Azrael's voice faltered as he bowed his head. "My apologies. my king," he said weakly.
The prince crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you here? Haven't I warned you never to show your face near my castle?
Azrael took a staggering step forward, clutching at his chest. "Forgive me, my king, but I had to. The enhancement drug you gave me for tonight's operation… it felt different. Ever since I completed the mission, my veins have been burning. My brain feels like it's melting. I can barely stand." He fell to his knees, his voice cracking. "Please… help me.
The prince stared at him a moment unreadable, before suddenly bursting into a fit of laughter that was as unexpected as it was cruel. The sound echoed through the courtyard, some sort of macabre melody.
"You actually thought that after everything you know about me, I would set you free?" the prince said, stepping closer until he loomed over Azrael.
"Oh, my dear Azrael, I'm not that foolish." Hunched down, his face inches from Azrael's, he said, "That drug you took? That really was an enhancement drug-one designed for A-ranked magic users. For someone like you, a low-ranked nobody, it amps your power at first. But then after… "
Azrael's eyes widened as the weight of the prince's words finally settled in.
"It eats you from the inside out," the prince went on, his voice dripping with malice. "It will scald every vein in your body, cook your brain to a pulp, and leave you a hollow shell-deaf, dumb, and paralytic. If, of course, you survive, which personally, I seriously doubt."
Azrael tried to say something, but it came out as gibberish.
"B-but… I've done nothing but follow your orders…
he managed, his voice little more than a whisper.
"And now you will die for me,"
the prince said, sneering at him.
Azrael dropped to the floor, his body contorting in a spasm of agony as the effects of the drug began to take hold. His sight began to blur and his every nerve felt to be aflame.
The cold, detached prince nodded to his guards. "Take him to the witches' psych ward and make sure they know not to help him. Just keep him there till his body gives out."
The guards clutched Azrael's loose form and dragged him off down the hallway, scraping his feet across wet cobblestone.
The copse the witches were staying in was a grim place, far deep in the forest right at the border of the grounds, with the stench of herbs and decaying material heavy in the air; from somewhere far away down stone hallways, chanting voices echoed.
They flung Azrael into a darkened room where three witches lay in wait for them; their faces pale and haggard, their eyes aglow softly in the dark.
The king's orders," one of the guards growled, "are not to treat him, but to keep him."
The witches watched the guards go with silent nods. Then the witches dragged Azrael laboriously back into a small room composed of stone walls and a single cot; they dropped him onto that cot, stepping back with hands clasped in front of them.
The other groaned, his body still spewing out some more spasms as the drug took full circle through his system. The witches didn't interfere to his aid after exchanging a glance with each other.
Thus, he was left in the cold, dark chamber of the room, his mind thronging with a hundred questions and fears; now betrayed by the one he served, an uncertain fate awaited him. This couldn't be it, though.
The night carried on as it got even was heaver with rain as thunder crashed across the skies, echoing through the kingdom. Inside the prince's lavish chambers, he shot up from his bed, drenched in sweat. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His nightmare had been vivid, hauntingly so. A boy stood in the shadows, his eyes blazing with fury, as if he bore a curse meant for the prince alone.
"What the hell was that?" he muttered, clutching his temples. "What sort of dream was that? That boy..." His voice trailed off as he stared into the dark, his unease growing by the second.
"Guards!" he shouted.
Within moments, his guards rushed into the room, their faces tense with concern.
"My lord, is everything all right?" one of them asked.
The prince ignored the question. "Prepare the horses. We're going to the witches' ward. Now!"
The guards exchanged uncertain glances but didn't dare question him. They hurried out to ready the horses while the prince dressed himself, his movements quick and filled with purpose.
Before long, the prince, accompanied by his guards and two of his trusted elders, was riding through the stormy night. Rain pelted down on them as lightning illuminated the dark sky, casting eerie shadows on the wet ground.
The journey to the witches' ward was silent, save for the sound of hooves splashing through puddles.