Stalsgard, 17th of Mörsugur, 1115 A.C.
Survivors have scars.
Victims have graves.
Melantha Larssen was absolutely determined to be the former.
She kept her posture straight as she stared at the fortress rising in front of her on the horizon, her eyes taking in the sight ahead without a single twinge of emotion crossing her features.
Deep down, she knew she'd been dealt the worst hand in all of this, but she refused to deny herself the dignity of walking off into what was to be her future with her head held high. Even though she was just a girl, with soft features and a delicate frame, a fierce fire burned within her that kept her from feeling like a victim in the turn of events that'd brought her here. To everyone around her, she was just a pawn in a political game, not a person with her own will and the right to a life, but she didn't care for others' opinions.
She'd make sure she survived this first.
Then, she'd worry if it'd been fair or not.
"Dismount. We'll walk the rest of the way. It's best to leave the horses here." The melodic, low voice came from behind her, surprising her even though she'd been able to feel his presence and attention the entire ride.
She looked over her shoulder —
He was already dismounting his black, enormous horse behind her.
Onyx — she'd learned the horse's name was — was a tall, sleek, jet-black creature, its coat glistening with snowflakes and its muscles rippling with power. It pawed at the ground, tossing clumps of snow as it shifted its weight restlessly, its long mane whipping in the wind. Its eyes, though, just as black as the rest of him, moved calmly around the environment, taking in the trees and snow around it with an ease that defied the anxiety with each it changed its weight and, more than that, defied the very animal's intelligence. They settled on Melantha for a few single seconds as she kept her gaze on it before it moved away, dismissing her in exchange for the horizon of the forest blinking at them yards back as if it knew all too well the sort of danger that lurked in the shadows of its trees. Despite its intimidating size, there was a certain elegance to the way it moved, keeping still as his rider dismounted, although it tilted the slightest bit to the left to help him. It smelled faintly of leather mixed with the freshness of the winter air, which was odd since Melantha's smaller mare smelled solely of the same fragrance of leather from her saddle and animal sweat. No matter how much she disliked the horse, she couldn't deny the obvious.
It was a beautiful horse.
One that matched his owner's beauty in spades.
Melantha shook her head. "Why? How do you know that?" Her voice sounded gruff.
"I've been here before." His voice sounded distant enough to be considered careless but she recognized the forced note of indifference all too well not to hear it. He caught hold of the horse's reigns and unattached them the loop at the bit so it would allow the horse free reign. "The snow will be over twelve inches deep by this time of the season and the fortress has been deserted for decades, so no one has been upkeeping the access roads. It'll be too hard to cross for them and I don't want to risk an injury. It's best that they stay here."
Her brown mare changed her weight, chaffing as if urging her to dismount as well.
She didn't.
She wanted to comment but bit her tongue as soon as her lips moved to talk, knowing that prying into this man's inner workings was the wrong way to tread her delicate situation. Without moving down from her horse, she fixed her gaze on the fortress, speaking with a clear, unaffected voice. "So, are we going to keep ignoring the fact that the King has ordered you to murder me?"
"If you're asking me to confirm or deny whether or not he asked that of me, I think you'll find I'm not in the mood to do either."
Not in the mood?
He had to be in the mood to either confirm or deny being given murderous orders?
Well, wasn't he a peach?
He turned away, busying himself with securing the reigns on one of Onyx's side saddle bags.
"I'm disappointed you thought I needed you to confirm, but I'm glad you did, anyway." Melantha watched his broad shoulders tense beneath his fur-lined cloak, as she didn't need any other sign to know there was more he wasn't saying. Her brows rose. "But I can't say I'm not… intrigued as to why you haven't done it."
"Yet."
Grinding her teeth, she swooped down from mare's back, hitting the ground with a graceful thud even as her entire body protested violently given the soreness that enveloped her from the three-days ride. "But will you?"
She heard him sigh, his footsteps echoing in the silent forest as he approached her. "I serve the crown, Melantha."
Melantha took a deep breath, steeling herself as she turned to face the man.
He was truly breathtaking.
Her gaze hardened as she locked eyes with the man in front of her. His eyes were large, slightly, and elegantly slanted, bright like the sky but darker in shade, reminding her of the color of the sun fading over the ocean right when it was speckled by golden sun rays. If it weren't for that shade of golden in them, they would look almost exactly like hers — an icy, piercing dark-royal blue. His features were chiseled, pronounced, and sharp like a marble statue come to life, but his lips were plump and beautifully arched. His fair hair fell in waves across his forehead and shoulders, drawing attention to his sharp jawline and high cheekbones. He was dressed all in black leathers, tight around his body but not constrictive, yet it was obvious he was a man of powerful constitution, with muscles worked enough to be a weapon on their own.
Despite his silent, guarded demeanor, she couldn't refute that he was undeniably handsome.
Though they had ridden together in silence for days, she still did not know what to make of this man who had been tasked with escorting her to her fate. She'd seen him many times around the palace and she knew exactly what he did for the kingdom, but she still didn't understand him. There had always been an air of mystery about him she couldn't put her finger on. She was intrigued by him more than she was willing to admit, and a part of her admired him in a way she couldn't quite explain. All the times she'd been in his presence as a child had been oddly intense, and while she had very present the fact that he was loyal to the King and the lands he ruled, she also remembered quite well how he didn't always follow the orders he was given.
She truly couldn't figure him out.
He said the words almost as if following his orders was an inevitability.
And yet, here they stood.
Why?
