Page 104 of Plug and Drain

Resignation.

And Nathaniel had convinced him to live. It was a different kind of death.

When Nathaniel took him back to the Throne Room, Arken was Henrikk’s man, an employed position that began with resignation and never ended.

Arken had come to accept his fate. And with it had come relief.

Relief that he didn’t have to be himself anymore.

Relief that Henrikk hadn’t hurt Clara.

Relief that Clara’s death had been a tragic accident, and no one’s fault—certainly not Henrikk’s.

The King had been sorry for the tragedy. War was an ugly thing. He’d apologised, which the King never did.

Clara’s death was no one’s fault, and King Henrikk was not the monster Arken knew him to be.

Two realities. But Henrikk’s self-assured laughter echoed throughout both.

Arken gasped for air, and suddenly, he was back at Volmasque, sliding down the archway as he sucked in air.

His hand drifted up to touch his other arm where Nathaniel had grabbed him on the tower.

He would have jumped. Barring a miracle, he almost certainly would have jumped. Nathaniel had been that miracle—a dark angel as underhanded as his father.

Arken had been saved, but he may as well have been damned.

He leant heavily into the archway, pressing his temple against the cool stone. It was no use.

The months rippled past him like the rifling of pages, propelling him into the past, where hope had existed as bountiful as starlight in the evening sky.

He caught glimpses of the times he’d tried to fight. Tried to rebel. Tried to be clever.

They had been pitiful attempts of a man who’d not yet realised he was outmatched.

Then Henrikk had broken him. It had come with a promotion to the post of headmaster of a new school.

Volmasque Prison, as it was formerly known, had been converted into a school, and the underground cells transformed into dorm rooms. The memory of the first time he stood outside the school gates magnified in his mind, the dark silhouette of the sharp towers spearing the midnight sky.

Arken had not been supervised. By that stage, Henrikk’s work was complete. Arken had become a minion. A pawn.

Nathaniel had saved him, but Arken still questioned his friend’s motives. He had been kept alive, only to endure a sentence worse than death.

Henrikk hadn’t needed to lift a single finger after the punishment involving Clara. Arken had taken part in her violation, and it was unforgivable. The sentencing judge for the crime was Arken, and he had sentenced himself to a life of penance.

“Enough,” he growled. The walls of his mind slammed down, forcing away all thought, all feeling, all life. Every muscle tensed, tight enough to cramp, then relaxed. The tension left his face, and air filled his lungs again.

By the time he reached the foyer, his gait was unhurried, his composure relaxed but straight-backed. He carried himself with a self-assured purpose that was anything but.

The calmness would not last long. Sheer willpower was insufficient for bouts like this. He needed a medicine with a longer-lasting effect.

The place he needed to go was not so far from the academy.

But first, Arken went upstairs and visited the witches. They took as little pleasure in the feeding as he did. Some had to be forced, and he was glad Nathaniel wasn’t present to see how much he struggled to ensure their compliance.

With that task completed, he staggered outside the academy into the open air. The darkness of the sky gave way to grey, and his feet crunched on the path to the school gates. The vampire guarding the gate wordlessly let him through, the magical wrought iron gate creaking open of its own accord.

He briefly wondered if the gate required oiling, or if it creaked because it wished to. It seemed both trivial and important that he should know about such a thing. He’d been the headmaster for long enough.