CHAPTER TEN
THE PRICE OF REVENGE
he marble steps beneath my bare feet were cold and slick with blood,T mine or others’, I couldn’t tell anymore.
Each step left crimson footprints trailing behind me like macabre breadcrumbs marking my path towards the castle I’d once begrudgingly called home. Pain shot through my soles where shards of broken glass and debris had cut into them, but I welcomed it. The physical agony was a dull counterpoint to the storm raging inside me, a reminder that I was still alive when so many others weren’t.
I approached the grand doors of the castle, my silk robe billowing around me in the night breeze. The fabric clung to my skin in places, still damp from sweat and fear, the delicate material never meant for running through darkened corridors. The moon hung bloated and yellow in the sky behind me, casting long shadows that seemed to reach for me with grasping fingers.
The Nocthari guards stationed at the entrance stiffened as I approached, their dark armor gleaming dully in the torchlight. Their hands moved to their weapons, faces half-hidden behind their helmets, but their eyes tracked me like wolves eyeing wounded prey. I did not slow my pace.
“Stand aside,” I commanded, my voice steadier than I felt. When one reached for me, I hissed, “Do not touch me. I can walk to my husband unaided.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth. Husband. A title bestowed mere hours ago, in a ceremony that now felt like a nightmare.
To my surprise, they obeyed, parting around me. Not out of respect, I
knew, but out of fear of him. They flanked me instead, forming a grim procession as we moved through familiar corridors now stained with death.
The castle was eerily quiet, the usual bustle of servants and courtiers replaced by a suffocating silence interrupted only by the heavy tread of armored boots and my own bare feet slapping against the stone.
Bodies lay where they had fallen. Servants, guards, nobles—Valen’s men had made no distinction. I forced myself to look at each face we passed, to commit them to memory. I owed them that much, at least.
They led me to the grand throne room, the journey stretching like a fever dream, time bending and warping around me until suddenly I stood before the massive oak doors. The guards pushed them open without ceremony, and I stepped into the chamber that had been the heart of Vareth’s power for generations.
The room was drenched in shadow, illuminated only by scattered torches that cast more darkness than light. At the far end, seated upon my father’s ornate throne like he’d been born to it, was Valen. The sight of him sent a jolt through me. Not of fear, though perhaps it should have been, but of something more complex, a tangled knot of rage and despair I couldn’t begin to unravel.
In his hands, he toyed idly with my mother’s crown. His fingers traced the intricate patterns with an almost loving touch, while his own iron crown, severe and brutal, sat upon his brow like a physical manifestation of his cruelty.
As I entered, his eyes lifted to mine, and his lips curved into a slow, delighted smile. It was the smile of a predator that had cornered its prey after a long hunt, satisfied yet still hungry for the kill. He made no move to rise from the throne, merely watching me approach with that unsettling gaze that
seemed to see through flesh to bone.
And then I saw them.
Kneeling before the dais, bound and gagged, were my father, Queen Ira, Princess Cordelia, and my four half-brothers. Their fine clothes were torn and stained, their faces marked with blood and terror. Father’s crown was gone, his grey-streaked hair matted to his head. Ira still wore her jewels, though they seemed to mock her now, glittering in the firelight as she trembled.
Cordelia’s perfect composure had shattered, tears streaked down her face, smearing the cosmetics she had so carefully applied for the wedding feast.
My half-brothers, ranging from seventeen to eleven, huddled together, the
youngest silently sobbing.
The sight stole the breath from my lungs. I had never particularly cared for them, Ira’s contempt and Cordelia’s jealousy had made sure of that, but I had never wished for this. They were still my blood, still part of the tapestry of my life, however frayed those threads might be.
Horror coiled in my stomach as I forced myself to continue walking, each step heavier than the last. The reality of the moment settled around me like a sheath, the blade of understanding pressed against my throat. This was no impulsive violence, no chaotic aftermath of conquest. This was calculated, personal, a tableau arranged specifically for my return.
I searched the room for any sign of Darius, but he was nowhere to be seen. Had he escaped? Had he already fallen to Nocthari blades? Or was he being kept elsewhere, a separate punishment awaiting him? The uncertainty gnawed at me, though I couldn’t afford to dwell on it. My focus had to remain on the immediate threat.