"If you did, you would have killed me by now."
"Don't fool yourself into thinking that because I haven't done yet means I won't," he countered, his voice a low rumble. His eyes, though clear in their shade, were inscrutable, framed by golden brows that knitted together in concentration. Long waves of blonde hair fluttered around his face in the frigid wind, adding to his imposing presence. His piercing blue gaze locked onto hers with an unwavering intensity, betraying no emotion. "But I am my own man," he continued, his tone unyielding. "And I act according to my own judgment."
Melantha's eyes narrowed. She had suspected there was more to his stoic demeanor. "Then, am I to believe you brought me all this way to show me the northern landscape before you kill me?"
He snorted in a sound that mixed both amusement and disdain. "It is a most magnificent view, indeed. You would be truly benefited, if that was my intent." He ran a hand through his windswept hair, tousling the strands before petting his horse's sleek mane. With a determined stride, he led the way towards the looming fortress in the distance. "But you'll learn, in time, that there are worse things than death, as well as even worse men than I to deliver it." He lifted his face to the sky, where the falling snowstorm gathered, gray and ominous. "We should move. Night will be falling soon."
What did that mean?
Melantha watched him walk ahead, his dark cloak billowing behind him. She shivered, though not just from the cold, wondering what she should make of this man.
She knew it was illogical for him to have brought her this far only to have her killed here. And she also knew that even though he was in service of the King, he despised death. Particularly human's. But then, why had he accepted the King's orders? Why had he accepted to be the one to end her life if, in truth, he opposed it? And should his refusal of this task he'd been given be interpreted as a blessing? What fate awaited her instead? Could she trust her grim escort to be her salvation instead of her doom?
Adjusting her own cloak around her shoulders, she followed cautiously.
She would not go down without a fight.
She guessed he knew that.
Melantha followed the mysterious man through the snow, her boots crunching in the deep powder with each step. After a few moments, she realized stepping on the footprints he left made the task easier, which happened to be a true blessing because her calves were already starting to burn from the effort. She shivered against the biting wind, pulling her fur-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders.
Up ahead loomed the abandoned fortress, rising out of the whiteness like a great stone sentinel. Melantha wondered what secrets lay within its icy walls, what unknown fate awaited her here.
She glanced at the stoic Slayer.
His golden hair whipped wildly in the wind, and his handsome features were set in their usual unreadable mask. But she thought she detected a hint of tension in his broad shoulders and a tightness around his mouth.
Maybe he was more bothered about this than she'd initially thought.
As they approached the imposing iron gates, now rusted and crooked on their hinges, Melantha felt a spike of apprehension. The wind keened through the empty arrow slits, moaning an eerie lament.
She paused, a protest on her lips, but the man grasped her arm and propelled her forward.
"You do not want to be outside when the storm comes," he said gruffly.
They passed through a gatehouse with crumbling masonry, entering a broad courtyard blanketed in snow. The place looked completely deserted, not a living soul in sight. The gates were behind their backs, but the fortress emerged now around them, the big courtyard empty and the two buildings to each of her sides above her shoulders abandoned. Unlike most buildings in Iselvheim and Stuttgart, where she'd been born, this fortress was made entirely of stone. Probably to withstand the weather, which she'd heard to be absolutely brutal, more so than anywhere else in Arszden. She noticed that the fortress seemed to have been somewhat divided into two sections, one on each side of the main gate. Beyond it, there was a wall — where she could see several watchtowers every few yards which she was sure, in ancient times, soldiers used to watch for oncoming threats — connecting the two sides of the building in an oval shape.
Melantha's breath plumed before her as she followed the man across the courtyard toward one of the inner buildings on the right side.
He wrestled with a warped wooden door, cursing under his breath before it finally creaked open with a shrill screeching.
The sound echoed hollowly within.
Melantha hesitated on the threshold, her breath catching as she strained to see through the oppressive darkness beyond. She flinched violently when his hand clamped down on her arm, shoving her forward with a force that almost toppled her. Wrenching herself free from his iron grip, she caught the faintest glimmer of a smirk tugging at the man's lips, a twisted acknowledgment of her audacity. "You know why the King ordered you to kill me, don't you, Slayer?"
Without sparing her a glance, he continued his unrelenting march deeper into the heart of the fortress's shadowy halls. "I'm well aware that you know who I am," he replied, each word dripping with cold indifference. "And my name."
She knew.
She just didn't want to acknowledge him by name because that would make all of this too real.
More than knowing him, she'd heard the stories people told about him.
He was a ferocious hunter.
The kind most people knew better than to cross. And if the ruthlessness with which he killed beasts was any indication, she guessed humans would be even easier to execute for him, especially given the powers people said he held.
Although there were also stories about his unwillingness to do it.
Her lips twitched. "That is not what I asked."
"But it is important all the same, is it not?" He reminded her. At her silence, he sighed. "Or perhaps not." He shrugged. "Does it truly matter why?"
Her brows furrowed. "Why wouldn't it?"
"Because, regardless of the reason, he did order your death. That's what should concern you most," he replied blandly, his voice softening and growing lower as though the topic annoyed him. "It's also the only thing you should hold on to from now on, because clinging to anything else will ultimately be your destruction, Melantha."
It sounded like a warning, if she'd ever heard one.
But a warning against what? Her destruction? Destruction by what? King and the future he'd demanded to be taken from her? Or was it the resentment that would be her downfall? What did this man know of the future that awaited her, except that it certainly would not be among her family, which had been so viciously taken from her?
