The Blood King - Chapter Six (Patreon)

Nymira

The silence is deafening as I stand in the throne room along with my captors. It’s an unsettling sight, this throne room. It doesn’t quite fit cohesively with the banners that fly here. Even the throne has been melted, with the remains of armor at its feet—almost as if in warning. I expected to be brought to the center as an offering, but I have been placed off to the side along with the guard who cut the ropes from my wrists.

The men who brought me as captives, however, stand in the center of the throne room with food and drinks to celebrate their arrival. I can’t stop trembling as everything Peyra ever warned me about comes to the forefront of my mind. If only I had listened. I never should have put our lives in jeopardy. Peyra has paid the ultimate price, and I have no idea what the price I will come to pay will be.

I flinch as the doors to the far side of the throne room open, and the guard who left us at the gate enters. He ignores the men in the center, approaching me instead. I watch him carefully, noting that he doesn’t glance in my direction as he speaks to the guard next to me in a language I don’t understand.

The guard next to me gives a brief response, shifting in front of me as he takes something from the guard who just entered.

“Do not give me trouble,” he says firmly as he raises the cloth, wrapping it around my head to cover my eyes. My heart thrums into overdrive as terror grips me, but I heed his warning. I am in a position to fight right now. I can barely remain conscious. I assume the only reason I can stand in this moment is because of the adrenaline coursing through me.

I hate that the fabric slowly becomes soaked with my tears. I’m forced to face Peyra’s fears without her by my side. I am possibly at the end of my life, never having seen my brother or family again. At this moment, it feels like every second of my life with Peyra was meaningless. She sacrificed years of her life for nothing, and my brother saved my life for nothing as well.

I choke on a sob, biting my bottom lip so that no one can hear me. But I don’t doubt that these men can see the Ikniri with the tear-soaked blindfold.

Suddenly, the door on the far side of the room opens, and the room falls silent. Even the men who brought me as an offering grow quiet. Solid footsteps glide effortlessly across the floor, as if they belong. I tense as I realize the footsteps are coming in my direction, and I am suddenly aware of the deep wheeze that has become my breath. It seems to be the only sound that forms in the room, along with the footsteps that settle in front of me.

I release a shuddering breath, unable to speak.

A gasp escapes me when I feel a hand on my face. It traces my cheek, and just below my eye, where I’m sure a nasty bruise has formed. My skin warms from the touch, but it isn’t unpleasant; it’s electric—like the lighting across the sky when a storm forms.

“Her face…did you come into some kind of trouble?” The voice in front of me is smooth. It drips with confidence and controlled irritation. But it demands a response, as if it has never had anyone tell it no before. My captors sense the irritation in his tone and do not respond immediately.

The hands move from my face to my body, lingering on the welts of my wrists.

“I asked you a question,” the voice speaks again, this time coming out like a whip. It has an accent I am unfamiliar with, but it demands to be heard.

“N-no, your Majesty,” I hear the unsure voice of my captor in charge.

The fingers on my face disappear, allowing me to release a shuddering breath as the footsteps move away from me.

“Then what happened to her? What possessed you, a mere human, to damage an Ancient in this way?” he asks.

Silence.

“She was difficult to capture, Your Majesty. She killed multiple of our men in the process of her capture. We thought the only way to bring her in was to ensure—”

“At what point in this history has a human been charged with bringing in an any Ancients? An Ikniri, no less,” the voice speaks, his anger rising.

“We didn’t mean to anger you. We only meant to bring her as an offering in hopes of—”

“Who is the leader among you. You?” the voice speaks.

There’s a pause before the leader continues.

“Yes, I am, my king.”

Silence.

“Very well.” That’s the last human sound that I hear. Bloodcurdling screams erupt within the chamber. They not only beg for mercy, but they also beg for forgiveness, for their mothers, for the sweet release of death. Their scream are accompanied by the sound of splattering blood among the chambers, and it lasts for what feels like hours until finally, there is only one small whimper left.

And it doesn’t belong to the leader.

