Join me in night painted with crimson and black.

“The Saru, Your Majesty. There may be more. We should remind ourselves to the Seelie; more forcefully this time.”

Lorian leaned back in his throne. His feather-etched robes gleamed in the half-light, star-stones sewn into the fabric catching the glow like captured constellations. Shining leather trousers clung to his lean body. But the throne itself was the true statement of his power – a grotesque contrast to his ethereal beauty. The skulls ornamented it, whispering with hushed voices. Within the solid stone, trapped human souls gleamed – a treat Lorian reserved for those he wished to torment for eternity. The throne’s surface shimmered faintly, when the souls were touching its structure.

His palm rested on one particular skull.

Alina.

His most cherished soul. Her true name still pulsed under his fingers. She’d tried to hide it, of course. But names held little resistance to his mind-reading. Her will remained strong and high but she would break, eventually. Slowly. Each crack in her will be beautiful and intense, like a crimson-colored sunset.

The final surrender will be exquisite.

“Reminders…” Lorian mused. “Shall we send the army again? Let them taste the core of their resistance – and swallow them like a long-awaited feast?”

Lord Illon’s brow lifted. He never knew when Lorian agreed with them or mocked them. That was always the way with Lorian – riddles first, decisions after.

Still, Illon knew this game. Lorian tested them – just as they judged him.

“It would be the fastest and most… gratifying response.”

“Fastest does not mean most firm, and definitely not most fulfilling” Lorian shadows moved toward Illon, but never touched him.

“A possibility of attempt at assassination is a good reason to remind them not to lift their heads again.”

“A vile crime, yes… if truly would have place,” Lorian’s fingers stroked the skull. Alina, you shiver under my touch. “But I let him go.” A wild amusement lit his black eyes. “I released him. I’ve never been fond of impatient solutions. I let him carry an unusual and peculiar message.”

A murmur went through the gathered Lords. Lorian felt their indignation – surprise, disappointment, veiled frustration. None dared speak it aloud. Fear, subtle and well hidden, held their tongues. He could see the images in their minds – versions of him distorted by dread – and they amused him.

They cared, above all, for themselves. Risking punishment was not in their nature. They’d spill blood with glee, though never their own. They were bathing in privileges and pleasures, bound to life like leeches to flesh.

And he was no different.

“Your Majesty…” Lord Carnile stepped forward and bowed low. “Forgive the assumption, but – won’t he inform Saru of what he’s seen? Or worse, make a second attempts to reach us… more effective?”

Lorian’s eyes lay on him – just for a a moment – and then the laughter rang. Clear, melodious, it spread through the hall like bluebells in a silent forest. Smile appeared, but his eyes remained serious.

“You know well, Carnile, there are ways to instill loyalty in such creatures. And my power… it reaches deep. Night is unforgiving.”

Illon’s expression showed doubt. Lorian saw it. And he saw the thoughts under it.

They didn’t know the truth of his influence. They believed it comes from charisma, from raw enchantment. They did not know he could reach inside minds and bend thoughts, force obedience absolute, making his prey to surrender to extremes. That knowledge was his greatest weapon – and he would not allow himself to lose it.

His ancestor, King Fail of Summer, had possessed a similar gift. Lorian remembered the chronicles. Fail’s short reign had ended, because his own children had feared him too much. Not because he was cruel but because he was… inconvenient. The woods chose the new king from among his five children after his death, silent, always observing. Allowing the new king to set up his reign, calm after the storm of violence.

No one feels safe when their ruler sees everything.

Lorian did see many things. But that had to remain unknown.

Alnam Devlon looked like a stone figure between the Lords. His mind barriers as always partially closed, tempting Lorian to crack them. But there were things that didn’t need acts – at least not now.

Alnam’s eyes hollow when his voice eventually came, his youthful voice, which deep sadness was masked, almost like he shapeshifted his nature too.

“What to subjugate them more? I was there when they were smashed against the wall. This attempt was weak at least. He had no power to enter Dal’coler, no more than a natural bird could survive in Sacred Woods.”

Lorian listened to him with a smile. It infuriated Alnam, he felt like his nonchalance rubs many old wounds.