Melantha frowned, uncertainty gnawing at her as she followed the man further into the depths of the ancient fortress. His words rang with dark truth as she'd suspected.
The King had indeed ordered her death.
Melantha followed the man warily into the dark interior of the abandoned fortress. The only light came from the tall windows above them, casting their shadows in distorted shapes along the cobwebbed stone walls. Their footsteps echoed eerily in the vast, empty space. Up ahead, he paused and lifted a torch out of a rusted sconce on the wall. He flicked his wrist once and sparks of ember glittered in the darkness, bathing the hallway in flickering orange light. Shadows danced around them, amplifying the ominous atmosphere.
"I don't kill Children of Clay."
Melantha nearly tripped at the blatant words that echoed around the empty fortress. "What?"
"I kill beasts. Not humans," he repeated solemnly. "The King knows that, and he still ordered me to kill you," he continued, surprising her when his voice grew surly and bitter. "He wants you dead because you represent a risk he can't afford and he ordered me to kill you because he knew I was the only one who wouldn't be able to refuse his request."
Of course, he thought she was a risk.
No matter the fact she'd made it very clear her entire life that she had no desire to pose any sort of problem to him and the kingdom, he saw in her the risk of losing his throne anyhow. He was a king, after all.
The fear of losing what made him powerful was always too great.
Though it was quite funny how he was the one who'd made the mistake all those winters ago, guided by his desire for pleasure alone, and she was the one paying the price for it all this time later, as it so often happened in matters such as this.
He did as he pleased and, ultimately, she was the one punished for his crime.
"To kill a threat to the kingdom?" Her voice sounded so bitter it surely could have poisoned the earth itself if it dared.
He stopped, turning abruptly and shaking his head, his gaze so intense upon hers it made her lose her next breath. "To kill an innocent girl."
Melantha stared at the man in disbelief.
An innocent girl?
She had never considered herself innocent, not after the things she had seen and the hardships she had endured. But the conviction in the man's eyes gave her pause, because, in a way, she could be considered innocent.
After all, she hadn't chosen to be born.
Melantha's mouth dropped open, her legs suddenly weak under her. "That's why you brought me here?"
He held up a hand. "No."
There was a pause.
Her eyes widened with sudden understanding. "You don't actually mean to kill me at all, do you?" She breathed.
The barest hint of a smile touched his lips. Without responding, he turned and continued down the shadowed hall, dismissing her and the answer he owed her.
Melantha hurried to catch up, her boots echoing off the stones.
There was more to this strange man than she ever could have guessed.
And if she wasn't scared he might change his mind, she might actually be tempted to say he was trying to protect her.
Melantha followed the man down the hall, her mind racing. He had been ordered to kill her, but clearly he had no intention of doing so. Instead, he'd brought her here, but that begged the question of why? Why had he brought her here? Why had he refused to do as he'd been told? What did he stand to gain from sparing her life and defying his orders? What was his motivation for sparing her?
She studied him as he walked just ahead of her, his stride confident and steady. To anyone's eyes, he moved with the ease of a man accustomed to power and privilege and it was very clear he was not a man easily shaken from his purpose, no matter what it was.
Melantha wondered what had made him decide to show her mercy instead of carrying out his task. Perhaps he saw something in her that gave him pause, that made him question the King's orders. Or maybe he simply did not relish the thought of slaying someone so young, no matter the reason for it.
After all, no death was justified.
Melantha longed to ask him directly, to demand that he explain himself. But she held her tongue for now. She was in no position to make demands of her would-be executioner. Her life hung precariously in the balance, spared only by his silent whim. Which meant she would have to tread carefully, at least until she understood exactly where she stood with this enigmatic man. For now, she was content just to study him, taking in every detail as if her survival somehow depended on unraveling the mystery of his unexpected compassion. There was kindness in him, that much was clear. She'd seen it many times before and she saw it now.
She only hoped it would prove deep enough to keep her alive.
Melantha hurried her steps until she drew even with him. "Please," she pleaded, voice hoarse. "I have to know. Why are you doing this?"
"I will serve under the royal bloodline for as long as I live." The man slowed and glanced down at her, his expression unreadable. "But my vow was not to protect its King, but to protect the crown of Arszden. And I'm doing exactly that."
Melantha's heart raced, pounding against her chest like it was trying to escape. She sucked in a sharp breath, her body reacting as if she'd been stung by an unexpected force. "And letting me live serves that purpose?" She pressed, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice.
His eyes darkened with some deep emotion. "Doesn't it?"
Melantha studied the man's face, searching for any hint of deception, but found only sincerity in his eyes. His words echoed in her mind. Letting her live serves the crown? She hadn't considered that perspective before, but, since he'd brought it up, it made her realize something else.
He knew.
The real reason behind his orders.
"So, he has told you the real reason."
"He didn't have to. I've always known."
He'd always known?
Who was this man, after all? How could he know so much? How could he decide what to do to his own whims? How was he capable of deciding what was right or wrong based on his own convictions? Why did he serve the crown if he had the freedom to still act as he pleased? How far did his will truly extend?
She wasn't brave enough to even guess.
Her eyes widened. "I've always known the truth," she whispered, her voice a faint sound in the silence of the empty fortress. "And I have never desired the crown, not even when I was brought to Court after my parents' death. My mother offered me a good life and raised me without any resentment towards him because when she learned she was pregnant with me, she knew he wouldn't be able to claim me as heir. She never blamed him, after all, she was also to blame for their involvement. He'd never lied to her. Never promised anything he couldn't give her. So, she left Court as soon as she found out, married my father and they gave me a comfortable life," she stopped, swallowing the emotions burning her throat. "Why wasn't that enough for him?"
