The Blood King - Chapter Thirteen (Patreon)

Nymira

“And so she breaks.”

He is right. I broke. All the time I spent hiding my emotions from everyone within this castle has gone to waste, because I broke. They all know how I feel, especially the king. He watched me break, watched me cry until I screamed my agony. And now that it has been released, I don’t know what actions are next for me. All I know for sure is that I must live for Peyra. I must honor the sacrifice she made for me.

I pull in a shaky breath as I stare at the cloak she gave me. The memory is vivid from when she threw it over me to protect me from the flames, pushing me out of harm’s way. I can still feel the heat—smell the smoke. I run my fingers over the worn fabric, lingering on the welped fabric indicating a repair. She would repair her own clothes before she would buy new ones. Buying new ones meant going into markets around people, and she didn’t want to risk my being exposed. Peyra was prepared to live her life for me. And never did she voice regret. Even during our last days together, when I wasn’t the kindest person to be around, she still treated me with love and the respect of an Ancient. She made it her mission to remind me that I am more than what history thinks I am.

It’s been more than a week since I arrived in this strange place, and it feels like only yesterday she was taken from me. But I cannot hold onto this pain forever. I can’t let it control me the way it did the other day, causing me to break down and cry in front of the king, who may or may not be my enemy. I know giving me this cloak wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. And it wasn’t because he regrets saying Peyra deserved her death.

His anger in that moment was palpable, and I won’t mistake this for anything other than a calculated move. I just don’t know the purpose of that move. I look away from the fabric to my arm. It is still covered, but if I move the fabric, my one marking would be visible. Did he happen to see my small release of power that morning? Is he testing what makes me lose control?

I shake my head, pushing the paranoia out of my mind. It won’t do me any good here. It will only make me anxious in a situation where I need to be calm and calculating. Everything he’s doing doesn’t make sense. He not only saved me from my captors and made them pay with their lives, but he has also kept me clothed, healed, and given me a place to stay—even if it is against my will. I do not know his intentions, especially since he has shown himself to be hostile at moments.

Mainly when it comes to his appearance. He will not allow me to look at him. Nor has he told me his name. The rare times that I have seen him, he has kept his skin hidden, and for good reason. I would know which Ancient he is by the markings that adorn his flesh—and by the color in his eyes. I don’t know if his distrust comes from the war, or from his personal dislike of my kind. All I know is that he himself is an Ancient, and I can only pray that he isn’t a Dragonborn.

I know very little of the Ancients. My memory from my childhood is gone, and Peyra only told me what I needed to know about the Dragonborn's role in the war. I was skeptical about it, since I had heard different stories from the towns we would wander through, making the entire history a convoluted mess. But each story had its own interpretation of the blood king and his lust for the blood of my kind. If history is to be believed, he is the cause of the imbalance in the world.

And if this king is a Dragonborn, he may very well be loyal to the tyrant who went mad with his need for destruction. Which would make his role with me all the more confusing.

I stand, releasing an irritated breath as I fold up Peyra’s cloak, placing it under the pillow. The sun has risen, and the servant who pesters me each morning will be here any second to try and force me into the customs of a world that rejected me. I study Peyra’s cloak one last time, rubbing my thumb over it before covering it completely with the pillow, just as the servant knocks on the door to begin my day.

* * * * *

I pull at the fabric of the gown in discomfort as I stare at myself in the mirror. It’s a light blue dress with long sleeves that are the same length as the gown, draping the floor. The fabric feels strange against my skin, like it’s enclosing me, and it clings to my skin like no other fabric ever has.

I never envisioned myself in a dress. Just as I speculated when I refused to wear the previous one brought for me, this one is very restrictive and will make it difficult to fight for my life if need be. But the servant was commanded by the king himself to make sure I wear this today. And he made sure to throw in the fact that I owe him for Peyra’s cloak.

I scoff, pushing my hair out of my face as I smooth the front of the dress. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe he only saw a means to making me wear this ridiculous gown so I could stop wearing his men’s clothes.

I shift my attention to the human servant behind me as she approaches with metal brooches. She moves towards my hair, and I tense, holding my hand out to stop her as I move away.