“Besides, as Your Majesty said, it’s doubtful it would take place. Avel was on the verge of death not long ago. It all could be born in her head. Additionally, torture makes all living beings lie – even Nymre should know that.”

Sparks danced in Lorian’s eyes.

“It’s such a clever observation, Lord Devlon. A joyful blow of breeze over this court. Avel very easily subjects herself to emotions, don’t you think?”

“Indeed” Alnam said dryly.

“Each act of Seelie spying on my territory is always curious” Lorian continued. “Nymre knows very well, how torture works on tongues. They want to silently raise their heads, eat through our core with calm opposition. This would be as clever as your observations, Lord Devlon, if we didn’t have eyes too.”

Alnam pressed his teeth but said nothing.

“What is your decision, Your Majesty?” Lord Kove asked, voice calm, his posture composed and aloof.

“To send the army? Lorian’s smile raw and pure. “A pleasing suggestion. Efficient. But so simple. I prefer something… more elegant. Something that stains the soul.”

He stepped down from his throne, shadows going behind him.

“I want them fear their reflections. I want Saru sleep lightly, hearts pounding at every shadow, every movement in the dark. That is the punishment I find delicious. Lasting. Stunning in its silent strength.”

The courtiers exchanged gazes. They understood, of course. Their minds opened, slowly warming up. He felt their thoughts pressing against him – tingling satisfaction, the hunger for cruelty.

They loved finesse. The promise of fast victory made them impatient, though. They wanted to burn Saru. And that was never an option. Saru were still useful – for their work, their beauty, their suffering. Living reminders of submission.

Lorian turned to entrance, which meant the end of the audience. But Lord Illon seemed to have more to say, approaching with visible agitation. Lorian found it curious, because his mind brushed on his surface, finding… anxiety. Well masked, but intense, dulled but real.

Caution, yes. But beneath it, something else.

Fear. Not before him.

Rare in a Lord of his court.

“My Lord…” Illon’s voice was composed, but Lorian already ran through his thoughts. Curious, delicate. “There are news, Your Majesty. From the Shadowlands. They say the portal between them and the Lesser Realm… pulses with an unusual energy. Some claim to hear the voices of… beings. Some say that these belong to… gods.”

“Are they not dead?” Lorian’s brow raised.

“They are, Your Majesty. But something is feeding from the air. From the snow. From the Fae. The energy feels… wrong. It might be nothing, but…”

“When did this begin?”

“Raven arrived today. From my wife. She’s left in the Lesser Realm, she felt it herself and it moved her deeply.”

Lorian’s heart started to beat faster in his chest – not from fear, but from a twisted anticipation that bordered on pleasure. The goal he had clawed toward for so long was within reach now – a true climax to all those years, he spent hiding his pain, suffering and submitting himself to worst. Years spent lying to his lover. Sometimes, even to himself.

Something inside him moved. Warm. Wet. Pulsing.

Alive.

Tiyan Markon would break soon. Human minds could be reshaped – but not this time. It would be too easy – and against all he found out about the laws the gods set up.

To never be stopped.

To make it more difficult to anyone who would dare to step before them and try to ascend to their level.

The rite had to be performed on a soul that willed it. No rewriting minds, no manipulation. Absolute, untainted will to die. That was the last and cruelest law, the one the gods created, because they knew it was the hardest to fulfill.

Before the fae, before humans – before time even – the gods were nothing but drifting spirits, flames wandering an empty, newborn world; world of heat and raw, birthing magic. That magic forged them, gave them shape and hunger and power. It made them gods, offered them immortality, and unquenched hunger.

He had seen it in their minds and memories, which they guarded well – but Lorian was so deeply in them, they couldn’t oppose.

They never entirely silenced the simple creature underneath the divine. And they built a cage of laws, to secure their domination.

Lorian caught himself grinning.

Lord Illon watched him, eyes showing agitation. Lorian met his gaze with a radiant smile, one that only deepened the unease.

“These are thick times, Illon. Thicker than before,” he said, a low chuckle. “A time of wonders… and dread. What you’ve told me falls into my plans almost too perfectly.”