Only silence answered.
But, truly, she expected no answer, as there was no a question in her words than there had been any anger or bitterness, merely a morose sadness.
The man paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "I believe he cared deeply for your mother, as much as he was able. But once she found out to be with child and left Court, his hands were tied. As a bastard, you posed a potential threat to the legitimate royal lineage. He could not publicly acknowledge you, though it pained him to ignore your existence. Still, he tried… until someone found out and tried to have you killed."
Melantha mulled over his words, grief simmering within her. "That's why he had me brought to Court?"
He met her gaze evenly, nodding. "I do not ask your forgiveness on his behalf, nor am I trying to excuse his decisions. I'm simply trying to tell you there is more to this tale than you realize. Kings acts to secure the kingdom's future, but he is still just a man beneath the crown. Flawed, like all men are."
Melantha let out a heavy sigh, her body sagging under the weight of this revelation. She'd never hated him, never resented him and she'd never — not once — wished he'd claim her as heir, but she couldn't deny that the decision to have her killed after saving her from the attack on her life and then bringing her to Court all these past weeks wounded her. Why had he saved her if he meant to have her killed at his own hand? She could understand that he meant to protect the royal lineage, but was this truly the only way to do so?
The answer to that question evaded her.
And did it even matter? Truly matter?
Melantha took a deep, shuddering breath.
She had to accept that the King would always put the kingdom first, even above his own child. It wasn't fair, but she could not change it. All she could do was move forward with her head held high. After all, she'd proven already that, above all else, she was a fighter. A survivor. She'd had made it this far on her own. As much as it hurt, she would endure this, too. She was still alive, still breathing, still able to find purpose. She refused to let this break her. And despite a dose of surprise rushing through her, she found that she could not muster any real bitterness. Like all men, the King was bound by duties, most of which referred to more than himself, and she could not fault him for making priorities out of the right ones.
"If you're asking me if I believe in circumstance, I do."
"Then, you're wiser than most men I know."
She scoffed, not finding it within herself the ability to laugh. "I'm not entirely sure that is true."
"You'd be surprised how little men see when their survival is attacked."
The words toppled from her mouth quicker and sharper than she intended, entirely too thoughtless. "You clearly don't hold yours very dearly."
He stopped, shoulders tensing visibly. "Why would you say that?"
Melantha swallowed, whispering to herself she couldn't stop now that the words were out, so she rushed to explain herself. "You brought me here. Disobeyed the King in doing so." She shrugged, meeting his eyes and holding on even when a shiver of fear skittered over her spine, chilling her to the bone. "What do you think he'll do once he finds out you didn't kill me as he expected you to?"
The man's eyes darkened, his jaw clenching. "The King will do what he must. As will I. My motives have little importance in your current situation."
Melantha hurried to keep up, her mind swirling. She shouldn't have spoken so bluntly, but the words had spilled out before she could stop them. Still, she sensed there was more to this man's motivations than mere duty or honor. Something deeper stirred beneath that stoic exterior.
Something he refused to admit.
She sneered. "You're a fool if you think that answer is enough to justify what you're doing."
"Excuse me?" He retorted, and even though there was no anger in his tone, it was clear he was floored by her reaction.
Anger simmered beneath her skin. "How could you ever expect me to follow your lead and not question your reasons?"
He sighed, eyes brushing closed like a father explaining for hundredth time why his child couldn't have the toy she wanted. "I didn't expect it. I knew you'd question it, but that doesn't mean I'm under any obligation to answer." He took a step closer, chin tipping down in her direction. "All you need to know is that as long as I live, you will be under my protection. For however long that turns out to be."
Melantha's breath caught as she stared up at the man, conflicted emotions swirling within her. His vow rang with sincerity, yet she sensed an undercurrent of resignation, even despair in his words. "Why?" She whispered. "Why risk so much for me?"
His jaw tightened, eyes shadowed. "There is power in knowing what is worth rebelling for."
With that, he turned, strutting off into the heart of the fortress.
Shaking her head, Melantha assumed that ended the discussion. Shivering, she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders against the chill that permeated the air and went after him, seeing as though not having another option.
The twisting stone corridors were lit only by the occasional flickering torch, casting dancing shadows against the weathered walls. Their footsteps echoed eerily in the emptiness, the only other sound the steady drip of water somewhere far below. Melantha strained her senses, half expecting some hidden threat to leap from the darkness.
None did, though.
They continued on unaccosted in utter silence, descending staircase upon staircase. The stairs were narrow and winding, carved from the hard stone with deep grooves made smooth from centuries of use. The air grew heavier and more stagnant as they went deeper, a stale reminder of the secrets held within the depths of this ancient fortress.
But as they finally entered a circular chamber, bathed in the eerie glow of the braziers and the unfamiliar symbols that adorned the walls, it was clear that this was a place of power and mystery, a place where ancient secrets and hidden truths were waiting to be revealed. The room was shrouded in a thick silence, a foreboding stillness that seemed to seep from the very walls. On each side, a door sat, and the Slayer guided them across the one on the right, which felt like an extension of the previous one, with the symbols carved into the walls everywhere the eye could see, carrying the exact same quietness and whispering ancestry.
