Join me in night painted with crimson and black.

Alia feared the wind.

The wind that delighted in disturbing her nights. She heard the wind howling, as it danced over the moorland that spread around her house like a bed of heather. Lilac flowers, buried deep in the wet ground, smothering all other plants, their murmur like the whisper of the ocean waves.

Alia knew that the heather loved the wind, bowed to it, honoured it. But she hated it and feared it, for she heard not only the howling. Not just the creaking of the lonely poplars, driven low by the weather.

No. Alia hated the wind because it called her name.

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, she rarely felt real fear. Even though her house was isolated, she wasn’t worried about being robbed or attacked. Her father and two brothers were strong as oaks, and no one wanted to feel the touch of Sobhan and Kaelir’s feasts.

But the wind didn’t care. No fist would stop it, no spell would dispel the foreboding mist it carried over her house, always at night.

The mist was dark, as if made of shadows. Thick, but still light, like a gossamer in late summer. Alia felt that it wanted to love it. Love her… physically. When she opened the windows during these nights, nights that breathed with wind and shadows, the dark mist crawled under her neckline, under her dress. Desiring her body like something… alive.

And that was not the worst of it.

Her name was carried on the wind. She heard it, softly at first, then, as time passed, the howling became more pronounced and louder.

And it seemed that only she could hear it.

Her solitude among the creaking trees had always been beautiful and soothing – as far back as she could remember. Her friend Sonna, lived in the village; a lively – and lovely place – … Sonna often confessed that she would go mad here. But Alia loved being alone among the poplars, which was better than being alone among people. The poplars knew only one song, the sad, nostalgic wail of long years gone by. And she liked that they couldn’t lie, couldn’t gossip, couldn’t hurt anyone. Her heart was broken once, and since then she has retreated into her leafy hiding place, her bark shelter. In her loud dirge of the autumn season.

Poplars loved the wind.

And the wind frightened her, for it seemed to want to love her. And love was the last thing she had the courage for.

“Alia?”

If the trees couldn’t calm her racing heart, what could? What can bring her peace?

“Alia…”

She lifted her head to see three pairs of eyes looking at her with kind and amused attention.

Sobhan; dark-skinned, handsome and always ready to laugh. Kaelir, with his blond hair and serious face. And their father, Lathar. They didn’t seem worried… but why should they be? She would never tell them about the wind and the mist. Maybe they would think her a dreamer… but then there was a big chance they would worry. And she didn’t want that. Maybe she was a dreamer after all. Mist and wind… it sounded like a fairy tale and she had grown out of fairy tales long ago.

She stabbed at the well-cooked slice of meat and then buried her fork in a mash of potatoes.

“I won’t allow Sobhan to cook anymore,” Lathar knitted his thick, blonde brows.

“Why?”

“You haven’t even eaten a spoonful” Sobhan didn’t look worried about her lack of appetite for his efforts in the kitchen.

“I… I ate in town” the food was good, she just couldn’t force it down her throat. Too much fear, too much discomfort from the night.

But Kaelir was the most observant of all.

“You seem worried these days. If that idiot bothers you again, I will rip his legs off his ass and feed him by his toes.”

“Kaelir…” Lathar’s eyebrows rose this time.

“He didn’t. He has avoided me since we… parted ways. I think he feels guilty.”

“He doesn’t,” Kaelir also kicked his potatoes with his fork. Dangerously. The potatoes… surely felt it. “I swear he didn’t when he betrayed you. I should have pulled his spine by his…”

“Enough,” Lathar stood and took his plate, shaking his head.

“Father…”

“That man is history. Alia has already forgotten him. I advise you to do the same.”

Alia was grateful to him. That he hadn’t allowed her to speak. She wanted to forget Ducan. But the wound was still fresh and what he had done, throwing her away like an old pair of shoes, was too cruel. She thought she knew him. But she didn’t know him at all. And he knew her only too well, but even though he knew what would hurt her the most… he did it anyway.

The more terrifying was the mist. Her body betrayed her. She longed for touch, but not like this. She wanted the warmth of the one she loved. But it was primal and carnal, as if it was reaching into her dreams and pulling out something forbidden. Haunting her with a promise of fulfilment she was not ready for.

She was afraid to go to sleep… but even more… afraid to wake up.