When I finally reached the end of the dais, Valen stood, unfolding his tall frame from the throne with fluid grace. He descended the steps until we stood eye to eye, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the metallic scent of blood that now clung to him.
“My queen returns,” he said, his voice soft yet carrying easily in the silent chamber. “I was beginning to wonder if you had fled.”
His hand rose, gentle as it brushed my hair from my shoulders, his fingers lingering against my neck where my pulse betrayed my fear. Then, with unnerving care, he placed my mother’s crown upon my head, adjusting it until it sat perfectly, as if this were nothing more than a normal coronation.
“There,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine. “As it should be.”
His touch shifted to my robe, smoothing the wrinkled silk, tightening the sash at my waist with an almost concerned gesture, as if displeased by the chill of my bare skin. There was something profoundly wrong about this tenderness, this parody of care amidst the carnage he had orchestrated.
Cordelia made a muffled sound of disgust behind her gag, and Valen’s gaze flicked over my shoulder, his expression hardening for just a moment before smoothing out again.
“I’ve been thinking about what to do with your family,” he said conversationally, as if discussing dinner plans rather than murder. “Initially, I thought a public execution would be fitting, a message to any who might consider opposing Nocthar. But then I realized how... common that would be.
We deserve something special for our wedding day, don’t you think?”
I said nothing, sensing the trap in his words. My silence didn’t deter him.
“Once,” Valen said, stepping closer until his lips nearly touched my ear, “I might have allowed you to spare one as a wedding gift. A token of my generosity. But since you saw fit to ensure the little princess’s escape...” He pulled back, studying my face. “You helped yourself to my mercy.”
Ice flooded my veins. He knew. Of course he knew. Had he known all along? Had he let me think I was being clever, let me believe I was saving Lysa and Isolde, only to hunt them down once I returned?
He leaned forward so that our faces were mere inches apart, his breath warm against my skin. “Should I send my men to collect them? The little princess and your loyal friend? I imagine they haven’t gotten far. The woods are treacherous at night, especially for a woman burdened with a child.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird. I couldn’t let him see my terror for them, couldn’t give him that power over me. Instead, I forced my features into a mask of careful indifference, lowering my lashes in what I hoped appeared as submission rather than calculation.
“I would be very pleased if you let them go,” I said, pitching my voice to sound meek, demure, everything I had never been. “They pose no threat to you or your rule.”
Valen studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine for the lie. Then his smile softened, almost sweet in its apparent sincerity.
“I would do anything to please you,” he said, his thumb brushing over my lower lip in a caress that was both threat and promise. “Consider it done.
They may live… for now. After all, what kind of husband would I be if I denied my bride’s first request outside of the bedroom?”
A mixture of shame and relief flooded through me in a concoction so potent I nearly swayed on my feet. I knew I couldn’t trust his word, couldn’t be certain this wasn’t another cruel game. Still, it was all I had. This fragile hope that Lysa and Isolde might escape the bloodshed that had consumed Vareth, might carry on some small piece of what had once been.
Valen stepped back, his eyes glittering with cruel amusement as he studied me. “Would you like to beg for the lives of the rest of your family?”
The question hung in the air between us, a trap baited with false hope. I fought to keep my voice steady, to match his casual cruelty with indifference of my own.
“Would it make a difference?” I asked, holding his gaze without
flinching. The marble floor was slick beneath my bleeding feet, but I refused to shift my weight or show any sign of discomfort.
His grin widened, revealing teeth too white, too perfect, like those of a beast that had never known hunger. “No,” he admitted, seeming pleased by my perception. “But I would have liked to see you try.”
Something ancient and terrible lurked behind his eyes, something I had glimpsed during our consummation but had dismissed. Now, surrounded by death and the promise of more to come, I could no longer deny that there was something inhuman about the man who called himself my husband.
I exhaled slowly, measuring each breath to keep from screaming. My family knelt behind me, their fear a tangible presence pressing against my back. I did not look at them. I did not allow myself to imagine their final moments. Instead, I held Valen’s gaze, as if I could divine his true intentions through sheer force of will.
“Why are you doing this?” The question escaped raw and horrified, my composure fracturing for just a moment.
