Waiting isn't my forté either. What's worse is that I'm waiting for my husband to return after he slaughters whatever creature abducted Florian.
The tension is killer. Everyone in the camp feels it. Noblemen debate among themselves, whether to go back for Valerius or to wait as he instructed. They don't know what they fear more—the creature or the prince. The servants hold their own discussions, feasting on the situation.
Everybody talks. Except me. I'm left to wait. It's a painful affair. When you're anticipating an event, time moves agonizingly slow.
"What matters is that you're here, not out there with who knows what took the prince," Alloy scolds.
I frown, "You're starting to sound like my dad."
"General Sambridge?" The cat shakes its head in disapproval. "That old hag and I are nothing alike. I'm offended you'd imply that."
Alloy knows Penelope's dad? The feline seems to be familiar with the important players of high society. I'm starting to suspect that it was a noble before it was turned, someone important.
"You're not wrong." And that's all the cat says.
It's starting to irk me how secretive it's being. Apart from being able to read my mind, Alloy has, countless of times in the past, dissected my character, mocked it even.
As for me? I don't know the first thing there is to know about the feline—not its background, not its long-term goals, not its identity.
"When do you plan to tell me what you really are?"
It can't sigh the way a human can, but if it could, it would've, countless times already. "You'll find out soon enough. Trust me."
Trust? Not the safest route to take in Thorn Garden, but I've gotten this far with the cat's advice and aid. Controlling my impulses is easier when there's a sound voice in my head. I owe Alloy the patience, I suppose.
"They're here," The cat supplies, right ear raised. Those animal senses come in handy.
Two guards part the entrance of my tent. I get as far as two steps before I'm stopped by the feline. Alloy circles my feet.
It's telling me what it usually does—be cautious, there's danger ahead.
Valerius enters camp half covered with a mysterious black fluid. His face is devoid of emotion, with his brother unconscious behind him. Florian isn't in good shape. The prince is muddied, clothes torn, with patches of skin red with rashes.
My husband steps down from his horse. There's something in his hand, something that resembles those small tendrils. I don't get a good look at it until it's thrown at my feet.
A head. A severed head.
Gasps echo throughout the camp.
"Take a good look. All of you." A nobleman announces. His voice echoes authority, demanding the respect of whoever it reaches. At moments like this, it's hard to separate Valerius from the general who brought several nations to their knees.
"This is what happens when you threaten the royal family."
Decapitation is a bit much.
Startled by the dead, soulless eyes staring up at me, I kick the head away. The fae's violet strands of hair stick to its moist face. Her mouth stays opened in terror.
Alloy hisses, runs away in disgust, and Valerius takes its place.
The prince kneels before me, "My wife. Are you satisfied with my offering? Have I earned the right to speak to you?"
He did this to speak to me again?
This level of madness, of obsession, it's one I've seen before from behind the screen—back when I was playing Valerius' route for the first time. He looks up at me as if I singlehandedly hung the moon and the stars.
For a moment, I was worried the potion's effects had worn off and Valerius had delivered the head as a threat.
"Of course you can speak to me," I scramble for a stable line of thinking. "Get up, Val. This isn't like you. Don't let them see you this way."
There's something sacrilegious about seeing a powerful man, undefeated in the battlefield, get on his knees. An ocean of eyes are watching, searing this moment into the back of their eyelids. Black rose, war general and the seventh in a line of royal princes, humbling himself to a measly lady's level.
We are married, but in this time period, it's uncommon to regard your partner as an equal. He's ridiculing himself. Perhaps that's what makes it, in a rather twisted way, romantic.
Valerius takes my hand in his, "No. They should see for themselves how I worship you."
My heart skips a beat. That love potion is good, irritatingly good. It might just drive me to madness with how it has my husband acting.
"Husband, please." I plead, hands cupping his face lovingly. The skin turns red wherever I touch. Is Valerius blushing? "You may speak to me again, but only if you get up."
He smiles like a lovesick puppy. It's chillingly out of character, but the way his lips stretch into a grin makes his attractiveness undeniable. Valerius is most handsome like this, when he isn't scheming something.
That love potion isn't so bad. I'm starting to find it addictive, even, holding this power over him.
The prince stands, and everyone goes back to pretending as if they were too busy to eavesdrop. Only then am I reminded of how much Valerius towers over me. His shadow completely envelopes mine.
"Let's go, wife." He tugs at my hand, gentle but insistent. I lead the way to my tent.
"Are you alright? Do you have any injuries?" I check for signs. It's hard. He's covered in black goo from head to toe. Is this from the head?
Valerius' hand is on mine, warm, unlike the rest of him. My fingers are trapped under his, resting on his chest. He doesn't grip them too tightly. I could always pull away. But its his eyes that are pinning me to the ground. His gaze is immobilizing—it's as if he's come to scrutinize my very essence. That, or revere it.
"Shouldn't you check more thoroughly?" He asks, cheeky.
I want to get rid of this sensation. Everything burns—my face, my chest, the tip of my fingers. But to deny him now is to deny my chance at control.
"Of course," I answer. There's something exhilarating about playing pretend with someone whose sanity is barely intact. "How else can I ensure that you're uninjured?"
Valerius smirks. "You're right."