Tell them.

No.

It’s a mirage…

… or… it’s magic.

Magic was something only witches knew, and even they admitted that their innate abilities came from the goddess, the Allmother. She endowed women with various blessings. Women – the givers of life, but also her mirrors on earth. The Goddess was life, death, old age and youth – but she was also a woman who gave birth to all of humanity. The witches were given a small part of her power and used it in her name to heal, to see the future, to help.

But there was also a darker side to magic.

It had been lost to time… but still lingered in the old tales. Witches called it wild magic, and it was held by creatures and immortals, beings of legend. This magic could harm and kill, even if it was disguised as something good. It was magic that shouldn’t exist in the world created by the Goddess… but it did, hidden. Concealed, waiting to crawl out from under fern leaves and between mushroom colonies.

Most people in Avras didn’t believe in it. It was too vile, too distant, and people wanted good things in their lives. Even if the same people told old stories to their children, to teach them caution… but also, unwillingly, to spread the darkness.

Alia was sure that it was not a goddess, not a witch, who had tormented her the last few nights.

Sobhan went with Kaelir to the cowshed, Lathar seemed to want to say something, but even when he opened his mouth, he closed it quickly.

There was nothing more to say.

Ducan was the past. And she hated to think about what might have been.

She went to the stream to wash the dishes. Evening was falling fast, and the stream was carrying the first signs of autumn – copper and vermilion leaves. The stream, a close friend of her household, was something she held close to her heart. Wetting her feet in its cold waters in early spring was her favourite pleasure, and even the Manlan Festival, held in the month of Mlon to mark the first day of spring, was less anticipated by her than the first cold bath in the stream.

Sonna would not agree. For her, Manlan was the only time she could be truly wild. Alia would agree with her, the festival was untamed – they were celebrating life, after all, and the victory of the goddess over the winter king.

The touch of old and new. Of the life-giving goddess and the cruel magic of the myths.

An hour later, she was reading a book in her bed by candlelight. Safe. Cradled in the protective glow, in a bubble of light. The wind didn’t speak… yet. But she heard the poplars, talking, wailing. They bowed to the wind, danced with it, curtsied. And they were her friends, intimate companions.

But she felt that the wind was not.

And they could betray her with it.

Even if they had no human hearts and no human desires… they were old, older than her house.

And no one should trust the really old things completely.

When the deep shadows enveloped Dal’coler, and the walls were drowned in darkness – so different from Devlonmere – Corvel knew he couldn’t stay in the safe and secluded room any longer. The fairy was right, he is a lord and has every right to command and go where he pleases. He needs to show Dal’coler that he’s not just an impatient child who has no manners and is afraid to live here. That he’s not just his father’s son, but a person in his own right – and not to be ignored. So when a Pooka servant came to his room to ask if he needed anything, Corvel said he wanted to see the palace library.

“The palace library,” the pooka repeated, his long, translucent eyebrows lifting. “The only library the palace has is that of the Ain’Dals.”

“The royal library”, Corvel’s mind ran through many scenarios, from getting there and being turned away by the guards, to being let in but angering the king.

“But this library is open to everyone, except for a room with a personal collection of Lorian Ain’Dal,” the pooka continued unperturbed. Corvel knew pookas, they served as servants in Devlonmere too. They were slow, but dutiful and very strong. Despite their small stature, they could easily rip the door to his room off its hinges.

Corvel didn’t need his strength now, but quick thinking might come in handy.

“Has Lord Alnam Devlon already left to supervise the trainees?”

“Yes, my lord.”

So… he was alone now, his father’s journey will take up to a week. Perhaps it was for the best. He won’t feel in his shadow, and he’ll be able to take his own risks, make his own decisions. This is exactly what Alnam wanted. To grow and spread his influence.

And he wanted it too.

His mother never approved of his journey to Dal’coler, but both he and his father knew it was necessary.

“Then show me the way to Ain’Dals’ library.”

The pooka bowed, Corvel could see the moth-like wings behind him; dark, covered with sprinkling dust. When the servant put his hand on the doorknob, young Devlon could see his hesitation. Was it the fear that Corvel would not be well received in the library? Or… a crazy thought crossed his mind… he had other orders for him?

