Chambers
Varic’s force-shield tingles everywhere that it conforms to my skin, as I startle from the blood-curdling scream acting as our greeting now that we stand outside the Emperor’s bedchamber.
Run, the voice in the back of my mind screams. My chest constricts with wanting to do as it warns me. But I can’t. It’s not safe. For anyone.
“Imperial Grand Witch Tasch.” An Imperial Guard bows as the croaking groans of ancient hinges play among the operatic music His Majesty prefers when forcing me to perform an execution in the privacy of his quarters.
Intermittent groans punctuate the deep swells of music coming from the gramophone. I pause and tear my gaze from Varic’s concerned expression to pull in one last deep breath before trudging closer to His Majesty’s torture chamber.
Crescents of light flicker along the perimeter, cast from flames dancing above golden sconces, bathing the center of the room in relative darkness, creating an ominous scene in a space much too vast for any furnishings to trick one’s mind into finding it inviting.
A servant ushers us into the large sitting area where the intruder’s pale, naked body lies curled on his side over the cold marble floor. His head rests at an awkward angle with a steady trickle of his blood flowing down the gold drain fashioned with our Empire’s sigil. A sickening symbol for the Empire built on the lifeblood of those who were given no chance at justice.
His Majesty’s Guards stare out from different corners of the room, watching us intently as we move closer to their charge. The Emperor stares down at where he wipes a black hand towel over every crimson trail of blood staining his pale white hands before tossing it in the center of the servant’s chest, as he turns to me with an expression filled with cold calculation.
“Finally, you have decided to grace us with your presence.” His tone is unamused, though not yet livid. “Breathe nothing but fear into this man’s lungs.” He stands tall in his finery with nary a silver hair out of place as he tosses his cape from his shoulder with a flourish he typically reserves for an audience.
Splaying his white fingers over his chest, he braces when a deep, hoarse cough rends from him. No one says a thing, nor do his Guards stir when his muscles quiver as he lowers to one knee and looms over the intruder he must have beaten with his bare hands only a moment before. “You will tell us what we need to hear, or you will die a terrible death.”
Varic’s force-shield thrums along my skin to the beat of his heart, and I wish I could spare him a tendril of calm, or could siphon even a mite of his concern. Yet with the Emperor’s signature sneer developing over his features, I must reserve what I can and brace for the inevitable, just before his piercing gray eyes meet mine, giving the signal.
“I will die before I give you anything!” the intruder says, barely able to lift his head.
His Majesty grabs a handful of the intruder’s hair, yanking so hard he looses several tufts of the once-white strands—tinged pink from the victim’s blood.
I shake with the same sense of fear I am meant to instill into this perfect stranger. The feeling which comes so naturally, it’s sickening. Yet this is too much for me, so I conjure her to take over, giving the screams no more chance to permeate now that she has trapped my empathy behind some door for which I am missing the key.
“Silence!” Emperor Aldritch commands as he rises to stand and draws his leg back to kick the messenger’s ribs with a sickening crunch.
He moves to stand and begins to tip over, until Kosta speeds forward to right him.
Varic and Lars squeeze the grips of their swords, flexing their fingers around the respective weapons. I release a breath, apparently capable of feeling at least a sliver of compassion for my Guards, who have done nothing to deserve being subjected to this experience, forced to witness this sort of cruelty all in the name of our Emperor’s temper.
Time catches up with me, and I am only seconds away from His Majesty issuing consequences for my stalling. Yet my power is weakened to the point that there is so little to pull from. Having to compound what I can, I force each individual thread into the mind of the intruder.
I draw on his worst fears and braid them into thick onyx ropes, all while his agonizing screams reverberate through my body, chattering my teeth. However, she makes sure the only thing the Emperor can see is cold detachment. I slowly decrease the amount of magic I send into the intruder, with stars invading my vision.
His Majesty glares in my direction as the cool sensation of Cirrin’s magic trills over my shoulders, finding purchase above where Varic’s magic stabilizes my lower body, allowing me to focus on amplifying the fear writhing within the intruder’s chest while intensifying the doom already woven there.
“Your Majesty,” she says. “His heart is weak. He will not last much longer.”
Emperor Aldritch sneers as he crouches to grab a fistful of the trespasser’s blood-slicked hair, tilting his head to look him in the eye as he warns, “Last chance.”
“Do your worst,” the intruder says, teeth stained red.
His Majesty growls, and one quick meeting of Emperor Aldritch’s eyes on mine is all the command he needs to give, because he knows I will not risk harm to innocents by refusing him.
Eyes closed, palms to the sky, I collect what I can of my power and send it directly into my victim’s chest, accessing every emotion I’ve suppressed throughout the day in a burst of anger I wasn’t expecting, nearly knocking me backward in the process.
Cirrin’s warm fingers take hold of my wrist as he uses whatever he can spare of his healing to help settle my heart rate, yet all I feel is numbness after the initial cooling sensation finds its way above Varic’s magic. So unlike the total absence I’ve known; a distinct feeling all its own. One I wish I didn’t know so well.
She recedes, and the emotions I’ve woven fill his vessel until it weakens and he no longer squeaks or moves a muscle. My eyes cast to the ground by my feet, as I cannot bring myself to look at the body of the sorcerer I’ve just murdered.
What number does this one make?
I wouldn’t know, because no one keeps count anymore.
The days of dinners held in honor of my power, where banners hung with the number of my kills, are thankfully a thing of the past. All with the intention of growing His Majesty’s influence while he gleefully boasted of ways his reign has been built on the bones of those bold enough to challenge him.