In its center, in a raised stone dais rested an ornate tomb made entirely of carefully carved, ivory-white stone, adorned with symbols and precious gemstones.
Melantha hesitated, nerves tingling with apprehension. Every instinct warned her to turn and flee this ominous place. But she steeled herself, refusing to show weakness before the Slayer.
She would not cower in fear.
Lifting her chin, she stepped forward to meet her fate.
He stopped and turned to her. "Do you know who this is?"
She shook her head. "Should I?"
"Long before you or I came along, the lands of this continent used to be but mere wastelands. With the unpredictable weather and only access being by Drakkar, it was home to none but the wildness." The Slayer's eyes glinted with something akin to sadness as he looked upon the tomb. "Kirsi Thorden is the reason either of us has a kingdom to call ours and, as the first ruler of Arszden, this fortress where she ruled and died of old age has been her place of rest ever since."
Melantha remembered how abandoned and badly kept the entire fortress was, overtaken by the elements, completely forgotten by the kingdom when it had been its birthing place.
How was that for loyalty?
"How did she end up here?"
"By chance," he answered absently. "Kirsi Thorden was born in the Kainsk Isles. Being the youngest of her siblings and the only woman, her father treated her quite differently from her brothers, which didn't please them. Her family was of noble blood, wealthy, and highly regarded by the royal family, but unfortunately, as a young woman, she fell in love with a plebeian man. Without her family's approval, the pair got involved. They wished to be married, which both knew her family would never accept and together were planning to run away in order to find a home for themselves away from the restrictions of her nobility. But one of her brothers caught her in bed with her lover one night, and decided to punish her by telling their father, who demanded that the young man's life was to be taken, his house to be burned down and his daughter to be brought to him."
Melantha's pulse pounded in her ears.
How had she never heard of this story?
The Slayer leaned his face down, his hair hiding his face completely and even though Melantha had never heard of this woman, she knew her story did not end well. "It was done so."
"Did he kill her?"
"No." He told her, voice rough. "He brought her back to the family home and made her watch as his men carried her lover's head inside the house and hung it from her father's office's wall as if the head of a fresh hunt. Blinded by rage and grief, Kirsi attacked her own father and her brothers, murdering them all. Tainted by her family's blood, she then decided to escape the islands she called home and sailed alone on a small boat into the open sea. The waves brought her here, to the surface lace we later began to call the Dáinnlands, where she spent five days and five nights after her boat shipwrecked on the coast, hunted by the creatures that roamed the darkness."
The Dáinnlands were, as the whispers of the people told it, the home of the strongest and deadliest magic in Midgard. The trees stood tall and twisted, their barks turned black by the lack of light and all their leaves rotten dead by the stench of sulfur, leaving the sinuous wood naked to the gray sky above, the branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. The ground was covered in moss, some parts turned into swamps by the continuous rainstorms and the hungered animals who live there are of the most dangerous kind, said to be able to break apart a being with teeth and claws. A permanent mist seemed to permeate the air, hiding what was too horrific to be in plain view. No known man who had ever walked in there had made it out.
Except him.
The King's Slayer.
No one knew well how he'd survived. But the stories told that he'd ventured there once, many moons ago, to hunt the creatures that roamed those lands and, despite having returned most certainly dented, he had survived.
Apparently, so had Kirsi Thorden, before him.
"But she survived."
He nodded. "Bloodied and wounded within an inch of her death, but she did."
Melantha listened intently as the Slayer continued the tale. She was enthralled by the tragic story of Kirsi Thorden and how the fierce woman had ended up in this forgotten fortress, forging the kingdom that Melantha knew today. "How did she rise to power, though?"
"On the fifth night, as Kirsi huddled in a cave, she was visited by a woman," the Slayer said, his voice taking on a rhythmic cadence. "She'd never seen anyone quite as beautiful or as ethereal as this woman. Certain the woman wasn't human, Kirsi initially thought her to be a hallucination. But she told Kirsi that it was the wyrd's wish that she healed her wounds and made this land hers. In exchange, she would save the child that grew in her womb, bestowing upon it the blessing of the Gods, as long as each of her heirs birthed a child of his blood to ensure the continuity of her bloodline to the ends of time."
A child?
That meant that when Kirsi had sailed here, she had been pregnant. With her commoner lover? The man her father had killed and whose head he had exhibited with pride? The man who had been deemed as too unbefitting of her nobility? Unworthy of her wealth and caste? The man who, unbeknownst to him, had created a King?
No crueler could the wyrd be, or the Gods would rage in boredom.
"Stricken by grief and overcome with love for the unborn child she already longed to see, Kirsi dragged herself to the place where the fortress' courtyard sits and decided that she would build a kingdom for her child, leaving him the crown, prestige, wealth and power that her family had once thought his father was too unworthy of. As time passed, Kirsi gave birth among the trees of the snowlands, and she battled to protect her child as he grew, providing for him as his father modestly would. With love and justice, Kirsi tamed the wildlands and soon, word spread of her existence in the small settlements in the habited lands in the south. With their help, she turned the wastelands into fertile farmlands and built this fortress. It did not take long before people flocked here to thrive under her rule from all over."
Melantha gazed at the tomb with newfound awe.
Here, in front of her, laid the founder of Arszden, a woman who had overcome immense tragedy to build this land. This room, which had seemed so ominous moments before, was a monument to one woman's strength and vision. To her perseverance. To her defiance and determination.
To her desire to prove blood didn't dictate a man's worth.
Only his downfall.