Perhaps his father’s? Or… the King’s?

The corridors of Dal’coler had a different aura at nightfall than during the day. The magic here was strong, and the moon seemed to feed it, to spread it further. The huge orb he liked to watch at home seemed much bigger, more threatening… hungrier somehow. The moon had always been the element of his kind – every year was counted by the phases of the moon, and it made the magic of the fey stronger. Perhaps the moon liked Dal’coler. For some reason, it found him more deserving than some secluded place in the Shadowlands.

Or… which was very possible… Dal’coler was built here for a reason.

Corvel’s footsteps echoed down the corridor, behind a silent, almost noiseless pooka. Pookas had the ability to appear soundlessly right next to you, something he found annoying in Devlonmere.

Here he would find it… frightening.

They passed few Fae Lords, they didn’t stop to talk to Corvel, which was natural, the boy thought. Of course they were curious about the new lord… but the Fae didn’t like to waste time with empty talk. All words had weight and Corvel was almost sure that he would have the chance to make a good impression and to talk as much as he wanted.

Now he wanted to break out of his room, show that he existed… and see the library. Maybe he would meet someone there, someone who was as curious as he was. It would be a good first acquaintance. With a Fae who shares his view of the world – or seems to. Corvel knew that Dal’coler was a dangerous place, and that he shouldn’t believe the faces the court showed him for the first time.

The pooka meandered quickly and they stood in a vast, wide corridor that ended in a large door. The columns above him looked like trees, and the door was carved with branches that protruded from the walls around them.

Corvel felt shivers run down his spine. The spells that protected these doors from all but the Fae were not only strong, but full of exciting vibrations. This was where the dangerous history of the Fae had its roots. All wars, battles, miracles and temptations were immortalized here, behind these doors.

“My lord…?”

“You may go,” Corvel dismissed the Pooka. The doors were slightly ajar, raising his hopes of encountering a fascinating kindred spirit. His hand slid over the intricate wooden structure. He suddenly felt that this place could become his home, if he let it, if he stopped being a scared child and became the man he always wanted to be. He has so much time left. Hundreds of years… that he could spend here, serving the crown… and himself.

He slowly pushed the wings open and entered the room of the Royal Library.

It was…

… something he hadn’t expected.

In his wildest dreams.

The arches here seemed to hang higher and higher above him, the black shelves, possibly made of durable Rhaton wood, held the secrets that Corvel was suddenly almost afraid to uncover. The chamber was vast and its aura suffocating. Alnam had once told him that most important places in the capital were imbued with the magic of the forest, and that it could intimidate or sap one’s courage.

But Corvel felt nothing but fascination.

Cautiously, curiously, he approached the nearest shelf – forgetting that the doors were open and that someone might still be here.

And he got lost. Completely. Deliberately. Still not lost in the strict sense of the word.

The fairy lights joined him, sensing his power. He was not dark, but strong enough to attract them, and he allowed them to feed on him. The dark corridor disappeared into the night, making Corvel want to know what it was hiding… and if he was allowed to know its secrets.

The moonlight licked the nearest shelves and he couldn’t stop himself. He began to pull the books from their protective shells, some of them old and withered, held together only by the magic used to preserve the knowledge. The first kings of Ain’asel, the creation and rise to power of the Ain’Dal line… the first winter reigns… the youth of the fey… the first – and last – conquest of Marh’inal. Corvel always wondered what kind of fey the authors of these books were. Most of them lived in the very times they wrote about – so long ago. Many, many eons ago… it was fascinating, like touching an ancient artefact and feeling its power under your fingers. There was cruelty displayed in a literary, beautiful, seductive way. A dark fascination he couldn’t shake off.

He might have lost all sense of time, completely enchanted by the library, were it not for a soft, quiet voice that reached him from one of the darker corners.

“Such a curious soul. It’s… fascinating to observe your eagerness.”

Corvel knew that tone. That calm, collected voice.

Lorian Ain’dal sat on the sofa, a glass of wine on the small table and the book on his knee. There was no anger in his black eyes. But Corvel still knew that to parade in front of the King of Ain’asel, back to him, trying to rummage through the books that were – in fact – his own property, without his knowledge, was at the very least indiscreet.

“Your Majesty!” he bowed quickly and deeply.