“Plans, Your Majesty?” Illon asked, his voice cautious. “Does it concern the Saru?”

“They don’t yet understand their worth,” Lorian’s tone amused, but something in it bordering on night. His eyes glittered. “But the energy your wife felt can only be removed by an unbreakable will.”

A pause. A shadow sliding through his face.

“And what will is stronger, than Ain’asel itself?”

*

Sanis was dragged into Lorian’s chambers just after his meeting with the court. She didn’t know, if for more or the horror… or something worse than humiliation and pain. Lorian showed her that pleasure can be dreadful and sensual delight – a murder on mind.

After the first, most brutal assault, it turned into a sadistic game. He played on her, on her being, on her feelings. Her body was betraying her time after time, surrendering to his shadows and his pleasure – and him. She was giving to him, with hate, with fear. Moaning under him and pulsing around him.

A never ending horror of raging senses and guilt. Each night like a small death.

She fell on her knees.

Lorian didn’t seem to be in the mood, she felt that immediately. Something in his aura choked her and suffocated. He was not playful, not sadistically aroused.

“Sanis” his smile was cold, cruel… empty. “How the lower fairies treat you?”

“My Lord” she swallowed. “They… they are not too cruel to me. Since you have chose me.”

“They are not?” his eyes showed a sign of amusement, but only for a second. “It’s good to know that my subjects actually listen to my orders, instead following their urges.”

“I am grateful, my Lord.”

“I always wondered how precisely you fulfill all my orders and all my wishes, too.”

Sanis couldn’t but look at him. Without permission; she just had to see him. His eyes, his face, how he said that. Fear crept in.

“Yes, my Lord. Always. Every one of them.”

His expression undecipherable, almost dead.

“I know, Sanis, which makes it even more intriguing, that my child grows in your womb.”

Her heart stopped. Her mind stopped. She stopped, her whole being.

No.

Please no.

“The herbs of course have their limits. They are not perfect solution. But here is a problem, Sanis. I do not wish you bearing a child” his voice suddenly sharp, merciless. Shadow crawled in her direction, hot, heavy. She bowed her head even lower.

“My lord… please, I always drank the potions, never stopped.”

“Oh, that is certain” his face a frozen mask. His steps rang in the room, like a sentence. He walked closer, his shadowy presence even more suffocating. “Yet you put me before a very difficult choice, Sanis. The one that requiers drastic solutions. Which I do not like.”

A small smile bloomed in his lips. His hand touched her cheek and slid to her collarbone, rubbing the skin with the tip of his finger.

“It’s always a peculiar, masochistic pleasure… in sadness; to see things are falling apart.”

His shadows crawled around her neck and slid, down, down, lower. So low, that she gasped. Coiled around her stomach, caressing her skin with soft strokes. Sanis already knew their touch, but it was nothing sexual in it, this time. It was delicate, but raw, pleasant, but horrific.

And they entered her.

Deep.

Straight into her womb.

They took all from her, life and death, and all she could see when the world turned black, was Lorian’s eyes, void, which she was sucked in.

And she fell apart.

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.

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.

Tiyan was pushed under the feet of the Unseelie King. Lorian’s gaze, sharp as daggers lay on him, with an amused glint it pinned the boy to the ground. He was surrounded by human women, who were pressing to his sides, looking at Tiyan with grim interest. They seem completely pleased with their presence here – or would they be if not fleeting signs of fear, which observant eyes could catch if looked deeper and more insistently. Fear… and love. Something Tiyan experienced and which hurt more than blade stung inside his guts, to spill them on the stone floor…

The feasting chamber grew silent. Slowly, all conversation stopped. Blue, green and white eyes; all turned at him. Even if royal alcove was separated from the rest of the chamber, to insure privacy, he felt exposed before their gazes, naked and vulnerable.

Lorian allowed his shadows to slip under dresses of the women around him. And they liked it – and hated it at the same time.