I hear the squish of footsteps stepping into the puddles of blood that have resulted in this bloodbath.

“Take this with you. Spread this through every street, every village, every crevice of this infested wasteland. Humans are not to touch Ancients in any way, shape, or form. You are beneath us. Regardless of my imposition, humans have no stake in this fight. Go.” I shudder from the cruelty of this voice as it speaks to the remaining survivor.

I hear the sound of the doors opening and footsteps sprinting out of the throne room to relay the message. And once the quiet settles, I hear the footsteps once again approach.

I gasp, my breath shuddering as he pulls my arms out, flipping them over to inspect them ,I assume. I rip my hands from his grasp, lifting my chin even though I can’t see him.

“If your plan is to kill me, you should do it now, while I am weak. I have nothing left to lose,” I snap.

The voice chuckles in front of me, the sound deep and inviting. I gasp when I feel his fingers under my chin.

“There is no need to kill an Ikniri with no mark.” He releases me.

“Have my guest sent to Krea and cleaned up. She reeks of humans.”

* * * * *

I am numb. I don’t know what to think—how to feel as the round tub I’ve been placed in is filled to the brim with steaming water. Servants are quiet as they scrub my flesh of the blood and grime that plagued me on the journey here. It feels strange to receive this kind of treatment after what I just heard—the murder of men.

It only plagues me that whoever I’ve been brought to has more hatred for humans than for Ikniri.

I flinch, pulling my wrist away from the servant who tries to pull the necklaces of my brother from my arm.

“Do not touch that,” I hiss, my anger and distrust coming to the forefront. To my shock, the women lower their gazes, following my order without hesitation. But I don’t miss the curious glances they throw my way. I’m sure I am the first Ikniri they have seen since the wars Peyra spoke about erupted. Judging from the subjects of this kingdom’s reactions, I doubt anyone expected to see an Ikniri within their lifetime.

The servants are careful as they pour more water into the tub, scrubbing me raw. I’ve never had such an intimate way of cleansing. And if not for the sounds I hear in the throne room, I might be a little more vicious to the women rubbing parts of my body that only I have seen.

Once they’ve finished cleaning me to what they deem is acceptable, the door opens, and a woman walks in. Her eyes are similar to the color of the guard who was with me when I was brought in. She has dark hair that falls past her waist with gray streaks in the front. She studies me intensely, scoffing after a moment.

“He said you were an Ikniri, but I didn’t believe him,” she says, walking towards me with a towel in her hands. I try to keep my expression stoic as she approaches, not wanting to reveal my inner emotions. But as she reaches for me, I stand out of the water in a defensive stance, letting the dirty water slosh out of the tub.

“If you touch me, I will kill you,” I hiss.

She watches me carefully, holding the towel out for me with a smile.

“Do not worry. I have been ordered to check your wounds. I will not harm you,” she says, holding the towel to me.

I watch it carefully, shifting my attention back to her in distrust.

“I can already see from your wounds that you have been through a lot. I am the castle’s healer. I’ve been with the king’s family for generations, and now my services extend to you. I swear, I will not harm you,” she says.

I look from the towel to her. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust anyone within these walls. I don’t know what’s going on here, or why I’ve been spared, but I don’t plan on sticking around to find out. I made the mistake of trusting humans whose lives were on the line, and now my life has been imploded. I won’t make the same mistake again. I ignore her words, quickly scanning the room for a weapon which she notices.

“I don’t blame you for not trusting me. But your injuries are severe. The only thing keeping you alive right now is the fact that you are an Ancient. Please, let me help you,” she says gently.

I glare at her in distrust, finally snatching the towel from her. I wrap it around my body, and she smiles as she directs me to the vanity seat in the far corner. As I take a seat, she is already studying me with the eyes of a healer.

I quietly study her as she studies me. She seems fascinated with my existence, and I swear I see tears swimming in her eyes. She smiles gently as she reaches for my face.

“Such cruel men do to this to a defenseless child,” she murmurs. Warmth extends from her palm to the throbbing bruise on my face.