“I wonder how deeply you have been absorbed by these volumes, by the hidden power of long past ages,” Lorian put the book aside, and Corvel could see its intricate gold cover intertwined with black. Behind him, shadow tentacles, a sign of his night power. Corvel, slowly straightening up, couldn’t take his eyes off them. Hypnotising. Like the eyes of the Strinak in the deep wilderness.

“I like to read, my lord.”

“Your father could be more specific about your personal fascinations,” Lorian’s voice took on darker tones, but Corvel didn’t feel in danger. Something in Lorian was relaxed, pleased… curious.

“My father both encourages and discourages it, Your Majesty,” Corvel didn’t know why the words left his mouth so quickly. “Perhaps I should follow in his footsteps and serve you as a mage…”

He said it quickly, without thinking. Like… Lorian pulled it out of him just by being there. But it was also true. Alnam both liked and disliked his love of literature. He wanted him to train his magic more carefully, to polish the rough gem of his power.

A ruby that could bring others to their knees.

Lorian still looked at him. At him. Curiosity… and a strong will to know who he is. What he is, his very being laid bare before his eyes. Corvel was somehow sure that he would be able to do this.

“Your desires will be sated. Dal’coler likes to make wishes go flesh. Dreams, nightmares… and everything in between,” Lorian’s lips formed a smile and his shadows danced around Corvel, as if he suddenly wanted to pull him closer. Corvel involuntarily reached out his hand and it plunged into the night mist. He felt heat, so strong and fierce. Burning on his skin with hundreds of coals, but not harming him in any way.

Why am I making a fool of myself?

“My desires…”

“Anything you wish, Dal’coler can fulfil. But you must yearn. Beam with need. All the Fae here are hungry. And you will learn to be hungry too,” Lorian put the golden book back on his lap, his dark eyes boring into Corvel. “I am very glad that Alnam decided to bring you here. No one can claim to be truly fey without tasting the flavours of this place.”

He looked at the shelves behind Corvel, but somehow his gaze was still on the boy.

“Almost all the books here are for your use. My court would gain much if they were half as curious as you. Curiosity… leads to openness. And openness is a delicious state.”

Corvel didn’t know how to answer. But Lorian did not seem to expect an answer. He still looked at him, but like a wolf who had pointed out a deer in the forest, but who was too hungry to hunt it – and just watched it with attention, fascinated.

He was sure that the comparison was in no way exaggerated.

He had heard that the king was a merciless one. But he also seemed to enjoy playing with everything around him. Pulling on their invisible strings and seeing how they reacted. A game in which there could only be one winner.

And Corvel… immediately loved it.

For Darkenaz, featuring her shapeshifting dragon character, Jev.

——

I dig my talons in the flesh of the man who fucks me. I bury deeper and I know the man doesn’t mind it. I see in his mind a devious and twisted need and I find it thrilling.  My female body presses hard to his, he moves hungrily, the blood of the woman we killed, dripping between us. Thick strings sticking to us, while her dead eyes seem to follow our passion, as we make her blood live. His thoughts echoe in mine, and I can feel his ecstasy. So well fitting to the one he shows outside.

I lean to his ear, pointy one, elf-like.

“This drives me so much… all of this” I push him harder inside me with my legs. His body is like made for this, toned, well-built, but not too much, filled with energy and passion.

I needed this.

“She begged for mercy in an enthralling way…” he forces deeper, I feel a pleasant shiver down my spine. He reads my mind just as I read his, he knows what pace, what pressure I like most. I love all kinds of sex… but some things never change. I have my own sets of favorites.

And I know what makes him abandon.

What makes him hard most. Violence. And control. Pain. Not only of his victims.

I pull him even harder, fingers deep in the skin on his back, droplets of blood, blue, like the clear sky.

“All humans beg for mercy” I purr, my blue hair receiving him and I allow him to bury his hand in my tangles. My thighs press hard, harder, I feel him  spreading me.

“Intoxicating…” he whispers in my ear and I know he really thinks so – just like me. Humans, begging, bleeding… perfect aphrodisiac. For both of us.

His shadows penetrate my body alongside with him, sensing me, passing my pleasure to him, giving me a taste of his own rapture, and this is so similar to what I know of black-flame elves… but also different… a new species to fuck, an elf yes, but not completely.

