A Deadly Bite

41.2 || Nuisance

Sarielle fumbles for a scowl and forces it into place the way one wrestles with an ill-fitting mask. Reluctance drags her a few paces after Nathan, but nothing more. He merely struts over to the throne and hops up, albeit with a few seconds of struggle and a lot less grace than she gathers he is aiming for. Annoyance flickers in and out as he finally settles into the marble seat. He throws his legs over one arm and nestles his shoulders snugly against the crook of the other. The blade he balances on his stomach, watching it tip this way and that.

"Perhaps," he says, "as I conquer, I shall collect these lovely things. As useless as they are, I find them beautiful." Grin slanting, he peers down at her. "Do you not agree? I could fill this whole castle with them."

He plans to keep the castle? Her tongue feels as if it is rusting. "This castle belongs to the Oscensi royal line, not you."

"It looks like a broken shell to me." His eyes glint, dagger-like, cutting. "Death has claimed it, and therefore it is mine."

"What do you care, anyway?" She puts her foot down hard, fists curled as she glares up at him, feeling awfully small. She's been standing in this place at the foot of the throne since her legs were strong enough to support her, but never has looking up felt so difficult nor her chest so hollow. Her father would be at her side any other time. Her burned fingers flex, searching for him, brushing empty air, stirring in shreds of simmering fury.

"Why do any of this?" The words spit out hot and helpless, fire flailing in a pit it cannot escape, pummelled by rain. "If you care so little for me and my people, why bother us at all? Why play and torment?" And why, why am I still alive?

His head lolls to face her, fangs flashing, laughter strung in the creases of his smile. "I am cursed with a very long life, Sarielle, and I have languished for centuries starved of pleasure. I wish to have fun."

That shows in every lazy flourish of his demeanour, and yet something about the logic of it all refuses to sit right. Perhaps it's because her thoughts stick so adamantly to the memory of her father, yet logic seems to be all she can chase right now, all there is left to wall her from throwing herself at him again and letting him kill her for real this time. She draws in a shaky breath, straightens herself on shaky legs, and clings to the solace of words: the battle she was first taught to fight before a sword ever entered her hand.

"That's a lame excuse," she says.

His brow furrows, fingers stilling on the flat of her swaying blade. "Lame?"

"Yes." She lifts her chin. "You speak of all the widespread destruction you wish to cause, and yet all I've seen you do since you stole my friend's body is pace around this so-called dead castle and toy with Fiesi and I. There are thousands of people in this world. There's no reason for you to be so selective and limited. If fun is what you seek, why be so repetitive?"

He waves a dismissive hand her way. "The time so far has been nothing at all. I have an eternity left. It is only right that I savour each moment."

Smiling wryly to himself, he shifts up a little, enough that his shoulders prop against the throne's arm. His stretched legs cross over one another. A tossed hand weaves strings of flame above his head, bending around into a circlet's shape, a crown, points each lifted high and wispy at their tips. A crude, dark crown, twisted too far from Oscensi's design to hold any eerie familiarity. It's the crown formed by a boy who has only ever seen the accessory as pictures in a children's book. Still, joy oozes from his expression. His scales look like hollow cracks in his skin, bejewelled in obsidian.

"I could be king if I wanted to," he remarks, gaze clearly prodding her, testing for a reaction. It flicks upwards to snag the crown. "I think it suits me. Do you agree?"