SONG RECOMMENDATION: "Gangsta" (from Suicide Squad) by Kehlani.
It was just rolling into dawn when the carriages passed through the massive gates of the estate. The long, winding path revealed well-manicured lawns and bushes, towering trees, and sculptures in twisted shapes. It took a while before the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the mansion.
Lines of servants stood on the walkway leading to the front door, adorned in their work attire, their heads lowered in greeting.
Silas carried Lucinda in his arms, with Federick walking behind him, holding Theodore. Silas's back was straight, his jaw set, and his hair slightly rumpled. His hand trembled under the strain of holding Lucinda. His gaze was tunnel-focused, his expression dark as he strode past each servant, who bowed lower in his wake, up the grand stairs, and through the massive open double doors.
Lucinda remained motionless all the way up to the chamber prepared for their return. The room was airy and spotless.
He laid her in the middle of the large, imposing bed. Her beautiful dark hair fanned around her on the silk sheets. His hand came up to brush a few strands away from her face, his gaze narrowing on the dark purple blotches marring her closed eyelids.
A grunt tore from his throat, and his fists clenched to white on the silk sheet caging her body.
A maid scurried into the room and bowed in greeting. Silas sized her up once before addressing her.
"Do not let your sight stray from her, not even once. Lead the physicians to her when they arrive."
His cold voice made her tremble. She dared a glance up at him and froze at his expression, cut from stone. The light from the flames highlighted his sharp angles, his eyes soulless. When his gaze met hers, she squeaked, quickly lowering her head.
"Y-yes, my lord."
He walked to the door, but before closing it, his voice rang out again, laced with a dangerous edge.
"Make no mistake."
The flames flickered across his face, and her heart chilled as she nodded frantically.
"Yes, my lord!"
The door creaked to a gentle close, belying his dark demeanor.
The door to Theodore's room creaked open. A maid was already inside, tucking him in. His bloodied clothes had been changed, and she was just cleaning up the last of the dried blood on his face when Silas walked in.
Silas waited silently as the maid gathered the bowl and wet towel. She bowed deeply before leaving, closing the door behind her.
Silas walked to the bed, which dipped under his weight as he knelt beside it. Hesitantly, he brushed away Theodore's curls. His hands tightened as he took in the boy's furrowed brows, which he smoothed with a gentle touch. He couldn't imagine the horrors Theodore must have faced, the dreadful dreams that plagued him. How much more would this scar him?
He pushed off the bed and turned to go when a whisper caught his attention. Slowly, he turned back to Theodore, whose small lips were parted, his brows still scrunched.
The inaudible whisper came again, and Silas had no choice but to lower his head closer to the child.
He waited a moment. Nothing.
But just as he was about to pull away, a tiny whisper reached his ear.
"Mama…"
This time, it was clear.
Silas's jaw tightened, his gaze hardening.
More incoherent mumbles followed, until Theodore strained out another word:
"Papa…" He whispered roughly, his small voice trembling. "…Save Mama."
The boy's brows furrowed deeper, and he began to toss until Silas rested his large hand over his small, quivering one.
"Papa will save Mama," Silas assured him. His words were a heavy weight on his shoulders.
He would make sure Theodore wouldn't suffer any longer. The child didn't deserve it. Silas would take his pain and make it his own.
His burden to bear.
And as Silas closed the door behind him, Theodore's furrowed brows slowly eased, his face smoothing into dreamless relief.
"Just let me go! This is futile anyway!"
The assassin thrashed in the chair he was bound to.
Federick paid no mind to him, his long silver hair glowing under the stream of moonlight illuminating parts of the room. His hands were busy assembling tools at the corner.
"You're quite pretty for a man," the assassin sneered, his bloodied lips curling. "I'm sure my friend would like a taste. He doesn't distinguish, you know…" He chuckled gruffly, only to cough from the bruises on his side.
"Your friend is dead," Federick said without turning. "And so will you soon."
A vial clattered on the mahogany table.
"I'd advise you to speak now before you regret it."
The assassin's lips twisted in a distasteful snarl.
"I bet that beautiful mouth of yours could be put to better use—"
A soft creak in the darkness interrupted him, followed by the distinct sound of metal clicking.
From the shadows came a low, amused chuckle.
"Quite the jokester, I see."
The bound man fell silent, straining to peer into the darkness.
"I can already tell we'll have some fun," Silas's voice drawled as he stepped into the dim light, his pocket watch in hand and a smile creasing his eyes.
Federick stepped back as Silas approached the assassin. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his toned forearms.
"I assume you're the ringleader…?" Silas asked casually, his eyes studying the pocket watch.
"And if I am?"
Silas raised his head, his smile stretching wider. "Then we simply must be friends. And friends don't keep secrets from each other." He hummed, as though considering something.
"So, tell me—where did you get the poison?"
The assassin chuckled darkly. "By your tone, I'm guessing my accomplices did their job well. They're dead now, aren't they? The boy especially must've had a quick death."
This man wasn't just any assassin—he was the other figure present when the maid had been killed, the one who had been with Theodore.
Silas's smile slowly fell as he learned the true intended for the poisoned dagger.
In an instant, his hand shot out, clamping around the assassin's neck. The force scraped the chair back.
Silas threw his head back in a sharp, eerie laugh before meeting the assassin's gaze with eyes brimming with mania.