His laughter rang through the chamber, bouncing off stone walls and crawling down my spine like frost. It wasn’t the controlled, elegant chuckle he had employed at the wedding feast, but something older, wilder, a sound that didn’t belong in a human throat.
“That,” Valen said, pacing a slow circle around me, “is a question for your father.” He paused behind me, his breath warm against my neck as he slowly turned me to face my family. “Although, I do not think you will be getting much of an answer from him.”
Something in his tone made me turn to look at him, and what I saw froze
the blood in my veins.
Valen was—changing.
The air around him rippled like heat rising from summer stones, his outline blurring and shifting. It was as though the skin he wore was merely a costume being shed, reality peeling back to reveal something vaster, something otherworldly. His height increased, flesh darkening to the rich color of burnished copper, veined with what looked like molten gold beneath the surface. His features sharpened, cheekbones becoming razors, jaw a cruel line. But it was his eyes that transformed most dramatically. The whites disappearing, irises expanding until his entire gaze was an endless void of black, like looking into the space between stars, my lips parting in disbelief.
I hadn’t believed in the gods. Never had. Even when the priests spoke of
them in hushed, reverent tones, even when my tutors recounted the legends of their cruel games and fickle favor, I had dismissed them as stories invented to explain what people couldn’t understand and to control those too afraid to question. The old religions, the forgotten faiths—they were remnants of a more superstitious time, nothing more.
Yet here stood proof of my arrogance, terrible and magnificent in his truth, one I recognized in texts of old.
The God of Blood and Conquest, Vharok, stood in my husband’s place.
My knees threatened to buckle, but I locked them in place, refusing to show weakness. My mind raced, trying to reconcile what I knew with what I was seeing. If Valen was Vharok, if the Blood God had been masquerading as the King of Nocthar, then everything I thought I understood about this world, our marriage, about the politics between our kingdoms, was a lie woven into a greater tapestry of deception.
A strangled cry tore through the chamber, dragging my attention away from the God-King before me. My father had gone rigid, his struggles suddenly frantic, desperate. His eyes, usually so cold and calculating, were wide with recognition and naked terror. Not the fear of a king facing defeat, but the primal horror of a man confronting a nightmare he thought long
buried.
He knew.
My father knew him.
The God descended the dais with deliberate steps, each footfall heavy enough to send subtle tremors through the stone floor. He moved past me, his attention fixed entirely on the bound king at his feet. The temperature in the room seemed to rise, the sweat beading on my forehead a sharp contrast to the chill I had previously experienced.
Vharok crouched before my father, tilting his head in a gesture so reminiscent of otherworldly, I could hardly believe I ever thought he was human. “I’m glad to see you remember me. Seven years is merely too long to spend apart.” His voice was a purr, almost amused, though something ancient lurked beneath the surface.
My father’s struggles intensified, his wrists bleeding where the ropes cut into his flesh. He tried to speak through his gag, producing only muffled sounds of desperation. Beside him, Ira and Cordelia exchanged confused glances through their tears, while my half-brothers huddled closer together, as if their proximity could somehow shield them from the horror unfolding.
“I told you I would return,” Vharok continued, reaching out to touch my father’s face with a tenderness that was more terrifying than violence. “I told you there would be a reckoning for what you did. For the chains, for the altars, for the blood that never stopped.” He traced a finger down my father’s cheek, opening the flesh without seeming to cut the skin. “Did you think I had forgotten? That gods do not keep their promises?”
The words made no sense to me. Chains? Altars? What connection could my pragmatic, skeptical father possibly have to this being of ancient power?
“I must thank you, though,” Vharok whispered, leaning closer to my father’s ear. “If you hadn’t been so determined for power, you would never have sought me out. You would never have dragged me into your mortal realm, bound me to your will, thinking I could help you conquer this realm.”
A smile sliced across his face. “And I would never have found your daughter.”
Vharok’s gaze flicked to me for a brief moment, something calculating in those abyssal eyes. “She has no idea, does she? You kept that from her.”
He turned back to my father, leaning even closer, his lips nearly touching my father’s ear, and whispered something I couldn’t catch—something meant only for him. Whatever it was made my father’s eyes widen further, a sound like a wounded animal escaping from behind his gag.