And I have never had an elf yet…

My hips meet him at a faster pace, we are close, both. I drip between my thighs, my body receives exactly the treatment I like.

He hits the spot.

I roll over him, to stride him, to look at him when he rides his climax, look at him as he lays under me, pulsing inside. My hands bury in his short thick hair, pull, hard and I sigh, when he fills me with his release. I feel his climax, when my own rushes through my body. His own pleasure transferred between us, drowning us, making our bodies shiver.

Delicious.

I needed it.

I needed it and didn’t even know how much.

His eyes meet mine. Our thoughts intertwine. It’s the first time I can hear my own thoughts in someone’s mind. Someone who is like me, in more than one aspect. He sees this thought too – of course  – and laughs, so beautifully. If I was a lesser being, it would bring me to my knees. But I am not.

My muscles relax, I still twitch between my legs, I feel he throbs too. We both love it. We love fucking. I hope this week will be long and allows me to go as deep as I need.

The throbs slowly fade, pulling me back to reality, leaving me pleased and filled.

For now, I think.

“Your world never ceases to intrigue me” he muses, slowly separating from me, standing up, He finds his scattered clothes; pulls up the tight black trousers and feathered shirt. “But humans feel the same fear and pain. That never changes.”

“They are perfect playthings. Perfect amusement” I stand up as well, pulling something on myself as well.

Devin’s t-shirt.

Fuck it.

He is absent and I don’t need to wait for him. I never needed it.

I am a dragon, and I am one to rule. I am the one to  play the winning figure in this game. Even if he is so under my skin…

I see an amused glint in Lorian’s black eyes. He told me about his women. I wonder suddenly, if he would wait for any of them in a way I wait for Devin.

“Waiting is good, Jevon” he pins his upper shirt with an azure gem. “But only if you get a good reward.”

Now, I want him to not be able to look into my mind. But… I see it in him as well. Years of pain. Cruel suffering he takes in himself willingly and with sick joy. Twisted. But in some way… tempting.

He doesn’t smile anymore. He is torn between two women, between his desire for life and never ending agony. And he knows I see it all. Possibly first time in his long life. I am a first person who see past his masks. I know he finds it both intriguing, attractive and uncomfortable.

We are pulling all out on the plain sight.

“Time to show hospitality to our guest” I grin. No more doubts. Not when he can read all of them.  I know he doesn’t know nor care about Devin.

I could not think.

Not delve into this.

But Lorian seems to understand, in some dettached, alien way. Fey kind is both passionate and cold. A mix that can be terrifying.

I will love to see how much terrifying we can be.

*

“You like it raw?”

Lorian doesn’t feel good in the kitchen. He possibly never had to cook in his palace, which – this time – amuses me. But he is not the type to be offended. He knows his worth, and that is one of the things I like in him. Powerful, like me. But not pushing this, he just beams – tastily – with self confidence.

We are so alike.

I suddenly feel I want to fuck again.

Especially when I see the fearfully open eyes and struggles of the captive man. He possibly sees in us… serial killers, a deadly couple who finds thrill in killing random strangers. He doesn’t even suspect who we really are. Kings. Almost gods to his weak kind.

“Raw has the best taste” I grin at him, a slender finger in my hand.

“I think every good meal needs additional care” Lorian slowly lifts the spoon with meat on it. Her meat, human flesh, so well cooked. He learns kitchen rules, slowly – if we forget the incident with shadows. His playful gaze slowly lands on the captive man, passes him, and lays on me. My smile is cruel, when I bite the finger, savoring the taste of the human woman. I know how cruel my smile can be. 

“Please… let me go…” a voice reaches us, the shock has to be big, because he doesn’t recognize his wife’s finger. Strange that he doesn’t. But he will. Now, he almost wets himself.

“Oh, allow us to take care of  you” Lorian puts the spoon again in the pan. “It would be such an ungrateful thing, to just leave us alone, in such an unsatisfied need for being the good hosts.”

“We brim with need” I smile, my smile seems to scare the human even more.

He tries to retreat, when we approach him, two looming figures, powerful in their dominance. Lorian’s shadows lift him up a bit, closing hard on his throat. He moans in pain, but Lorian pulls him ever higher.

