46

  Midnight draped the chambers of King Alastor in a velvet stillness, broken only by the soft rustle of silken curtains and the faint, perfumed smoke from a dying brazier. The king lounged on a mound of cushions, wearing nothing but a loose robe that hung carelessly from one shoulder. The atmosphere was heavy, decadent, suffocating.

  Around him lay several women—some asleep, some barely conscious—draped in thin white robes that glimmered like mist.

  At his feet knelt another woman, positioned as the king demanded, her movements obedient yet hollow. Alastor leaned back, indulging in the attention he believed was owed to him.

  Then—he froze.

  Because in the corner of the room, half?hidden in the shadow beneath the window, someone was sitting at a small circular table that had, moments ago, been empty.

  A figure in a hood the colors of dark red and black.

  Unmoving.

  Watching.

  Alastor’s pulse stuttered. “Guards!” he barked, voice cutting through the velvet air like a blade.

  The chamber doors slammed open.

  But it wasn’t guards.

  A second hooded figure stepped inside—Lionel, his sword dripping fresh blood. In his other hand, he dragged a woman by the hair.

  The princess—still alive, trembling, eyes wide in disbelief.

  Behind them, the corridor lay silent. No guards. No maids. No sound but the distant drip of blood from Lionel’s sword.

  The king bolted upright, shoving the kneeling woman away. Anger surged—until he looked at her.

  She was… changing.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Her youthful face shriveled like burning parchment. Skin sagged gray and loose. Her eyes sank into her skull, yellow teeth jutting from a twisted mouth. The creature hissed, lunged, and clamped down on the king. The creature ate the flesh, her hands wiping the blood from her mouth.

  Alastor fell to the floor with a hoarse, broken cry, clutching his groin, blood blooming beneath his fingers.

  He tried to crawl back, to stand, to do anything—but pain stole the breath from him.

  Lionel dragged the princess farther into the room, toward the flickering brazier, positioning her opposite the king so he would see her clearly.

  And the figure at the table finally rose.

  Barry.

  His hood fell back, revealing a face hollowed by grief and hardened by vengeance. His eyes burned like embers smothered in ash.

  Without speaking, Barry stepped over the princess and pulled a knife from his belt.

  The princess whimpered, still half?dazed from terror.

  The king, pale and shivering, stared at Barry with horror.

  “You,” Alastor rasped. “You’re the farmer—”

  Barry’s voice was hollow. “I want you to suffer.”

  He placed the blade beneath the princess’s chin.

  The king’s limbs flailed uselessly. “No—Barry, no—wait—!”

  A single stroke.

  The princess collapsed silently, her blood flowing across the ornate tiles, creeping toward the king’s knees.

  Alastor made a strangled sound—part sob, part shock, part pain.

  “Stop… please…” the king begged, trembling violently.

  Barry stepped closer, nudging the king’s foot with his boot until Alastor toppled fully onto his back. He stared down at him, expression empty.

  “You took everything from me,” Barry whispered. “I cannot kill you quickly. Death is mercy.”

  He reached into his pocket and unwrapped a small cloth bundle.

  Inside, something writhed.

  Alastor shook his head violently. “No—no—what is that—get it away from me—!”

  Barry chuckled. A low, humorless sound. “A gift.”

  He tipped the bundle, letting the contents spill onto the king’s chest—centipedes, pale worms, chitinous things that twisted and writhed as if hungry.

  They began crawling immediately.

  Up his neck. Toward his face. Into his ears.

  Under his skin.

  Alastor convulsed, clawing at his own flesh, shrieking as his veins bulged and rippled with movement beneath them.

  Barry crouched beside him, watching with eerie calm.

  “You will wish for death,” he murmured, “and you will not have it.”

  The king’s screams echoed through the chamber, muffled only by the scratching of tiny legs burrowing deeper.

  Lionel stepped back, wiping his blade on the corner of a fallen robe.

  The disguised creature—once a woman—shrunk into shadow and dissolved into mist.

  Barry rose.

  The three revenant—Barry, Lionel, and the creature—turned and walked out into the silent corridor.

  Behind them, King Alastor’s screams clawed after them, writhing through the hallways like something alive.

  They did not look back.

  They did not need to.

  The king’s suffering had only just begun.