Melantha was silent as she absorbed the story of Kirsi Thorden, the first queen of Arszden. The more she learned about the woman, the more she admired her strength and resilience. A noblewoman who defied her family's expectations for love, who endured unimaginable pain and loss, yet still found the will to create something beautiful out of the ashes of her old life. It was an inspiring tale, one that kindled a flame in Melantha's own heart.
The Slayer's voice brought her out of her thoughts. "The child she bore, her son, who she named Hael, would be the first in a long line of kings that ruled this land. Each one of them carrying the blood of their forefather, a commoner whose heart made Kirsi the first Queen in the North."
Melantha's eyes widened in awe as her eyes trailed over the tomb once more. "Did she ever marry?"
"Never."
She tilted wide eyes to him. "Did she not love another?"
"Never," he whispered.
Melantha gazed upon the entombed Queen, awestruck by this history she'd never learned about her own kingdom.
"So you see, Melantha, all wyrds are given in one's measure," the Slayer ended in a voice so soft it felt like a feather soaring upon the sky. "And sometimes, it gives us that which is hardest just so it will make us that much stronger."
Her eyes tipped to him, full of questions, as his cryptic words about the wyrd's intentions echoed in her mind. "Is that your reason to bring me here?"
One corner of his lips tipped up under the torchlight flickering across his beautiful face. "Yes and no." His voice was low, almost wistful. His gaze moved away to the shadows of the room as his hand swept through his blonde hair. "It's only my attempt at making you understand that it is very dangerous to underestimate one's importance and the wyrd set for him."
Melantha opened her mouth —
However, her words died on her lips as footsteps sounded from the darkness of the fortress.
Melantha froze, her heart racing as the voices grew louder. She looked to the Slayer, who carefully drew his sword, the metal ringing softly as it slid from its sheath. The sound was just outside the crypt now. Melantha couldn't be sure, but it sounded like only one person's footsteps, rushed through not running at full speed.
Who else could be down here? Had they been followed?
She strained to hear.
Melantha held her breath, barely daring to move. The footsteps drew nearer, echoing through the stone corridors outside. She glanced at the Slayer, whose face was grim, his sword glinting in the torchlight.
He didn't move or talk, remaining as still as a statue, only a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Without warning, the heavy crypt door burst open, and one single soldier of the King's Guard barreled into the room. At the exact same moment, he stepped forward, placing himself partially in front of her, obscuring her view of the soldier. Though he wasn't exactly close to her, his proximity was enough that could feel the tension radiating off him and sense every breath he took and every muscle he moved.
She gulped.
Was he protecting her?
"I wish I could say I was surprised, but I am truly not." The words were a sneer enveloped in a chilling smile that made all the hairs in Melantha's arms stand on end. Completely unbothered by the Slayer standing with his sword out of its scabbard on his back or the fact that such a man was the strongest, most lethal, and most dangerous man in Midgard, the soldier walked into the room, his stance making it seem like he owned it instead of having barged in it, coming dangerously close, his eyes moving through the two figures backed against the tomb."What are you doing here, Kairo? You were supposed to kill her and return to the King. What are you doing here with the girl?"
Melantha saw the Slayer's muscles tense, fracturing just an inch of his perfect facade of cold indifference. "I'm doing what I was ordered to do. What are you doing here? Babysitting me?" Sarcasm dripped from his words, molded around a fake sense of civility, although not enough to mask the disdain he had for the soldier. "Isn't that a little beneath you, Thalron?"
Thalron scowled, gripping his sword tighter. "Mind your tone, Kairo. You know damn well why I'm here."
"Do I?"
"I'm here because of your fucking bleeding heart."
The Slayer laughed derisively, the sound as chilling as the blade in his hands that had probably stolen many more lives than Melantha could count. "If he's so concerned about my heart, why didn't he just order you to kill her? You'd certainly be effective enough."
Thalron scoffed. "He doesn't trust me like he trusts you. And even though you tried to save her against his orders, he'll probably give you a slap on the wrist and be done with the matter." The man changed his weight, his mouth forming a deep scowl of envy and hatred. "Also, I think he assumed you wouldn't make her suffer."
"But he still sent you."
It wasn't a question. Simply an observation.
"Guess he doesn't trust you enough to do the right thing on this particular occasion," he commented sardonically, his piercing accusation hanging in the air, stinging like a slap to Melantha's face. "To be completely honest, I don't know why he ever thought you would be impartial on this. Killing her is not the same thing as killing the vicious beasts you're used to."
The Slayer visibly tensed once more, his free hand closing in a tight fist, and the reaction made the soldier smile cockily.
What the hell?
Why wouldn't he be impartial?
Melantha felt her heartbeat quicken as the tension in the tomb thickened. She knew Kairo was her only protection against Thalron, yet his allegiance seemed uncertain. If he went back on his word, she was doomed. But if he did go back on his word, what did that make him? A traitor? A liar?
"I don't like killing humans," the Slayer corrected darkly, stepping once to his left, further away from Melantha. "It doesn't mean I never have, or that I won't."
He'd said that before.
What did it mean, though? That he'd kill her? That it had always been his intention?
Melantha's heart pounded as she stared at the cold steel blade in the Slayer's hands. She scarcely dared to breathe, acutely aware of the deadly assassin holding her fate in his iron grip. What madness had driven Kairo to defy his king's orders and spare her life to bring her here? And why did he insist on taking on the role of protector, when he was clearly matched by Thalron, who had come specifically to see that she was killed? And more importantly, why did he keep saying that he could do it if he wanted to?
