Trynton ran his hand through his dark beard as he watched Bryard leave the stone room. His gaze shifted to me, a thick brow rising in silent judgment.
"What?" I breathed out, wincing as the ache from my burned chest flared anew. "Don't look at me like that."
Trynton's voice rumbled with a hint of a Scottish lilt I guess he'd been hiding as he began to lecture. "I tell ye to stay out of trouble, and here ye are—"
"Why do you want to help me?" I cut him off, my words sharper than intended. "What's stopping you from changing everything? A real believer of All Mother working with Punishers makes no sense." The bitterness in my tone surprised even me.
He stared at me, his eyes hard as flint. For a moment, I thought he might strike me—and I wouldn't have blamed him, not after he'd risked his life to help me.
"I'm sorry," I murmured after a long, tense silence. "I just want to understand."
Trynton raised a calloused hand, waving off my words. "Ye've every right to be angry, even if I help ye. The true All Mother's teachings aren't cruel. Never really had a choice, ye see," he explained, his hulking form approaching me as it had in the barn.
He pulled out the keys and unlocked my hands, allowing me to stand upright. Then he tossed me a cloth—I guessed for my wound. The look in his eyes caught me off guard, but I recognized it all the same.
Defeat. He was a defeated man bred into a warrior, bearing the same haunted expression I'd seen on the thralls training when we first arrived at The Hollows.
"You were a—" I started, realization dawning.
"I was a thrall, aye," he confirmed, his accent slightly more pronounced. "How d'ye think someone gets this position? Ye climb the ranks, lad. I see myself in ye, before I let them break me."
I clutched the cloth he'd thrown and wiped my face free of sweat. The nearby brazier Bryard had used to heat the iron wasn't helping matters in the heat department.
"That story you told, the different accent when you're around the others…" I ventured, "That was when you were taken. You had nowhere to go."
"Aye, the poorest parts of the free cities," Trynton nodded, his voice heavy with memory. "Ye get attacked by a bunch of daemons as a wee one, it scares ye senseless. Sends ye running into the arms of what ye thought was a lesser evil." He shook his head, regret etched in every line of his face.
I walked over to a large crate of water and dipped the cloth inside, then pressed it to my burned skin, hissing through clenched teeth at the contact.
"Will I ever get out of here?" I asked, hope and desperation mingling in my voice. "Can we fight for change?"
Trynton's eyes darkened, a haunted look crossing his rugged features, his voice carrying the weight of years. "There was a rebellion about four years ago..." He paused, his fists clenching at his sides. "Ended in over 250 thralls' deaths. Those that survived... we carry the guilt like a stone."
His gaze locked onto mine, intense and unyielding. "The faster ye realize ye need to survive, despite the things ye must do... the easier it becomes."
I couldn't help it—a bitter laugh escaped my lips, echoing off the stone walls. It was the same old mumbo jumbo bullshit dad used to spout when he tried to make me feel better.
'If you give up now, son, there won't be any disappointment later.'
My eyes narrowed, recalling the past. What he really meant was, he was tired of seeing me fail. He'd rather I suffer, watching my sister bask in a life she never deserved while I remained trapped in the shadows.
Something inside me ignited. If I was brought into this game as a new start, I didn't want to be content with suffering just to live another day. No—I wanted to make a change.
I spun around. "Is it really easier?" I challenged, my voice rising. "Do you sleep easily at night, Trynton?"
Trynton's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his beard. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual gruff demeanor.
"Come on, kid," he growled, his accent thickening slightly. "Let's get ye to the training grounds before Bryard pitches a fit." He turned, his broad shoulders set in a tense line as he strode towards the door.
***
𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 cut scene. . .
⋘ please wait… ⋙
As the scene unfolds with a digital haze, the title cuts through the void: "𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰." A loading bar appears as we delve deeper into Prince Raynard's perspective.
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Prince Raynard's face contorted with fury as he drew his bow, the drawstring taut under his grip. How could his father choose Prince Aragorn over him for the Hellfire Throne?
He was the firstborn.
He had sacrificed everything to prove himself, to show that Prince Raynard, firstborn to King Zyres Firesong the Third, was the rightful heir.
Focusing on the whimpering and clanking of chains before him, Raynard's eyes narrowed as he drew his bow taut. The sound was music to his ears..
With a swift release, the arrow sliced through the air and struck its target—a bound Elven woman from Sylvanwood. The arrow embedded itself in her chest, her pale blonde hair cascading over her face and breasts.
It was a morbid beauty. The ease with which gentle things perished fascinated him. A true ruler must be detached from death, for war always demanded sacrifices, even in the pursuit of becoming the greatest king.
"Such fragile creatures," he scoffed, a sneer twisting his lips as he signaled his servants to dispose of the elven woman. But as they moved to unshackle her, Raynard had a sudden thought.
"Wait," he commanded, his voice a silky purr. His bare feet glided across the cool marble floor, the black silk of his robe trailing behind him like shadows.
The servants froze. They knew better than to defy him. His patience for disobedience was nonexistent.
King Raynard lowered himself, lifting the unknown elven girl's head, her bright blue eyes staring blankly into the void. "These," he murmured, retrieving a blade from his waistband and tapping her eyes. "And those," he continued, tapping her pointed ears.
The servants' eyes widened in horror as they watched him remove the features. He held them up to the lantern light, blood dripping from his blackened fingertips before offering them to one of the servants.
"Take these and add them to my collection," Raynard commanded with a grin, handing them over just as one of his father's four-red-eyed ravens flew through the open window.
He extended his arm, and the raven landed, fluttering its wings as it settled.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Raynard mused, running a sharpened finger along the back of the raven's neck before retrieving the piece of rolled-up parchment from its talons.
He unrolled it.
Dear Prince Raynard, the true king of the great daemon cities
You requested we find the boy before your mother does, and as the elder Silent Keeper, I serve not to disappoint. He's been spotted in the free cities. Tell your father to gain his respect.— Your loyal servant, Keeper Xy.
Raynard's grin widened. "Let's go earn our father's praise." He tossed his arm up, and the four eyed raven soared back through the window and into the night skyline of the great Daemon cities.