His features twisted with disgust when he approached Dorid’s door to his personal rooms, shaking his head at the loud moans coming from the other side of the door before he turned and started back down the steps.
He checked his mother’s favorite parlor, her library, her office—ripping through papers and parchment until he stumbled across a letter stuffed into the back of the roll-top desk that hadn’t been used in years. Upon seeing the unfamiliar runes written on the back, his interest was piqued. He took the letter into his hands, smoothing it out as much as possible before flipping it open.
Camalia,
I know that he is there. The boy you are protecting holds dark power that would be a curse upon the earth if unleashed.
I warned you about this. You wanted to know what your son’s fate would be, and while I had no answers for you at the time, I now know that Aziel Haze is a plague amongst the lives of those in your kingdom. He will release his death into those who live under your reign. He will darken the skies of your beautiful kingdom and pillage it until there is nothing but bones left.
He will do the same to the Kingdom of Nym. To your son. To everything you love.
Whether or not you choose to believe me, that is entirely your decision. But I will not raise my daughter in a world that is threatened by such untamed darkness.
If you would only let me have the boy, I could ensure that he would not be able to harm you, nor the ones you love with his evil rot. I could ensure a world in which Aziel Haze would never lift a single finger in your direction again.
He is a child who is wholly unfit to take his place as Death, but I can help him. Give him to me and I will take this problem from your hands immediately, saving you and your family from this harbinger of hell.
You know what I can do. It is either this or suffer great consequences.
The Witch Queen
Oran’s brow furrowed, eyes darting around the contents of the desk for something more, something that could give any inclination as to what this letter meant.
The parchment was yellowed, the ink having bled deep into the paper to signify that it was a number of years old. This witch queen had known of Aziel’s powers and so had his mother. It wasn’t so much of a surprise that his mother had known, she had always told him that he and Aziel were born different. The thing that struck him as odd was that the handwriting on this letter looked oddly familiar.
Toofamiliar.
With a swift and languid stride, he was across the room again, sifting through various documents until he reached one of Camalia’s latest letters.
The sinking feeling in his stomach had grown so much that he was now feeling nauseous, bile building in the back of his throat and hands trembling.
Identical.
From the lettering to the slight swirl used when printingIin both names, it was an exact match.
Camalia was not his mother.
His hands curled around both parchments and with a pounding heart, Oran fled. He darted through the halls of the palace, a deep, dark feeling in his chest.His stomach had hollowed out, guts churning as he ran. It was a faint knowing that screamed at him louder and louder in the recesses of his mind, guiding him to the vault that was hidden in the shadowy depths of the palace.
When he reached the door and let his fingers smooth over the cold metal of the puzzle lock located on the front, he drew in a deep breath. His mind did not want to be silent, but he willed it—forcing the flurry of a thousand thoughts away so that he could focus.
He knelt in front of the lock, digging into his pocket to retrieve the key to his room. Though it would not unlock this specific door, it could be used to move the tiles to the correct location.
He’d seen Dorid use this lock when he was a boy, and remembered that the first tile was moved to the right. Oran stuck the point of the key into the hole and dragged it across the top. Upon hearing the single, metallicclickcoming from inside, he moved the key to the next tile.
Up, left. Up, right. Up, center. Left. Right. Center. Left. Center. Right.
Click after click, he shifted the tiles around until he heard the mechanical whirring of the cogs and gears coming from within the thick frame of the door. He pushed himself backwards when the door popped open, air pushing from the crack as if it’d been begging for release from whatever lay inside.
He rose upon unsteady feet, knees feeling as if they could buckle at any moment as he pushed the door the rest of the way open. Inside, there was nothing but thick darkness.
The air, the energy, was so thick and charged with that negative presence that it forced the hair along his arms and the back of his neck to raise. Still, with his determination, he commanded himself to continue forward to where the first torch was hanging from the wall. There was enough light spilling in from the entrance for him to see that the end of the torch was covered in cobwebs and layers of dust—certainly, it had not been used in years.
Even Dorid rarely entered this vault. He always said that it was better if everyone forgot that it existed. Even himself.
Oran pulled his lighter from his pocket and flicked it open, striking the metal with his thumb to light the rope wrapped around the torch. It blazed to life within seconds, burning away egg sacks from spiders embedded in the cracks.
He jerked it off the wall with a huff, rolling his eyes at the darkness beyond.