Vharok continued, louder now so that all could hear, “I will do everything you did to me—to her.” He pulled back slightly, his cruel smile widening as he looked over his shoulder to meet my gaze. “Fortunately for us, you will witness every moment of my revenge, as I do not believe your soul will be collected any time soon.”
My father’s muffled screams tore through the room, a sound beyond fear, beyond desperation. The sound of a man who suddenly understood that death would not be his escape, but only the beginning of his suffering.
How was this happening? What was happening?
Vharok straightened, his form rippling again until he appeared once more as Valen, the mask he had chosen to wear in this world of mortals. The transition was so smooth, so complete, that had I not seen his true form with my own eyes, I might have doubted it had happened at all.
Without warning, without ceremony, Valen drew his sword, a blade of strange, dark metal that seemed to drink in the light. The sound it made as it cleared its scabbard was like a sigh, almost sensual in its anticipation.
And with one fluid motion, the blade descended in a perfect arc.
The strike was so swift, so precise, that for a heartbeat nothing happened.
Then, as if time had caught up to the act, blood fountained from my father’s severed neck, his head toppling to the stone floor with a wet thud that, I knew, would haunt my dreams forever. My father’s eyes still open, still aware, lips still moving in what might have been my name, or a curse, or a plea for forgiveness. I would never know.
The throne room erupted into screams.
Ira’s composure shattered completely, her shriek piercing the air as she lunged toward my father’s body, heedless of her bonds. Cordelia crumpled forward, retching around her gag, while my half-brothers wailed and thrashed, trying to scramble away from the spreading pool of blood that reached for them like grasping fingers.
I stood frozen, unable to move, unable to look away. This was my father —the distant king who had never shown me affection, hadn’t even allowed me his last name. Who had placed my mother’s crown on my head before giving me away to a monster who had apparently been his enemy all along.
He had not been a good father, nor even a particularly good man, but his blood now stained the throne room floor, and soon, I knew, the rest of my family would join him.
As if responding to some silent command, the Nocthari guards moved with terrible efficiency. Steel flashed in the torchlight, and one by one, my family crumpled to the stone in lifeless heaps. Ira first, then Cordelia, then my brothers in order of age—the youngest last, his small body falling atop his siblings in a grotesque pile of limbs and blood.
It was over in moments. Six lives ended between one breath and the next.
I didn’t scream. Didn’t faint. Didn’t fall to my knees in despair. I stood, rooted to the spot, as the scent of blood filled the air, thick and coppery on my tongue. Something inside me had gone very quiet, very still. A space beyond shock or grief where a cold, clear certainty took root. I would remember this. I would carry this moment with me like a blade against my heart, and one day, somehow, I would make Valen—Vharok—pay for every drop of blood spilled this night.
Amidst the carnage, Valen turned back to me, his face betraying nothing of what had just occurred. He might have been inspecting a mildly interesting painting or considering what wine to serve with dinner, rather than standing in a lake of my family’s blood.
“Reunions can be so tedious,” he remarked, cleaning his blade on what
had once been Cordelia’s most intricate finery. “But necessary, I think.
Closure, before we begin our life together.” He sheathed his sword and approached me, stopping just short of where I stood. “It seems we are due for an unpleasant honeymoon, my queen. There is so much to tell you, so much to show you.” He reached out, tracing the curve of my cheek with a finger that left wetness in its wake. “But first, I must make good on my promises to your father.”
At some unseen signal, guards seized me from behind, rough hands gripping my arms with bruising force. I did not resist as they began dragging me backward toward the doors, away from the throne room that had become a house of charnel. What would be the point? I was outnumbered, outmatched—a mortal in the grip of powers I was only beginning to comprehend.
But I did not lower my gaze. Did not bow my head. As they pulled me into the darkness of the corridor, my eyes remained locked with Valen’s, a
silent promise passing between us.
This was not over.
The throne room doors slammed behind me, and the guards continued their grim procession through corridors that had once been my home. Where they were taking me, I could only guess. The dungeons, perhaps, or some specially prepared chamber where Valen could continue whatever twisted game he had begun.
Then something struck the back of my head, hard enough to send stars bursting across my vision. I stumbled, my knees finally giving way beneath me. As consciousness slipped from my grasp, my last thought was of my mother’s crown, still perched upon my head.
Then everything went dark.