“Lorian… what a peculiar way to introduce him to the court. I would assume you would at least give him something to cover his private parts” a velvet voice reach his ears. Someone leaned towards him; wings, thick, black, raven-like, embraced him over his shoulders; feathers brushed him over his face. “But at the other hand, that way it’s much more thrilling…”

Tiyan looked into the most round eyes he ever have seen. Blue, deep, big – surrounded by black mask, centered on him with a delicate yet chilling curiosity.

Lorian shifted, his fingers reached for the chin of the woman, who was pressing tightest to him. His smile was delicate like raven woman’s calm interest, yet Tiyan didn’t doubt, it doesn’t promise kindness.

“My lord…” moaned a human woman, feeling his shadows coil around her breasts. Her breath got faster.

“Perhaps our guest – who so kindly traveled to Dal’coler through the wind and storm – thinks we treat him not fittingly to his status” Lorian’s hand caressed her face; the woman leaned to his touch. “After all; he possesses gift not yet seen. Such gifts, which I take great interest in, should be placated and their each and every itch eased” Lorian licked the lips of his slave and a tendril of shadows traveled from his mouth, into her. The woman closed eyes; her body shivered.

The raven fae clicked with her tongue.

“It’s enough all your itching places are scratched in this palace. And they are many.”

“As always hitting the most fragile spot” Lorian’s smile was sun incarnate.

“Hitting fragile spots is your favorite activity, my beautiful lord” laughed the raven. Her hand traveled to Tiyan’s chest. Pricked his nipple and slid over his stomach. Tiyan tossed, but the twin fairies held him down. “Have you hit many of his?”

“Til the last drop of blood.”

The Fae around them still looked into him, like harbingers of death. They knew. They knew something he didn’t and that terrified him. Lorian had no bounds. And he was here for a reason.

The fae King took the hand of a slave, which was laying between his legs, and moved it aside, which was greeted with a lazy protest. Lorian whispered something into her ear, his fingers in her black hair. The woman’s eyes filled with longing and terrified adoration.

“Leira.”

Someone approached and when entered his vision, Tiyan saw the same creature who brought him water. Her expression this time serious and undecipherable and in the gleam of massive amount of fairy lights, she looked even more misplaced, than enormous eyes of the raven.

“A good King pleases his court” mused Lorian. “Gives it juicy fruits and offers joy. And you, my unique flamebringer, will be the source of it.”

Leira pulled, hard and Tiyan was released from twins’ grasp. He almost pushed her aside, to at least try to run, but he still remembered cold and amused eyes of Qhal, when he tried that before and the sick grins of the small folk. If he wanted to survive, he had to endure.

Even if it’s hard and even if it makes his soul die.

He didn’t managed to protest, when Leira reached between his legs, and quicker that he would expect from a human – which she couldn’t be – clasped something around his member.

A long appendage, apparently made of silver. It had spiky thorns, growing from the smooth surface. A terrifying thought started to worm into Tiyan’s mind. The purpose of this. It couldn’t be…

“What it is” he asked through the clenched throat.

“Joybringer” smiled charmingly Leira. Nymre turned to Lorian, with a scoff summing her words up.

“You teach your slaves too much of your own charm.”

“Only those who can bear it” responded her lover, his tone dripping with sweet sap. “Leira knows what brings joy better than any other human in this chamber. And soon… sweet Noyda will learn that too.”

Hearing the name, Tiyan’s heart skipped a beat. All elements shifted into right place. They… can’t. They won’t do it.

But they were fae. Of course they will.

“I won’t” he dared to look Lorian straight into his pitch black eyes. The fey king cocked his head, looking with intrigue.

“How… bold. A lamb refuses to be sacrificed… Even if the knife is sewn to his hand.”

Tiyan felt pressure in his head, sudden, immense. It grew stronger with each second. From a meat mincer, which slowly ground his mind to a colossus press, smearing his brain onto the wall made of iron nails.

And more.

More.

Even harder.

When it eased, Tiyan found out that he lays on the floor, coiled in fetal position, and he screams, screams so loud. Deafeningly. His hands pressed to his ears, like if he tried to stop his brain from oozing from his skull.

“Are you sure? You seemed to not like the… alternative” Lorian voice cut through the air. Mercilessly.