I allow my dragon features to bloom. Blue, like the sky. Like Lorian’s blood. Like the eyes of the captive man. I bathe in blue and in my glory, when I become a god of myths before him.  Lorian’s form flickers and becomes more smoky, darker… more dangerous. A shadow incarnate. Which I want to explore later. Let him into my every crevice.

“I like your experimental nature, dragon.”

“And I like your surprises, fae.”

This human isn’t able to comprehend who we are… what we are. If he knew that world he knows is just the beginning, with so many wonders to discover… and of course predators to fear.

He looks at us with a plea in his eyes… I feel how Lorian feeds on his fear. I never met anyone like him. Devin… he would condemn us now. He has his own rules, despises feasting on suffering. An own moral code, which doesn’t include killing for fun.

But Devin is not my god.

“Please… release me, I won’t tell anyone about you…”

The human lost his hope, I can feel it in his mind. Still, it’s natural for humans. To beg.

Lorian chuckles. I like his laugh. Soft, deep… but touched with darkness. Which makes it even more interesting.

“Your wife will surely love to become part of us. Consider it a feast of senses…  she will please us… with her flesh.”

“Eating someone out never had more apt meaning” I add, seeing pure fear widening human’s eyes.

Lorian pats him over his cheek, with a tender move, a kind expression lighting his face. I see that this act becomes too much for the human. This fake care. He knows how to disturb the weak mind.

“Do not worry” I add, dark gleams in my eyes. “We will share with you. The best morsels.”

We would rule the world, if this had chances to last.

But I already savor how much pleasure I can squeeze from Lorian, how much I can give him and take from him. I know he doesn’t belong here and I won’t stop him from returning. But what will be mine, will always be mine.

It will be a glorious week.

Enjoy the party.

Veralia’s hair was falling with a golden cascade over her arms, reaching her shapely hips. She was beautiful, in a very fae way, like a touch of setting sun, and was well aware of that. Her aura gleamed with gold as well, an autumnal aura so fitting her auburn eyes and vermilion attire, a dress made of silk and gossamer.

Lorian’s fingers wandered in her tangles, his expression seemed bored, while he, Varalia and the group of ar’salien watched the performance of lower fey entertainers.

Ar’salien. Humans, but not slaves. More of a company, cherished one. Lovers, if Lorian wanted. They proved their loyalty in trials in which they couldn’t lie. And most of them – after delving more into court life, gathered enough knowledge to enjoy their position. As humans, they could end much much worse.

Most of Lorian’s ar’salien were skilled in not only the art of love. Not only in being a good company. Lorian knew how to use lower races and equip them with almost fairy advantages.

Veralia never understood Lorian’s fondness for them. They were so short-living and simple. Of course, humans could be tasty in bed, but… she preferred fae lovers. Too much hassle with educating those creatures to the level of the court,

She caught the gaze of one of them. Twir, a tall human male with light skin and blue eyes, was looking at her with strange intensity. His face was a mask of complete peace. And something disturbing in his eyes… some kind of knowledge and curiosity, which she would find offending in fae’s gaze, but found very uncomfortable and improper in human’s one.

She didn’t like it.

She feigned laughter and sat closer to Lorian, her light gossamer dress fluttering around her like wings of a bird.

Twir still looked at her.

“Lorian” she mused, oblivious to the performers. Lorian was looking bored, either way. “I thought you train your humans better.”

His black gaze drifted from the spectacle. As a prince, Lorian had a reputation of a spoiled one, but also very charismatic, gaining the hearts of many courtiers. Lerrel Ain’Dal perceived him as a bothersome, annoying kid, who uses his privileges way too widely. That’s why he sent her to his younger brother. To spy on him and take his attention away from what’s really important in the court. After all, Lorian liked to indulge, he perceived life in terms of pleasures. Delicious prey for a spy like her. The prince loved to fuck her and she had to admit, that she started to like it.  He was passionate lover and knew what she liked, like he read in her mind. Yet, she was not a weak, easily wooed woman. She knew she was a distraction and informator.

Which seemed to work very well.

She was not a trained spy… but Lorian should eat from her hand soon. He got lost in sensual sensations and she felt that he is hers already. She almost pitied him. But he will lead pleasant, wealthy life… even if far from the throne. In some property, where he will be able to do whatever he pleases… as long as Lerrel allows.

