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Dismissing her prior claim of “handsome king”, I ease my gloved hand around her waist, draw the young lady close to my robed frame, and dip my head to study her eyes: a warm amber. Her boldness to approach a Feyal-Ithydeir and request a dance at the Feast of Flesh is commendable. There is strength in her eyes. In our past, only the strongest bride souls have withstood the curse of the gods...like my mother. Could this girl be the one?
As she squeezes my good hand and leans in, her ambrosia drifts across my face, and my disturbed member throbs. If the rest of my form wasn’t decaying, it would be natural.
“Who will the Corpse King choose tonight, I wonder?” she hums as I coast her along the floor, careful to keep a wide berth between myself and others. Upon reaching middle age of my longer royal lifespan, I learned the art of balancing with weighted boots for my skeletal feet.
I contemplate Aydon’s words. And the encroaching Void. If I don’t take a bride soon, Kryach will send more refters to invade our lands. More blood will be shed. More human lives lost. While Aydon bears the political responsibility, of dispatching warriors to deal with such threats, the ultimate responsibility is mine...and my future bride’s. We both pay a price unless...
“What is your name, fair maidyan?” I ask, evading a nearby Ithydeir and her unmarked human.
“Franzyna Mordhya.” Her amber eyes catch the chandelier light above us to gleam like fire. “My father is a trader, and he named me after a small island in the realm of the shifters. I live up to its wild meaning every day,” she expresses, tossing her flaming curls back. Yes, this girl’s spirit may carry the power to thwart Kryach.
“And how old are you, Franzyna Mordhya?”
She parts her lips but pauses and licks them, hesitating. I’ve lived long enough to sniff out a lie, but she lowers her chin and purses her lips. “Seventeen, my ithylaird,” she confesses, addressing me in the formal term of the court, of all noble Ithydeir.
I stop in my tracks, raise her knuckles to my mouth concealed beneath the mask, offer her a peck, and turn, disappearing between a sea of citizens before she can balk. Yes, I am King. Such laws do not apply to myself, but I will not take an underage bride. Franzyna deserves to enjoy this night and the remaining year of her childhood without the weight of death upon her soul.
Slipping into a side hallway branching from the main court, I make my way through one of the narrower and darker passages leading away from the Citadel. When we were young, Aydon and I would explore the countless labyrinthine mountain passageways and use them to escape our lessons...before he got older and stuffier. Head too filled with politics and court proceedings and economic disparities of varying regions and gods if I know what else. Since I turned fifteen, I’ve spent most days hiding from court and keeping myself as pieced together as possible.
After wandering a few ascending passages, I round the corner and pause in my tracks, huffing at the sound of flapping wings behind me. Without turning, I cross my arms over my chest and scoff, “Aryuhdair...I was wondering if you would swoop in for a visit tonight.”
Other than his obvious presence, the low growl assures me he still hasn’t earned his right to fly. Probably never will, considering the gods love any excuse to delegate tasks. The fallen angyl strides past me, brushing my body with a tattered, flightless wing. In the cavern’s darkness, the gold chains binding his wrists gleam with celestial Isle-power.
“You’re playing with fire, Allysteir,” he warns, blowing smoke through his nostrils. The powerful talons on his feet echo off the walls.
I shrug. “Tried. Didn’t stick. Apparently, my bones can’t burn, but it took time for the skin to grow back.” I recall the memory of my suicide attempt following the death of my twenty-seventh bride. By now, I’ve tried everything from leaping off the Raven Skull bluffs to drowning myself in the Bone Sea. Nothing works.
The gold tattoos beneath Aryuhdair’s angelic flesh shift?a sign and seal of the gods’ connection, of their messages transcribed into his body. “It’s been a year. Kryach met with his fellow higher gods,” he informs me as if I didn’t already know. As if Kryach hasn’t invaded my waking and sleeping thoughts, a relentless Death hound. “Provided you take a bride tonight and bite her, they will stem the tide of the Void from Talahn-Feyhran, the other territories. If not?”
“Now, don’tflyoff in a rage, Aryuhdair.” I saunter forward, adjusting my robes, tightening my gloves, and ignoring the incensed plumage of smoke drifting around me. “It is the Feast of Flesh after all. A night where anything is possible!” I boast and adjust my mask. “Perhaps I need not choose a bride tonight. Perhaps...she will come to me.”
“You have until dawn to bite a new bride,” the angel dictates through gritted teeth, wincing from the raving celestial ink. “A year to consummate the marriage unless she chooses the risk sooner. Do not test the gods’ generosity, Allysteir. You’ve been warned.”
“You know how much I love to wing it, Aryuhdair.” I lift my mask and wink. The fallen angyl winces, but I have no pity. Yes, the gods have damned us both, but I don’t act like a morally superior messenger. Nor do I enjoy Kryach’s spirit housed in my being, a parasite feeding on my soul. I chose this fate, not for rebellion’s sake.
But Aryuhdair is right about one thing: I am testing the gods, Kryach. If I don’t bite a human woman by dawn, one option is left: open war. My people left to the mercy of the Void and its army of waiting refters. It will spread to other regions which is the biggest reason all other royals are present...save for the bird and dragyn kingdoms, of course. And the northern and uncursed Blue-Skin fjord lands.
“Always a pleasure, Allysteir.”
When I turn to make a last smart remark, the fallen angyl is gone. Dismissing the encounter, I press onward, forsaking the distant cheers as the minstrels make speeches, telling tales of our long and proud history to entertain the other monarchs. I don’t have the stomach for it, not with the other royals. I’ll return after the Feast commences...after Aydon arrives to takemythrone.
For now, I make my way to the sub-passages between Guild levels. Few travel the Skull Ruins where urban legends abound regarding their history. Here, I may always find a few moments of peace and quiet.
The ruins remind me of catacombs, except no tombs shelter skeletons. Nothing but skulls forming a series of winding walls and pillars, statues, stairways, and floors. A mystery my ancestors never transcribed.
I crawl my gloved fingers across a nearby wall, stroking the remains, sensing the intricate energy of their powerhouse. Such essences remain undisturbed since only the most powerful of elders or royals may remove a skull from these walls: a rare occurrence.
Leaning against a nearby pillar, I close my eyes and touch my mask?a mimicry of my ruinous face. In these sacred moments, I’m tempting fate, angering Kryach because I left the presence of much flesh. His shadow feasts on my heart. I cringe as he stalks my mind with memories of my past brides of five hundred years. I roar inside our collective mental stream, wishing I could ban the devil and his arrogant taunts of how he’s feasted on hundreds of my brides’ blood and souls.
As he will again.
Perhaps I should consider Aydon’s tactic: select the loudest and most abrasive bride, fuck her, and be done with it. Let the cycle renew. Why should I care when she will forget? In the moment I spill my seed into her, it won’t matter. Kryach always wins.
Death laughs last.
Loud voices from the stairway to my right interrupt my musings. Should have known more tourists would flood these halls during the Feast of Flesh.Damn Aydon and his flamboyance.
When I prepare to escape the oncoming revelers and regain my solitude, a ripple of white feathers greets the corner of my eye. Turning, I appraise the growing lace and pearls, the translucent fabric revealing the shapely body of a young woman. A tad plumper than average, but I love a little extra flesh. The sight of her exposed neck, shoulders, chest, and arms are a feast for the eyes...and the upper slopes of her generous breasts. A wonder she can even run in such a gown.