“This is as far as any of you will get from me,” I say, narrowing my gaze.

She blinks, stepping back as her cheeks burn. “I-I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to offend, these are customary—”

“I don’t care for your customs. They are not mine, and I do not want to assimilate with them. Tell your king, I have recognized his kindness,” I say.

She quickly bows to me, making me uncomfortable. “Of course.”

I watch her carefully, my interest piqued. She has served me for a week now and has only ever done as she’s told, as if she truly sees it as an honor to be here.

“What is your name?” I finally ask.

She stops in her tracks, her eyes wide at my interest.

“I-It’s Ismena,” she says, once again bowing.

“Ismena,” I repeat. “That is beautiful. Were you named after your mother?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. I had no mother. I was born into servitude,” she says.

I raise a brow in confusion. “Then who gave you your name?” I ask.

“The headmistress who raised me,” she says softly, smiling fondly as if thinking of a memory.

“Does she no longer serve here?” I ask.

Ismena’s expression shifts, as if she is hesitant to give her answer. Or doesn’t know the proper answer. She has clearly been given orders to follow when around me. So, I turn back to the mirror, and begin threading my strands through my fingers to create a braid as I speak.

“If you were born into servitude, your service should have ended with the last king’s reign, correct?” I ask.

Her expression shifts, and I know for sure this is something she has been forbidden from telling me. She slowly clasps her hands in front of her, lowering her head.

“It was an honor to be chosen to serve the new king,” she says.

I watch her carefully. I’ve rarely spent time around people. Peyra is the only person I’ve spoken to directly in all of my years, and even when in disguise, I had to be cautious of speaking to humans. I was not to get close and not to engage.

I am beginning to understand them more, however, as I watch Ismena. They have easy tells. She isn’t lying about feeling it’s an honor to serve this new king. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t afraid of something.

I look away from her, finishing my braid. Once I’m done, I gently smooth the front of the dress again, studying myself in the mirror.

“I am an orphan too,” I say. She looks at me in the reflection, her eyes wide.

“Contrary to what everyone thinks, I was affected by the war long before I could retain memories. I know nothing of the village I come from, nor do I know anything about my family,” I say, looking at myself.

I bring my fingers to my cheek, brushing the stray hairs from my braid away from my face.

“I don’t know if this is my mother’s or my father’s face,” I say. “I was raised by someone else, just like you,” I say.

Ismena’s eyes are wide as I speak, and I can see that she is fascinated by the story of probably one of the only Ikniri she’s ever met. But she also sees pieces of herself in my story.

“You may think that because I am an Ancient, this is an honor… but I am no different than you. There is nothing special about me,” I say.

I shift my attention to the doorway as the sound of footsteps approaches. Ismena, being human, doesn’t hear until whoever it is knocks on the door before entering.

Caius steps into the room, and I note that Ismena bows as he walks in, once again showing me pieces of this hierarchy.

Caius doesn’t acknowledge her as he steps into the room. He smirks, gesturing to my gown.

“I barely recognize you without one of my men’s shirts swallowing you,” he laughs.

I narrow my gaze, briefly looking at Ismena. She slowly backs into the corner as he approaches, no longer in either of our eyelines. And Caius never acknowledges her, making me curious about what he feels for humans beyond pity. It may not be hatred, but the indifference is there.

“Your king demanded it as a way to return a favor,” I say, looking back to him.

Confusion appears on Caius’s face for a moment before he scoffs. There isn’t humor to it, more like annoyance, causing me to laugh.

“Did your king do something wrong now?” I ask.

“No. I’m just surprised, is all,” he says.

I shift my attention back to the mirror, taking myself in one last time.

“What do you want? Have I been summoned again?” I ask.

Caius laughs, pulling my attention. He’s a strange man that I can’t quite figure out. Sometimes he seems so at ease, and at others he is on edge, as if riddled with guilt.

“Quite the opposite, actually. You’ve been granted permission to visit outside the castle walls, if you would like,” Caius says.

I look at him in shock.

“Your king granted this?” I ask.

Caius nods, gesturing to the gown. “As a reward for following orders.”