His smile was exceptionally beautiful. Like a morning coming from over a mountain, being in contrast to his dark eyes filled with void. Another pleasant thing connected with her work.

“How so, Veralia?”

“One of them looks at me all the time. He should know his place.”

Somehow, she could swear that Lorian gaze landed for a small second on Twir, but eventually slid over him and took in the whole gathering of his human companions.

His voice was especially low, when he spoke.

“Very unfortunate, my dear. Tell me who, and I will mind to punish it.”

His stunning smile didn’t take an ominous mood from his words.

“Point any of them and I will feed it.”

Her brows lifted up.

“Feed it?”

“After all, it must be very hungry for you. It needs a treat. Disobedient pets love attention.”

Veralia felt that air around them becomes heavier, thicker. And that not only Twir but also the rest of ar’salien looked at her with almost insistent way.

This sounded ominous. What he had in mind?

“I didn’t mean anything very vile” she said fast, the eyes of the prince’s companions seemed to drill her soul. “It’s only a gaze. Perhaps a simple flog will do.”

His fingers delved into her hair, separating golden tangles. His smile was as beautiful as before, but his lip corner twisted almost invisibly, giving him a slightly off look.

“Its presence is already an insult to me. Point it, darling. We all want to know.”

Lorian… acted differently. Even the lesser fairy performers stopped, not sure if they should continue or not. After all, they performed for the prince and his concubine and they stopped caring about their art, leaving them confused.

“Perhaps I should choose by myself. Ar’salien are easy to replace, even if they are hard to train. But no human is allowed to disturb you” he looked at his companions who showed no fear. Lorian for a moment seemed to ponder, but quickly decided.

“Choose from yourself, if my lady isn’t sure. The more it prolongs, the harder it will be for you.”

“No” she caught his hand. “You want to kill them?”

“Death is a very… final act” his kind smile was disturbing her more than if he fell among the group of humans and tore their hearts with his teeth. “But… if he dies, it will be interesting to observe.”

She stopped in the mid-word. What she should say? She suspected he is showing off.  Ar’salien were hard to replace, even if he just stated otherwise. And killing one of them, would cause lack of real loyalty in the others.

“It’s this one” she eventually said, pointing at Twir. She knew she could just tell him all beautiful lies… but something in his face was telling him it was a very bad idea.

Maybe he was showing off. Or he knew something that he shouldn’t.

Lorian frowned, his one feet resting on his knee, his arms spread over the back of the bench.  The performers looked at them with curious and intrigued impressions.

“Come, Twir” he moved his finger at him.

The human raised slowly from the seat, and approached, his long hair windswept, his eyes set just at Lorian. But she didn’t see fear in them. Lorian was known for  very often strange ideas… sometimes violent, but that human knew that he wouldn’t kill him, just for looking at her, yes?

Lorian nodded approvingly. And he laughed silently. Veralia looked at him with surprise, his laugh, even if quiet, rang in the silence like a knife separating sky from the earth.

“We are civilized people ” his laughter stopped fast, like a cut with the same blade. “My lady would like you to be flogged. Would you like that?”

Twir at first didn’t seem to want to oblige and reply. But in the moment when Veralia wanted to ask Lorian to stop this, he replied.

“No, my lord” his voice was silent, and strangely ethereal, like not belonging to a human.

“Insolent boy” Lorian clicked with his tongue.

The human companion looked down, like not being able to stand his gaze.

Veralia felt… strange. These humans were with Lorian for longer than her. He many times showed he cares for them. She would assume that he shows off indeed… and she hoped this is it. If no…

Lorian waved at one of the lower fey guards that stood between the gardens and the meadow on which they were sitting. Veralia observed as the tall winged fairy  approaches, and bowed slightly. He didn’t feel moved by his prince’s cruel behavior. Like he has seen it before lready.

What I ommited?

“The human was insolent, as you heard” Lorian’s tone was as lazy as the summer reign. “Hold him tightly. Hunger must be appeased.”

The prince reached under his shirt. His fingers swiftly delved under the material and pulled a small bottle. Veralia looked with doubtful air at the crimson liquid inside.