"Evren knew you'd try to find a way out of your orders. So, he sent me." The soldier opened a bright, toothy smile. "I'm under orders from the King to find you, make sure the girl is killed, and take you back to Iselvheim." His eyes darted to Melantha, cold and calculating. "He has questions for you, one of which I'm sure will revolve around your little trip here."
Melantha shuddered at the lightness with which her death was spoken as if it was no more relevant than the death of a bug.
She looked at the contour of his shoulders in front of her, his stance steady and strong, and she wondered how he could be so calm when this man was clearly threatening to tear apart all his efforts. She could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating. Her own heart raced in her chest, so loud she was sure everyone in the room could hear it.
Her mouth opened —
"I don't need anyone to take me anywhere, in case you think differently." The Slayer's sword arm moved as he twirled the sword in his grip masterly. "As for the King, he will have his answers soon enough," he said coolly, voice dropping a few octaves. "Now, stand down. I will deal with the girl as I see fit."
The soldier, Thalron, glanced between the Slayer and Melantha, his gaze assessing everything from their clothes to the way that they stood apart.
Thalron's face darkened. "You always thought you were so clever…" He hissed in a whisper like a snake hissing its warning before striking. He raised his sword. "I won't tell you again. Kill the girl and surrender, Kairo."
His entire body tensed. "I surrender to no one. You know this, Thalron."
"I know a lot of things about you I wish I didn't." Thalron laughed. "Now, do what you were told."
The Slayer stepped forward quietly. "Why do you think I brought her here?"
Her heart pounded as she tried to understand what he was doing. If he was on her side, then was he trying to deceive the royal guard?
The man's voice dripped with anger and contempt, his words laced with venom as he spoke. His nostrils flared with each breath, like a bull ready to charge. "Do I look like I fucking care why you brought her here?" He spat, the harshness in his tone piercing through the air. It was clear that he had no interest in understanding the situation. All he wanted was for the task at hand to be completed. "You could be giving her a history lesson for all I care," he scoffed, his impatience evident. "It doesn't change what we need to do, so stop wasting both our time and get it over with."
The tension in the air was thick, crackling like electricity as the two men faced off against each other. The silence that followed was filled with unspoken animosity and frustration, making it clear that this was not a conversation either of them wanted to have.
Melantha's breath caught in her throat as she watched the standoff unfold before her.
"Fine," Thalron growled. "If you won't, I will."
In a blur of motion, Thalron lunged forward, sword slicing through the air toward them —
Melantha cried out, stumbling back.
Steel rang against steel as the Slayer's sword came up to meet the soldier's blade and the sound made a shiver tiptoe down her back, seconds before they both moved away, aiming to strike true once more.
There was a change in the air as the Slayer shifted —
Time stopped.
She heard him exhale so hard it sounded like a sigh, and before she could jump back out of reach, he was whirling back, golden hair flying around him, and with one step forward, his sword ripped through her chest.
Melantha dropped to her knees.
The pain only registered moments later.
She heard the whimper that came out of her mouth, but it was smothered by the sound of Thalron's laughter at what most certainly was her swiftly approaching death. Her hands came to cover the wound, inches beneath her breastbone, but the blood was escaping in a steady rivulet through her fingers, dripping to the floor at her knees. She gasped for breath, struggling to stay conscious as the life drained out of her, but the entire world seemed to blur around her, forcing her to blink even though the effort didn't clear her vision.
She was dying.
Above her, Steel Kairo stood with his sword dripping her blood, looking down at her with eyes that looked more icy than ever before and Melantha wondered if this was the vision his prey saw before their life evaded them. His face was a cold mask as he watched her struggle to breathe, crimson spreading in a pool beneath her.
She looked up at the Slayer, confusion, and betrayal in her eyes. "Why?" She choked out.
His face was impassive as he stared down at her. "I'm sorry, Melantha," he said in a low, quiet voice, and it was the glow in his eyes, more than his words, that made her think he actually meant what he said. "Be brave."
Thalron rounded on the Slayer.
The Slayer whipped his head up, eyes icy and expression imperturbable. "Tell the King I've fulfilled my orders, and that he can expect me back in Iselvheim when I see fit to return," the Slayer said, voice clipped, regarding the soldier calmly, his breath as steady as before, completely unnerved by his presence and the dying girl at his feet. "But remind him that when I do return, we will have words about this."
Thalron's eyes flashed with rage as he regarded the impassive Slayer. "I always thought not even you would be foolish enough to threaten a king," he snarled, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. "But, clearly, I was wrong."
Steel Kairo merely gazed at Thalron, no hint of fear in his frosted eyes. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said softly. "I don't particularly feel like shedding more blood today." His tone was calm, almost gentle, belying the violence he had just committed. "But I will, if you force my hand. Get out of my way while I am content to let you go with your life. Stop me from leaving and I will take from you the honor of dying upon a blade."
"And kill me with your bare hands?" Thalron shook his head, tsking his tongue. "You're not cold-blooded enough for that."
The Slayer stepped up to the soldier. "Don't ever give me the chance to prove you wrong." His eyes swooped down to the girl at his feet, who struggled to remain conscious, her lashes fluttering over her blue eyes. "I assume you'll clean this up?"
"I will." Thalron's jaw clenched, conflict raging in his eyes as he stared at the impassive Slayer. He looked down at Melantha's motionless form, blood pooling beneath her, then back up at the Slayer. Rage warred with grief and caution on his face. After a long tense moment, he lowered his blade. "But this is not over," he promised darkly. "You will pay for all that arrogance, one day."