"If you don't start talking," Silas hissed, "I promise you'll meet a side of me not many have. And here's a tip: none of them survived."
The assassin didn't flinch, though his lip curled in defiance. Instead, he spat at Silas's face.
"We'll see about that." his yellowing teeth askew grinned up at Silas.
Silas wiped his face with chilling calm, his expression unchanging. He pressed a button on his pocket watch.
"Federick."
Federick wheeled a table toward him. Its polished mahogany surface gleamed under the moonlight, now burdened with an arsenal of instruments—each more wickedly fashioned than the last, as though plucked from the darkest corners of Naria— their continent.
Silas selected a rusty blade and walked to the assassin's bound wrist.
"Shall I tell you a story?" His voice was light, almost conversational, though his steps echoed ominously in the quiet room.
"An intriguing story about a little boy."
The cold, twisted blade trailed down the assassin's arm, and beads of sweat began to form on his temple. A chill crept up his spine.
"That boy liked beautiful things," Silas continued.
Federick moved silently, tightening the straps that bound the assassin's hands to the chair.
"Beautiful clothes. Beautiful scenery. Beautiful people…"
The blade stopped at the assassin's wrist before moving on to his fingers, tracing them one by one.
"But as much as he loved beautiful things…" Silas's voice grew darker, more sinister. His gaze turned sharp and unyielding, locking onto the assassin's fearful eyes.
"…he loved to see them burn."
With a sudden, deliberate motion, Silas raised the dagger and plunged it, tip first into the assassin's hand.
A bloodcurdling scream erupted from the man's throat, echoing through the stone walls.
"What he hated most, though," Silas said, his brow quirking as he twisted the blade deeper, "was when someone else destroyed those things. Why take all the fun? It wasn't their place."
The assassin howled in agony, his voice raw and trembling.
Silas leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper.
"Who. Gave. You. The. Poison?"
"Lady Valerie!" the assassin choked out through gritted teeth.
Silas tilted his head, unimpressed. "Wrong answer."
With a wrench, he pulled the dagger free from the man's hand. In a swift move followed by a sickening crunch, a spray of blood rushed from the man now severed hand, painting the stone floor crimson.
The man's scream was abruptly muffled when Silas forcefully shoved the thick meaty fingers into the man's mouth, gagging him.
"Do I look like a fool to you?" Silas tsked, his tone almost playful. "The wench might be daring, but she wouldn't have access to a poison like this so easily."
He leaned down, whispering into the man's ear.
"Do you know why?" He shushed whispering in the ears of the man still groggily moaning from the pain of his now missing limb.
The assassin whimpered, his voice weak and trembling. "W-why?"
Silas face froze in an unholy expression, he leaned into the man ears
"Because I created it, silly."
The assassin's stomach plummeted as realization dawned.
What followed was a symphony of horror. Screams, bone-crunching impacts, and the slick sound of flesh being torn filled the room. By the end, the assassin was barely recognizable—a broken, bloodied shell of the defiant man he had once been.
"P-please…" the assassin whimpered, his voice hoarse and wet with blood. "No more."
Silas studied the grotesque figure before him, tilting his head slightly as though admiring his handiwork. His bloodied wooden bat dangled loosely from his fingers, the cause of countless broken bones even unknown to the victim.
"I'll ask this one last time." His voice carried the weight of finality, the bat tapping rhythmically against the chair.
"Who. Gave. You. The. Poison?"
The assassin's body shuddered, his remaining strength fading fast.
Frederick placed the latest sterilized weapon neatly in a row.
Silas retrieved his pocket watch, its ticking loud in the suffocating silence. With a snap, he closed it.
He stretched out his palm his cold gaze trained on the bloody and battered assassin.
Federick handed him a small vial. Without hesitation, Silas gripped the assassin's jaw, forcing his bloodied mouth open, and poured the vial's contents down his throat.
The assassin gagged, coughing violently, trying to expel the liquid from his body.
"You don't understand…" he wheezed, blood dripping from his lips. "I… I won't tell you anything. The pain promised to me—it'll be worse than anything you can imagine."
"Worse, you say?" Silas murmured, his tone darkly amused. "Do you know who you're speaking to?"
The assassin's only answer was a choked cough.
"I am Silas Quilvet. And there's a reason they call me the devil."
The assassin's eyes widened in horror, and in the next moment, blood spluttered out of his mouth in an uncontrollable spray.
His body convulsed violently. Freezing cold and searing heat coursed through him simultaneously. His wounds were searing, his bones quaking a painful twinge.
His body couldn't handle this much pain.
Crimson tears burned at the rim of his eyes and fell. His nose oozed blood. And soon every hole in his body started to bleed. He sat there, bound and restricted, quaking from the inside out from a seizure,bleeding from every possible hole in his body, so much excruciating pain his brain could not fathom it.
He wasn't dead, nor alive. But deep in the devil's abyss.
Slowly a wide grin stretched abnormally wide across Silas face. Like a deformity, studying a specimen specifically laid out for him to toy with.
"Eight minutes and thirteen seconds," he muttered, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. That's how long he had lasted.
His chuckle boomed around the cold stone walls, starting small but rising in octave, his whole being shook from it. His palm trailing from where they pushed his hair back to his face. Leaving a trails of smeared bloodied hand print.
But he seemed unbothered—unfazed..
He was in his element.
The unfathomable, unforgiving monster that he was.