“Shivara” mused casually Lorian, and the time stopped around them.

Veralia now knew it was no game at all. Lorian really meant it. Shivara. Most dreadful poison in the whole Ain’asel. Rarely someone was using it, if they didn’t wish someone the worst. And even then, they didn’t. Made from the seeds of the rotting madanis, the trees, which were long gone wiped out from the terrain of the palace, were causing the most hideous and painful death one could imagine.

And Lorian wanted to force this poor creature to drink it.

Because he looked at her.

“Lorian, are you mad?” she didn’t even try hiding terror. This couldn’t be. “This was only a gaze… you can’t really mean it.”

Lorian stood up, uncorking the bottle slowly. His black eyes showed no emotion and his smile was making her skin creep.

“Lorian…”

“Force him on his knees” he said silently and the fey guard tossed the human man on the ground, pushing him hard, so he landed on his fours. Veralia still couldn’t see fear in his eyes. But something… more. Love. And trust.

This was hideous.

Lorian’s fingers opened the jaws of the human companionand slowly poured the blood-colored liquid into his throat.

“We are civilized people” he patted him on the cheek. “And know how to cause a lot of pain.”

Veralia with even more intense shock watched as the human ar’salien curls in himself. His veins slowly started to be visible, darkened, like the night sky bubbling under his skin. No scream came from his mouth, like some force didn’t allow him, and she realized it was Lorian. One of his abilities was muting voices and he did it exactly now. He wanted to watch his agony, without disturbance.

He returned to the bench and seated himself next to her, his one arm over her shoulder; she was too shocked to wipe his hand from herself.

Her eyes met his black ones and found in them something that made her nauseous.

She underestimated him.

“Why?” she asked, anger flowing in her, from her own naivety, which shouldn’t be present in her after long months of working for Lerrel.

He leaned to her, his lips almost touching her ear. His warm, fragrant breath reached her skin. Jasmine. And violets.

“Because the spies get the best performance. This could happen to you so easily. If I had such a whim, I could do that to you.  Lerrel should know better – and consider your well-being much more. You are so delicious to bed, but your own performance in the game of deception was average at best.”

He didn’t allow her to express her surprise, but clicked at the guard.

“Assist the lady to gardens and forth. What happens here is not for delicate eyes.”

The human ar’salien was slowly dying on the grass floor and Veralia could almost hear his scream in her head, coming along with his tensed features, bulging eyes and swollen veins.

I lean over her to lick the thick blood that shines on her skin with a crimson sheen. To taste her, bathed in rubies, when her eyes close and her lips let out a delightful sound. So deep. So dangerous. Her shivering body is like the sweetest torment, coming to offer me sharp edges.

Blood pools in my mouth, I feel it in my throat, overwhelming. Life and death, thickly braided together.

Her fingers run over my back, talons on my skin, which I would love to feel deeper.

She will feel mine very deeply.

I want to drown in her flavors. Sink into blood that binds us. Drink mortality to the last drop.

I want to make her scream.

My fingers run over her skin. The rivulets drip from her belly and trickle between her legs. I feel my desire growing as thick as the blood I have spilled upon her. I feel the sweet pressure, so tight, almost painful. She opens her eyes and I see death in them. Delicious death. I want to tear it from her, death and pleasure together, I want to swallow and devour her, destroy her and fill my loins with her overflowing power.

My shadows eat her hungrily from the inside and I feel her pleasure, a violent waterfall. I dip into the blood again and draw her closer, filling her mouth, her lips closing over me and tasting.

My aura slowly intertwines with hers, I feel her pull, a light, gossamer thread clinging to my darkness.

I have her spread out before me, all crimson, all dripping.

My undoing. And my victory.

Everything falls into perfect silence, into mute stillness. The world takes a breath, holds the air in its winter lungs, while the drums beat slowly in my veins. I feel her nerves tremble, I feel it in my sinews and bones, spread wide by our struggling auras.

I want to bring her a small death. A blind collapse into the all-consuming white.

Slowly she releases me from her mouth, licking her lips in a way only she is able to achieve.

She wants me to own her. She pulls me between her legs, open and inviting. Glistening with streams of blood. Her spell strong and intoxicating, her thoughts dark and seductive.

And I will.

Oh, I will own my cruel raven.