“I was not defenseless,” I snap, looking her in the eyes.

She tilts her head slightly, narrowing her gaze.

“Oh?” she grips my arm, holding it high. “An Ikniri without signs of maturation is defenseless.”

I remain quiet as she holds me. And it takes me a moment to snatch my arm from her. She laughs to herself, moving around me. I feel her fingers on the ends of my hair, followed by her murmur. 

“Beautiful,” she murmurs. She then pauses behind me, and I flinch as she traces the burn on my shoulder. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember, and it has always brought me discomfort.

“Did they do this to you?” she asks.

“That isn’t your business,” I say instantly. But as she touches it, she figures it dfor herself.

“No… they did not… this is an old wound,” she murmurs.

She comes to stand in front of me, placing her hand over my chest.

“You have a strong spirit, but it is filled with so much hurt,” she says gently.

I flinch as warmth seeps from her palms, covering my body.

“Don’t fight me, Ikniri. I only mean to heal you, that is all,” she says.

I narrow my gaze. “Nymira. My name is Nymira,” I say.

Her eyes widen slightly, and she tilts her head, as if bowing.

“Of course, Nymira.”

“The king whom I was offered to, where has he gone?” I ask.

Krea looks at me, her expression as confused as the guards. And with my senses dulled from being so weak, I can’t read her beyond that.

“You will see him very soon,” she says.

Once Krea heals me, I am dressed in a gown that I detest. It covers my legs, making it difficult to escape if need be. I am also given no weapons, and I don’t know what has happened to the cloak Peyra left me.

The material of the gown is so soft, I fear it might melt into my skin at any moment. I consistently pull at it as I move up the hallway with guards surrounding me. Even these guards look at me curiously out of the corner of their eyes. But I don’t comment on it, as I am curious to meet this king and get as far away from this place as possible.

It doesn’t seem that he is hostile, seeing as he killed the men who brought me here. But I know nothing of this king, of his banner, or of his purpose here and why these men felt safe bringing him an Ikniri. So, I keep my wits about me as we move into another hall, which I am assuming will lead me to him.

We continue in silence until we finally approach the double doors of a room. Once again, the foreign banners hang proudly, forming a discomfort within me as I study them. And as the doors open, a man exits who I assume is not the king.

He has weapons strapped to his back, his eyes the same color as the guard's and the healer's. His hair is dark as ir messily falls into his face, and unlike the two before him who studied me with fascination, he studies me with familiarity. But I’ve never seen him in my life. I hold his gaze, however, in spite.

“He is ready for you,” he says.

I note that the room is dark. And because I am so weak, I can see nothing. I force my legs to move one in front of the other. I don’t know if death awaits me inside this room or not. But I don’t have a choice. A cool breeze forms on my cheeks as I enter the darkness, and I realize I am crying. The tears are silent as I think of Peyra and everything she’s ever told me.

My senses are so dull that as I enter the room, I cannot sense anyone. It’s as if the adrenaline that held me up suddenly disappears in an instant; everything that has kept me upright disappears. My legs give out as the doors close behind me, plunging me into darkness. And with the darkness comes the memories of my life—the memories of Peyra.

I see her smile, her laugh, her scent. Between being captive and witnessing all of this, my time to mourn has been slim. But as I am directed to meet the king who slaughtered men in his throne room, with no sense of who is in the dark with me, I feel myself crumbling into despair.

My legs can no longer hold me up—I am weak.

And as I collapse, and my tears flow, I am comforted by nothing. I lower my forehead to the floor, no longer caring what happens to me. My life has been a desperate need for survival up to this point. And now, I don’t know what awaits me.

My sobs fill the dark as I clutch my chest. The pain is too much.

In my weakened state, I don’t hear the footsteps. But I feel the warmth of someone’s touch on my cheek as they gently wipe away the tears. I recognize the touch. It elicits the same feel as it did in the throne room.

“Oh, Ikniri, last of your kind. Why do you cry when I have yet to even touch you?”