty. No less… pleasing.
“It seems your subjects enjoy the rite,” he heard Nymre’s voice – beautifully mocking.
“In New Lunar Year, the woods drag us closer to them,” he smiled at her, sparks in his black eyes. “Drink from us, and allow us to drink from them. At least… that’s what the priests tend to say.”
Nymre’s eyes widened… and she laughed. Her aura shivered slightly. Anticipating.
“You do not share the sentiment of your court.”
“Not at all. I share it – reluctantly. I know the forest loves to test us, though. It’s an unpredictable, cruel god. They think they explain its wishes to us. While the forest toys with them… just as it does with you or me.”
Nymre’s eyes drilled into him. Her mind almost begged him to read her thoughts, to become one with her… so he slipped into her.
Shallow thoughts. Pleased elation. Curiosity. And deeper… doubt, worry. So much of it. His eyes closed as he spoke inside her head.
They are fools, Nymre.
Don’t you worry the woods might ask for your heir?
That is always a possibility. But I don’t tend to fear, Nymre. I act.
Her mind latched onto his in a possessive grip. He allowed her to become one with him. It was another kind of union – more intimate than sex, and far more painful in its purity.
He was becoming Nymre, with all of her. With her desire. With her inner strength. With the untamed wilderness of her nature.
With her fear.
And with her love.
“Our king.”
“Lorian Ain’Dal, hundredth king of Ain’asel.”
He parted from her mind, slowly, so as not to harm her.
He raised his black eyes to the gathering beneath the portal to the sacred woods – the heart of the chamber. The cathedral was built around it, to honor the god of moss, who allowed Dal’coler to sprout from the mountain. The fact that the fae themselves built it, biting into stone with their magic, had been forgotten through the ages.
The priests, clad in thick black, looked like ominous ravens, their silky capes dragging behind them in a parody of wings. Nymre would be offended by the comparison. Ravens were graceful – harbingers of the eternal storm. While they… were decomposing alive, eaten by the power they were sworn to guard.
Lorian offered the court his most perfect smile. He didn’t fear the end of his reign. He knew it wouldn’t come. The forest loved him. Craved him. Wanted him in the most perverse way. If someone were to replace him – if he ever chose to have a child – the woods would remove them. Swiftly. Without remorse.
The priests stared at him from beneath the dried-out flesh of their veils, and he felt their thoughts – chaotic, pained, terrified. They hoped – no, they needed him on the throne. Only he could stop their anguish. Take the burden from their backs.
Kill the First Ones.
End their misery.
They would prefer death over becoming like him – filled with fire and pain. They weren’t ready for the flames. But he was more than eager to take that from them, as long as he could drink the heat from holy veins and fill himself with delicious power.
Stop them. Kill them. Swallow them whole – like a treat hanging from the tallest tree. A reward worthy of all the effort.
The priests opened before him, letting him into their circle. He stepped into it, allowing the dark and dim energy of the woods to enter his body.
He was never fully ready for it. But he welcomed it eagerly. The power of the woods entwined with him, and he felt the rapture – not even slightly like the one that washed over him when he ate blood apples. That was strong like a hammer, overwhelming like a snowstorm. The touch of the woods was pure tranquility. A smile bloomed on his lips, and his aura pulled the dark energy in… taking it inside.
Pleasure instead of pain.
The soothing calm of moss and rippling stream, instead of the cruel sun’s rays.
He could almost smell the forest – the old bark, the resin, the leaves murmuring in the darkness, stirred by wind…
He didn’t know how long it lasted – how long the woods claimed him as theirs, letting him rest in the protective peace of enchanted overgrowth. He surrendered to it, catching each tendril of soothing delight. His often-pained body relaxed and drifted in familiar darkness which was merging with his shadows. Just as he had merged with Nymre.
“No heir. The woods decided.”
The words pulled him violently from the pond of green stillness.
He heard Nymre’s sigh – relieved. Her aura glimmered through her, her features no longer tense. Her body slowly relaxed.
And he had plans that would surely allow her to relax even more.
His mind entered the heads of the entire court. The cacophony of voices, thoughts, hidden dreams and cravings hit him with pure, deafening force.
Blossoming hatred – well hidden, yet so obvious.
Just as well-hidden approval – the silent keen of his loyal ones.
The fear. The delicacy he never had enough of.
And one thought that repressed them all.
Leira’s bold and powerful core, beaming with well-tamed but potent hope, in the far distance.
You became this, the pained carved you into a statue. A beloved monster. An idea more than person, a night that fills the restless dreams. A darkness incarnate.
And you love it.
Just like her.