Steel Kairo inclined his head quietly in a gesture that defied the laws of grace. "I'll save all my best punches for that day."
"Get out of here."
His head bowed, and, within seconds, Steel Kairo walked out of the crypt with silent footsteps.
Thalron spared one last smoldering look at the Slayer, and only once the sound of his footsteps had faded into the distance did he turn his attention to Melantha. The girl's blood still seeped steadily into the loamy stone as the light left her eyes, hooded as she now had trouble keeping them open.
Helpless.
Hopeless.
At his mercy.
Thalron knelt beside Melantha, his face etched with emotions Melantha couldn't read through the haziness of her vision. Much too gently, he gathered her limp body in his arms, cradling her head against his chest as he lifted her into his arms. Blood soaked through his tunic as he started walking, setting her down moments after, on top of the tomb.
Something — some inner, very dark, very depraved part of her soul — told her what was going to happen next.
"No, no, no," she murmured, the request a lament on her weak, helpless lips. Melantha's eyes stared vacantly up at him, the fiery spirit within extinguished forever. "Please, no."
Melantha's pleading faded into silence as Thalron stared down at her broken body. A sinister smile spread across his face as he traced a finger along her cheek.
"Don't worry, my dear. I'll take good care of you," he whispered.
Melantha wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything to stop what was about to happen. But the life was quickly fading from her body. She could barely keep her eyes open as Thalron's hands roamed greedily over her. Darkness crept into the edges of her vision. The pain that had overwhelmed her just moments before was already starting to numb. Her mind grew foggy, thoughts turning sluggish and confused. She thought she heard Thalron's cold laughter as he lifted her limp body effortlessly. But the sound became muffled and distant, as if she were hearing it from underwater. A small part of Melantha's mind rebelled against the darkness overtaking her. She struggled to cling to consciousness, desperate not to let this be her end.
But it was no use.
The light faded entirely from her vision. A profound coldness seeped through her bones. Her ragged breathing slowed and then nearly stopped altogether, growing as shallow as a puddle of water.
Thalron's eyes were cold and devoid of compassion as he regarded her broken body. She was merely an object now, a means to an end. With brutal efficiency he ripped away her blood-soaked clothes, baring her to him completely.
Melantha whimpered, tears sliding down her cheeks as she realized her fate. She tried to struggle but it was useless, the life draining from her with every frantic heartbeat.
Thalron's hands were like iron as he forced her legs apart, positioning himself between them. Melantha sobbed, begging him to stop even as she felt his arousal against the inside of her thighs. His hands were now smeared with her blood and he moved them around her body, the feeling of her own life draining out of her warm against her chilling skin. Melantha could only lie there, limp and unresponsive as he took whatever he wanted from her, her vision going dim around the edges.
And then, there was pain.
Pain. And more pain. And more pain.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. Couldn't move.
She'd never felt anything like it before. It felt like he was ripping her apart. If she'd ever felt pain more acute than this, Melantha had never known it. It was much worse than anything she'd ever experienced before in her life. It felt like her entire being was being shattered into a million pieces. Like a mountain of dominoes falling upon each other, it ripped her apart until there was nothing to make sense of anymore. She was momentarily lost in the pain corroding her, reaching beyond her body and tearing into her soul.
Melantha started to slip away, feeling like she was drifting, suspended in emptiness.
Please, let it end, she pleaded with the Gods.
Then, it suddenly stopped.
With her last shred of awareness, she saw Thalron's face above her, teeth bared in a feral smile, lost in his frenzy of depraved lust. Then the world went black, her ravaged body finally surrendering to death's cold embrace, and the tragedy of her meaningless death would linger as a ghostly memory in that cursed tomb, a sinister warning to any who dared disturb its secrets.
And at the last second of her life, she felt the man draw back, high with the chase of his own sordid pleasure, heedless of her lifeless form beneath him. His seed tore through her, mixing with her blood in a view that was both disgusting and ghastly. Then, like his hunger was a bottle he could open and close at will, he fastened his pants and retreated until he was out of view.
He'd left her lying on top of the tomb, the stone beneath her drenched in her blood and his seed, to create that which the wyrd made of both.
She couldn't help seeing the irony.
So many winters later, here she was, dying atop the tomb of the woman who had created the kingdom she could have inherited, faced with the same choice she had when she'd stood dying in this same fortress.
Settle into her grave. Or walk out of it with the scars of her coffin.
If only she could've chosen…
At least, in that final moment, the pain was gone, replaced by a numb, floating sensation.
She felt a snap —
A bright blue light blinded her through her eyelids before it disappeared, leaving her alone with the mercilessness of her wyrd.
The darkness misted through her, leaving her alone with the hatred, the resentment, and the anger that would soon turn her just as dangerous as the pointy end of the blade she'd been stabbed with.
She would not forget. She would not forgive. She would not die.
She would betray as she'd been betrayed. Kill as she'd been killed. Torture as she'd been tortured.
She'd make the world bleed for this.
She'd sharpen herself just as perfectly. Make herself just as deadly. Shape the scars just as pointedly.
Melantha Larssen was no victim. Though they'd tried to lead her to her grave, she refused to die a martyr in this story. No matter what it cost, she would survive.
A survivor.
That's what she was.
And when the day came…
She'd take her kingdom. Her crown. Her throne.
And she would reign.