The Unseelie around them started to blur in his vision, like washed by a huge wave, through which only silhouettes could be seen, a hazy imagery from a dirty mirror. He already pulsed between his legs, not from pleasure though. The appendage didn’t have spikes inside – but he would now prefer it did.

Silly Tiyo…

“Show us how much flame you possess in your veins… and in blood that charges you.”

Noyda was dragged into the chamber by the lower fairy guards. The fear in her eyes, the tears smeared on her face, her pale face, it all made Tiyan almost sink under the stone floor. The cruel Fae games Lorian led with him, shouldn’t affect her. The tiny hair on his neck rose when the woman was tossed under Lorian’s feet, just like Tiyan before.

“Please, my Lord…” she uttered, panic clenching her throat. “I was good. I listened to the folk. Please.”

Lorian’s smile was death itself.

“That’s why I prepared for you a special delight. This man never truly learnt how to effectively please. So… I want to give him helping hand. And they say… blood is the strongest aphrodisiac” he turned to Tiyan, shadows started to creep in the boy’s direction, to eventually coil around his spiked member. “Do you need help, Firebringer? Or you fill my eyes, like you should?”

One more gaze at Noyda, made him assured he would prefer to die than do this.

“No,” a bold defiance in his voice. They had his body. They had his fear. But they will never possess his soul. And won’t force him to hurt anyone. His own pain would be nothing compared to what would happen to him, if he destroyed all he fought during his life.

Nymre sneared.

“He needs additional helpings, yes.”

Lorian’s black eyes seemed to delve deep into Tiyan’s soul. He could feel the tendrils of shadows anchoring themselves in his head… not a pressure anymore, not pressing stone… but something… worse.

Something started to seep into him and when it burst inside, Tiyan felt pain, which he never expected to feel.

Fire overwhelmed him, flame so hot that it was white, attaching to his every nerve and spreading in his veins and tendons, to burst between his legs with inferno. He stopped seeing the chamber filled with Fae, the room disappeared into a reverie made of suffering. He almost could see his member melting inside the silver appendage, and being rebuilt to melt again…

He heard delicate laughter of the Unseelie king.

“How does it feel to have your own power turned against you? Beautiful fool, you will do it, because you are weak and because you fear to die. And because you still care for your sister, who can be treated with the same flame.”

“I won’t play your sick games” croaked Tiyan, trying to overcome the pain, but barely managing. Mina… Noyd… their faces blurred, intertwined, giving way to a molten flesh of both of them, dripping of his hands.

“This is the only game you can still play. And only way to not be subjected to all of this for next hundred of years. Some say… that pain can become a friend after long time. Maybe you long for a good friend, stuck to your flesh, giving you its eternal love.”

Tiyan’s eyes dripped with tears. Salty drops fell on his cheeks, trailing slowly from his chin. Not because he was feeling pain, not because he felt terrified. But because Lorian had right. He was a coward – something he always tried to repress and not allow it to stain his mind. But he feared this so much. Death. And more pain. And Mina, subjected to the same.

His shaking hand traveled between his legs. It was so ugly. This device… and even Noyda, who looked at him with begging eyes.

You will be lost, if you do it.

But maybe he lost himself long ago.

He heard a whisper in his mind, cruel, shredding his heart into pieces.

“Maybe you will make her like it – an amused laugh – but if not… you will at least still remain… alive.“

Fae twin – he didn’t know which and he didn’t care – pushed him between forcefully spread legs of crying Noyda. She tried to push him away, and he almost again backed off. But the pain in his groin returned. Harder than before, boiling his sanity. He didn’t want to submit to it, so much. He wanted to find a way, to stop this, kill himself – before he is forced to do this hideous thing. But he was exactly this. And no good was in his heart. No good, while he wanted to pretend otherwise, all his life.

They can subject Mina to the same.

You are weak. You are scorn-worthy. This woman will pay for your weakness.

Noyda…

Noyd, please forgive me.

Because he won’t forgive himself.

And he delved between her legs.

Submitted to Lorian’s pounding power inside his body.

Feeling his world shatters when her insides gave out first blood.